THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,

were proud to say that they were perfectly normal,

thank you very much. They were the last people you’d

expect to be involved in anything strange or

mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such

nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called

Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy

man with hardly any neck, although he did have a

very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and

blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of

neck, which came in very useful as she spent so

much of her time craning over garden fences, spying

on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son

called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer

boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they

also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that

somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they

could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.

Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t

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met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her

good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it

was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think

what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in

the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a

small son, too, but they had never even seen him.

This boy was another good reason for keeping the

Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a

child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray

Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the

cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and

mysterious things would soon be happening all over

the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out

his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley

gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming

Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past

the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his

briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and

tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because

Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his

cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley

as he left the house. He got into his car and backed

out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the

first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a

map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he

had seen — then he jerked his head around to look

again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner

of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What

could he have been thinking of? It must have been a

trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at

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the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his

mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet

Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read

maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake

and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward

town he thought of nothing except a large order of

drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his

mind by something else. As he sat in the usual

morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that

there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people

about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear

people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups

you saw on young people! He supposed this was some

stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the

steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these

weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering

excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see

that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that

man had to be older than he was, and wearing an

emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it

struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly

stunt — these people were obviously collecting for

something … yes, that would be it. The traffic moved

on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the

Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in

his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might

have found it harder to concentrate on drills that

morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in

broad daylight, though people down in the street did;

they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after

owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an

owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a

perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five

different people. He made several important telephone

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good

mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch

his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a

bun from the bakery.

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he

passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed

them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but

they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering

excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting

tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a

large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words

of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”

“— yes, their son, Harry —”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He

looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say

something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his

office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him,

seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing

his home number when he changed his mind. He put

the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,

thinking … no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t

such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots

of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew

was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It

might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no

point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so

upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame

her — if he’d had a sister like that … but all the

same, those people in cloaks …

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He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock,

he was still so worried that he walked straight into

someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled

and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr.

Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet

cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost

knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split

into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that

made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir,

for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-

Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like

yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy

day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the

middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been

hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he

had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was

rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home,

hoping he was imagining things, which he had never

hoped before, because he didn’t approve of

imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the

first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood —

was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was

now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the

same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look.

Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.

Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the

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house. He was still determined not to mention

anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told

him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems

with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new

word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.

When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the

living room in time to catch the last report on the

evening news:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported

that the nation’s owls have been behaving very

unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at

night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have

been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in

every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to

explain why the owls have suddenly changed their

sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a

grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim

McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more

showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about

that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting

oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire,

and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that

instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a

downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have

been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until

next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night

tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars

all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious

people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a

whisper about the Potters …

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Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two

cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say

something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er

— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister

lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and

angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t

have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled.

“Owls … shooting stars … and there were a lot of

funny-looking people in town today …”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought … maybe … it was something to

do with … you know … her crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr.

Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d

heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare.

Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son —

he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”

“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking

horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they

went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the

bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

and peered down into the front garden. The cat was

still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though

it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have

anything to do with the Potters? If it did … if it got out

that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t

think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep

quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over

in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell

asleep was that even if the Potters were involved,

there was no reason for them to come near him and

Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and

Petunia thought about them and their kind. … He

couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up

in anything that might be going on — he yawned and

turned over — it couldn’t affect them. …

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy

sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no

sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue,

its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet

Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door

slammed on the next street, nor when two owls

swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight

before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been

watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d

have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The

cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet

Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the

silver of his hair and beard, which were both long

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long

robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and

high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light,

bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles

and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it

had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was

Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had

just arrived in a street where everything from his

name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy

rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But

he did seem to realize he was being watched, because

he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still

staring at him from the other end of the street. For

some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse

him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have

known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside

pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He

flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it.

The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He

clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into

darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer,

until the only lights left on the whole street were two

tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of

the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their

window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they

wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening

down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-

Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the

street toward number four, where he sat down on the

wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a

moment he spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone.

Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking

woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the

shape of the markings the cat had had around its

eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one.

Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She

looked distinctly ruffled.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all

day,” said Professor McGonagall.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I

must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my

way here.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said

impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful,

but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s

going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head

back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I

heard it. Flocks of owls … shooting stars. … Well,

they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to

notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll

bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much

sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently.

“We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven

years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably.

“But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are

being downright careless, out on the streets in broad

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes,

swapping rumors.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore

here, as though hoping he was going to tell her

something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine

thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who

seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found

out about us all. I suppose he really has gone,

Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have

much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon

drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m

rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as

though she didn’t think this was the moment for

lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has

gone —”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like

yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-

Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been

trying to persuade people to call him by his proper

name: Voldemort. ” Professor McGonagall flinched, but

Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops,

seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we

keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any

reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall,

sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re

different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-

Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

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“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use

them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since

Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at

Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to

the rumors that are flying around. You know what

everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared?

About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the

point she was most anxious to discuss, the real

reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all

day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she

fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she

did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was

saying, she was not going to believe it until

Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore,

however, was choosing another lemon drop and did

not answer.

“What they’re saying, ” she pressed on, “is that last

night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He

went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and

James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead. ”

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall

gasped.

“Lily and James … I can’t believe it … I didn’t want to

believe it … Oh, Albus …”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the

shoulder. “I know … I know …” he said heavily.

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went

on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the

Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t

kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but

they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter,

Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why

he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After

all he’s done … all the people he’s killed … he couldn’t

kill a little boy? It’s just astounding … of all the

things to stop him … but how in the name of heaven

did Harry survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may

never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief

and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.

Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden

watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very

odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers;

instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It

must have made sense to Dumbledore, though,

because he put it back in his pocket and said,

“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be

here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t

suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all

places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle.

They’re the only family he has left now.”

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who

live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t

find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got

this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way

up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter

come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly.

“His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything

to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly,

sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore,

you think you can explain all this in a letter? These

people will never understand him! He’ll be famous —

a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was

known as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will

be books written about Harry — every child in our

world will know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously

over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be

enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can

walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even

remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be,

growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take

it?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her

mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re

right, of course. But how is the boy getting here,

Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though

she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with

something as important as this?”

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“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said

Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t

pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what

was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around

them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and

down the street for some sign of a headlight; it

swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky —

and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed

on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man

sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a

normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked

simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long

tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his

face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his

feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In

his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of

blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At

last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the

giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he

spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him,

sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him

out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’

around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”

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Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward

over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a

baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair

over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped

cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy.

I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect

map of the London Underground. Well — give him

here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned

toward the Dursleys’ house.

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked

Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry

and gave him what must have been a very scratchy,

whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl

like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the

Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted

handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-

can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor little

Harry off ter live with Muggles —”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself,

Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall

whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as

Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and

walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the

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doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the

other two. For a full minute the three of them stood

and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders

shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and

the twinkling light that usually shone from

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no

business staying here. We may as well go and join the

celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best

get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall —

Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid

swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the

engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off

into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,”

said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor

McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street.

On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-

Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light

sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive

glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a

tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end

of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets

on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his

heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which

lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last

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place you would expect astonishing things to happen.

Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without

waking up. One small hand closed on the letter

beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was

special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he

would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs.

Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put

out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next

few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin

Dudley. … He couldn’t know that at this very

moment, people meeting in secret all over the country

were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed

voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”

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THE VANASHIG GLASS

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had

woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but

Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose

on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass

number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into

their living room, which was almost exactly the same

as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had

seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the

photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how

much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been

lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach

ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Dudley

Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the

photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first

bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer

game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his

mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy

lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment,

but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it

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was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door

again.

“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward

the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan

being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and

tried to remember the dream he had been having. It

had been a good one. There had been a flying

motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the

same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” said Harry.

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the

bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want

everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry groaned.

“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the

door.

“Nothing, nothing …”

Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten?

Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for

socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after

pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry

was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the

stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

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When he was dressed he went down the hall into the

kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all

Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though

Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not

to mention the second television and the racing bike.

Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a

mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated

exercise — unless of course it involved punching

somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry,

but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it,

but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark

cupboard, but Harry had always been small and

skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and

skinnier than he really was because all he had to

wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was

about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin

face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green

eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot

of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had

punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked

about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his

forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He

had had it as long as he could remember, and the

first question he could ever remember asking his

Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had

said. “And don’t ask questions.”

Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a

quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was

turning over the bacon.

“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning

greeting.

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About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a

haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the

rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made

no difference, his hair simply grew that way — all over

the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in

the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like

Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much

neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair

that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia

often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel —

Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a

wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table,

which was difficult as there wasn’t much room.

Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His

face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and

father. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present,

see, it’s here under this big one from Mommy and

Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red

in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley

tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as

fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because

she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two

presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin?

Two more presents. Is that all right?”

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Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard

work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty …

thirty …”

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.

“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the

nearest parcel. “All right then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his

father. ’Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia

went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon

watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video

camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new

computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the

paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came

back from the telephone looking both angry and

worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her

leg. She can’t take him.” She jerked her head in

Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart

gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his

parents took him and a friend out for the day, to

adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the

movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs.

Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away.

Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of

cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs

of all the cats she’d ever owned.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at

Harry as though he’d planned this. Harry knew he

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ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would

be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbies,

Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.”

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as

though he wasn’t there — or rather, as though he was

something very nasty that couldn’t understand them,

like a slug.

“What about what’s-her-name, your friend —

Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully

(he’d be able to watch what he wanted on television

for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley’s

computer).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a

lemon.

“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she

snarled.

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they

weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt

Petunia slowly, “… and leave him in the car. …”

“That cars new, he’s not sitting in it alone. …”

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Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying — it had been years since he’d really cried —

but he knew that if he screwed up his face and

wailed, his mother would give him anything he

wanted.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him

spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms

around him.

“I … don’t … want … him … t-t-to come!” Dudley

yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-

spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through

the gap in his mothers arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang — “Oh, good Lord,

they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically — and a

moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss,

walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy

with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who

held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley

hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his

luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with

Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first

time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able

to think of anything else to do with him, but before

they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large

purple face right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you

now, boy — any funny business, anything at all —

and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until

Christmas.”

I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly

…”

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But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened

around Harry and it was just no good telling the

Dursleys he didn’t make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from

the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all,

had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair

so short he was almost bald except for his bangs,

which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had

laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless

night imagining school the next day, where he was

already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped

glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to

find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt

Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week

in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to

explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown

back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force

him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley’s (brown

with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it

over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until

finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but

certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided

it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great

relief, Harry wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, he’d gotten into terrible trouble

for being found on the roof of the school kitchens.

Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when,

as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he

was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had

received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress

telling them Harry had been climbing school

buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted at

Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling

cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans

outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the

wind must have caught him in mid-jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even

worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the

day somewhere that wasn’t school, his cupboard, or

Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt

Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at

work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry

were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning,

it was motorcycles.

“… roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,”

he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry,

remembering suddenly. “It was flying.”

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He

turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry,

his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache:

“MOTORCYCLES DON’T FLY!”

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

“I know they don’t,” said Harry. “It was only a dream.”

But he wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was

one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his

asking questions, it was his talking about anything

acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a

dream or even a cartoon — they seemed to think he

might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was

crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley

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and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had

asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry

him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It

wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they

watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked

remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn’t blond.

Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time.

He was careful to walk a little way apart from the

Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting

to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t

fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They

ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a

tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have

enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him

another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it

was all too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool

and dark in there, with lit windows all along the

walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes

were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and

stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge,

poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons.

Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It

could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle

Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can — but at

the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was

fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass,

staring at the glistening brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon

tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

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“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped

the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake

just snoozed on.

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently

at the snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it

had died of boredom itself — no company except

stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass

trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than

having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only

visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to

wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the

house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly,

very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a

level with Harry’s.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if

anyone was watching. They weren’t. He looked back

at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and

Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave

Harry a look that said quite plainly:

“I get that all the time. ”

“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though

he wasn’t sure the snake could hear him. “It must be

really annoying.”

The snake nodded vigorously.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked.

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The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

“Was it nice there?”

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again

and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the

zoo. “Oh, I see — so you’ve never been to Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout

behind Harry made both of them jump. “DUDLEY!

MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE!

YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he

could.

“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the

ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the

concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no

one saw how it happened — one second, Piers and

Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the

next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa

constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was

uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor.

People throughout the reptile house screamed and

started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have

sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come.

… Thanksss, amigo.”

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

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“But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass go?”

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of

strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over

again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as

Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything

except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but

by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car,

Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off

his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to

squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at

least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry

was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the

house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he

could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go —

cupboard — stay — no meals,” before he collapsed

into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get

him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing

he had a watch. He didn’t know what time it was and

he couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet.

Until they were, he couldn’t risk sneaking to the

kitchen for some food.

He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten

miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever

since he’d been a baby and his parents had died in

that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car

when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he

strained his memory during long hours in his

cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a

blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his

forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though

he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came

from. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His

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aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of

course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were

no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and

dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take

him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys

were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or

maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to

know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A

tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once

while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley.

After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt

Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without

buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed

all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus.

A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually

shaken his hand in the street the other day and then

walked away without a word. The weirdest thing

about all these people was the way they seemed to

vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that

Dudley’s gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his

baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody

liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang.

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THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned

Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he

was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer

holidays had started and Dudley had already broken

his new video camera, crashed his remote control

airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike,

knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet

Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no

escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every

single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were

all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and

stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of

them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favorite

sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible

out of the house, wandering around and thinking

about the end of the holidays, where he could see a

tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be

going off to secondary school and, for the first time in

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his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school,

Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry,

on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the

local public school. Dudley thought this was very

funny.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day

at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs

and practice?”

“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had

anything as horrible as your head down it — it might

be sick.” Then he ran, before Dudley could work out

what he’d said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London

to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs.

Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out

she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and

she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She

let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of

chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for

several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room

for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings

boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers,

and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried

knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the

teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be

good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers,

Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest

moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and

said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins,

he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t

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trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs

might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

* * *

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next

morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed

to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He

went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked

like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips

tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a

question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing

some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just

like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.”

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not

to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to

think about how he was going to look on his first day

at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old

elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with

wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new

uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as

usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which

he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters

on the doormat.

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“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from

behind his paper.

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the

mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard

from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was

vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope

that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging

like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole

life, had written to him. Who would? He had no

friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the

library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for

books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so

plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish

parchment, and the address was written in emerald-

green ink. There was no stamp.

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Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion,

an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large

letter H.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the

kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter

bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his

letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the

postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the

yellow envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust,

and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny

whelk …”

“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got

something!”

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which

was written on the same heavy parchment as the

envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand

by Uncle Vernon.

“That’s mine!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon,

shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at

it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of

traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds

it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

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Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia

took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment

it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her

throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten

that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley

wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a

sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“I want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s mine. ”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing

the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn’t move.

“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry

and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw

them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind

them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but

silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole;

Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one

ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack

between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering

voice, “look at the address — how could they possibly

know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re

watching the house?”

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“Watching — spying — might be following us,”

muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write

back? Tell them we don’t want —”

Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes

pacing up and down the kitchen.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t

get an answer. … Yes, that’s best … we won’t do

anything. …”

“But —”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we

swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that

dangerous nonsense?”

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle

Vernon did something he’d never done before; he

visited Harry in his cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle

Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s

writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said

Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“It was not a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my

cupboard on it.”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of

spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep

breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which

looked quite painful.

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“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt

and I have been thinking … you’re really getting a bit

big for it … we think it might be nice if you moved

into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Harry.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this

stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors

(usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where

Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys

and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It

only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything

he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat

down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly

everything in here was broken. The month-old video

camera was lying on top of a small, working tank

Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s

dog; in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television

set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite

program had been canceled; there was a large

birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley

had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was

up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley

had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They

were the only things in the room that looked as

though they’d never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling

at his mother, “I don’t want him in there … I need

that room … make him get out. …”

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday

he’d have given anything to be up here. Today he’d

rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than

up here without it.

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Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet.

Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his

father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose,

kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through

the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room

back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday

and bitterly wishing he’d opened the letter in the hall.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each

other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to

be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get

it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting

stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted,

“There’s another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest

Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive —’ ”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his

seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him.

Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to

get the letter from him, which was made difficult by

the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around

the neck from behind. After a minute of confused

fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the

Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up,

gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in his

hand.

“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he

wheezed at Harry. “Dudley — go — just go.”

Harry walked round and round his new room.

Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and

they seemed to know he hadn’t received his first

letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this

time he’d make sure they didn’t fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next

morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed

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silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys. He stole

downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of

Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first.

His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall

toward the front door —

“AAAAARRRGH!”

Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something

big and squashy on the doormat — something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry

realized that the big, squashy something had been his

uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot

of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making

sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been

trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an

hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea.

Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by

the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into

Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters

addressed in green ink.

“I want —” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing

the letters into pieces before his eyes.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at

home and nailed up the mail slot.

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a

mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver them they’ll

just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these peoples minds work in strange ways,

Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle

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Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for

Harry. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they

had been pushed under the door, slotted through the

sides, and a few even forced through the small

window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all

the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and

boarded up the cracks around the front and back

doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe

Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at

small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand.

Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the

house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two

dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had

handed Aunt Petunia through the living room

window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone

calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find

someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the

letters in her food processor.

“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?”

Dudley asked Harry in amazement.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the

breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully

as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no

damn letters today —”

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Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney

as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of

the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came

pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys

ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch

one —

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and

threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and

Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces,

Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could

hear the letters still streaming into the room,

bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak

calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at

the same time. “I want you all back here in five

minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack

some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache

missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later

they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up

doors and were in the car, speeding toward the

highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his

father had hit him round the head for holding them

up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and

computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t

dare ask where they were going. Every now and then

Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in

the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ’em off … shake ’em off,” he would mutter

whenever he did this.

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They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day

in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television

programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so

long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-

looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley

and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp,

musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake,

sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of

passing cars and wondering...

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on

toast for breakfast the next day. They had just

finished when the owner of the hotel came over to

their table.

“ ’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I

got about an ’undred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink

address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon

knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up

quickly and following her from the dining room.

* * *

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“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle

Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was

looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into

the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook

his head, got back in the car, and off they went again.

The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed

field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the

top of a multilevel parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt

Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had

parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car,

and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the

car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great

Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with

a television. ”

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was

Monday — and you could usually count on Dudley to

know the days of the week, because of television —

then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh

birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly

fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat

hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still,

you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was

also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer

Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on!

Everyone out!”

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It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was

pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at

sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most

miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing

was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon

gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this

gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them,

pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat

bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon,

“so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain

crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped

their faces. After what seemed like hours they

reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and

sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of

seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the

wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty.

There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips

each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the

empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said

cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought

nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a

storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though

the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.

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As night fell, the promised storm blew up around

them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls

of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy

windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in

the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on

the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off

to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find

the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under

the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the

night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and

turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach

rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned

by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight.

The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was

dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told

Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and

watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the

Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the

letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak

outside. He hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in,

although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes

to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so

full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to

steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard

on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what

was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock

crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds

… twenty … ten … nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley

up, just to annoy him — three … two … one …

BOOM.

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The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking

to come in.

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THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.

“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon

came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in

his hands — now they knew what had been in the

long, thin package he had brought with them.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you — I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then —

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean

off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat

on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His

face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy

mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could

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make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so

that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down,

picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its

frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little.

He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not

been an easy journey. …”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen

with fear.

“Budge up, yeh great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother,

who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant.

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face

and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the

giant. “Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer

mom’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You

are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the

giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the

gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot

as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw

it into a corner of the room.

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Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a

mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway — Harry,” said the giant, turning his back

on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to yeh. Got

summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on it at some

point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled

a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with

trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate

cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green

icing.

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank

you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth,

and what he said instead was, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid,

Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s

whole arm.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his

hands together. “I’d not say no ter summat stronger if

yeh’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled

chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the

fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but

when he drew back a second later, there was a

roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with

flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over

him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.

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The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged

under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things

out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a

squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot,

several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber

liquid that he took a swig from before starting to

make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and

smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while

the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat,

juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley

fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t

touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant chuckled darkly.

“Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’

anymore, Dursley, don’ worry.”

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry

he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he

still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as

nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said,

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with

the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I

told yeh, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh’ll

know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.”

“Er — no,” said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly.

“Sorry?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the

Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s

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them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’

yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even

know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh

never wonder where yer parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Harry.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait jus’ one

second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill

the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against

the wall.

“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys,

“that this boy — this boy! — knows nothin’ abou’ —

about ANYTHING?”

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to

school, after all, and his marks weren’t bad.

“I know some things,” he said. “I can, you know, do

math and stuff.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About

our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents’

world. ”

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered

something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid

stared wildly at Harry.

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“But yeh must know about yer mom and dad,” he

said. “I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous. ”

“What? My — my mom and dad weren’t famous, were

they?”

“Yeh don’ know … yeh don’ know …” Hagrid ran his

fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a

bewildered stare.

“Yeh don’ know what yeh are?” he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid

you to tell the boy anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have

quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him;

when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with

rage.

“You never told him? Never told him what was in the

letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw

Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from

him all these years?”

“Kept what from me?” said Harry eagerly.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid.

“Harry — yer a wizard.”

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and

the whistling wind could be heard.

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“I’m a what?” gasped Harry.

“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down

on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “an’

a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained

up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else

would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read

yer letter.”

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the

yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr.

H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He

pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

( Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf.

Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of

Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been

accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary

books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no

later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

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Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few

minutes he stammered, “What does it mean, they

await my owl?”

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid,

clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to

knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket

inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live,

rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of

parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he

scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which

clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw

the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and

sat down as though this was as normal as talking on

the telephone.

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it

quickly.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment,

Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very

angry, moved into the firelight.

“He’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

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“I’d like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he said.

“A what?” said Harry, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic

folk like them. An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a

family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to

that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp

it out of him! Wizard indeed!”

“You knew?” said Harry. “You knew I’m a — a

wizard?”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew! Of

course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted

sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just

like that and disappeared off to that — that school —

and came home every vacation with her pockets full

of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the

only one who saw her for what she was — a freak!

But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this

and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in

the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went

ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all

this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and

got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d

be just the same, just as strange, just as — as —

abnormal — and then, if you please, she went and got

herself blown up and we got landed with you!”

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Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his

voice he said, “Blown up? You told me they died in a

car crash!”

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily

that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How

could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an

outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own

story when every kid in our world knows his name!”

“But why? What happened?” Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked

suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried

voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there

might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh

didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right

person ter tell yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t

go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh —

mind, I can’t tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry,

parts of it. …”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds,

and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a

person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his

name, everyone in our world knows —”

“Who?”

“Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No

one does.”

“Why not?”

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“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared.

Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard

who went … bad. As bad as you could go. Worse.

Worse than worse. His name was …”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested.

“Nah — can’t spell it. All right — Voldemort. ” Hagrid

shuddered. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this

— this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started

lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too — some were afraid,

some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was

gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry.

Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly

with strange wizards or witches … terrible things

happened. He was takin’ over. ’Course, some stood up

to him — an’ he killed ’em. Horribly. One o’ the only

safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s

the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare

try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.

“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’

wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts

in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-

Who never tried to get ’em on his side before …

probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter

want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade ’em … maybe

he just wanted ’em outta the way. All anyone knows

is, he turned up in the village where you was all

living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a

year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ —”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted

handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a

foghorn.

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“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad — knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer people yeh couldn’t find — anyway

…

“You-Know-Who killed ’em. An’ then — an’ this is the

real myst’ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too.

Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or

maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do

it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer

forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh

get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took

care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it

didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous, Harry.

No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ’em, no one

except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches

an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones,

the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you

lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind.

As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the

blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had

ever remembered it before — and he remembered

something else, for the first time in his life: a high,

cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching him sadly.

“Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on

Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter this lot …”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped;

he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there.

Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his

courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were

clenched.

“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled, “I accept

there’s something strange about you, probably

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nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured — and as for all this about your parents, well, they were

weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off

without them in my opinion — asked for all they got,

getting mixed up with these wizarding types — just

what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky

end —”

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and

drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat.

Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said,

“I’m warning you, Dursley — I’m warning you — one

more word …”

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella

by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed

again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell

silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and

sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged

right down to the floor.

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask,

hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry — I mean, You-

Know-Who?”

“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same

night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more

famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see … he was

gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno

if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say

he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’

believe it. People who was on his side came back ter

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ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’

reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but

lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ’Cause

somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was

somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on —

I dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin’

about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect

blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling

pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a

horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he

possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by

Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle

Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they

been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried

to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the

greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had

always been able to kick him around like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have

made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.”

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

“Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when

you was scared or angry?”

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think

about it … every odd thing that had ever made his

aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when

he, Harry, had been upset or angry … chased by

Dudley’s gang, he had somehow found himself out of

their reach … dreading going to school with that

ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow

back … and the very last time Dudley had hit him,

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hadn’t he got his revenge, without even realizing he was doing it? Hadn’t he set a boa constrictor on him?

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that

Hagrid was positively beaming at him.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard — you

wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a

fight.

“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s

going to Stonewall High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve

read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish —

spell books and wands and —”

“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop

him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s

son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been

down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest

school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven

years there and he won’t know himself. He’ll be with

youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be

under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had,

Albus Dumbled—”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD

FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle

Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his

umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER —” he

thundered, “— INSULT — ALBUS — DUMBLEDORE

— IN — FRONT — OF — ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the

air to point at Dudley — there was a flash of violet

light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and

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the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in

pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a

curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and

Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified

look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his

beard.

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it

didn’t work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig,

but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there

wasn’t much left ter do.”

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy

eyebrows.

“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at

Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m — er — not supposed ter do

magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter

follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’

the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job —”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.

“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er —

got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year.

They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But

Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great

man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,”

said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer

books an’ that.”

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He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it

wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in

one o’ the pockets.”

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DIAGON ALLY

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he

could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a

giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a

school for wizards. When I open my eyes I’ll be at

home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

And there’ s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn’t open his

eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Harry mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

He sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off him. The

hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid

himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there

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was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a

newspaper held in its beak.

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as

though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He

went straight to the window and jerked it open. The

owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of

Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered

onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it

snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on

savaging the coat.

“Hagrid!” said Harry loudly. “There’s an owl —”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants payin’ fer deliverin’ the paper. Look in the

pockets.”

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but

pockets — bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of

string, peppermint humbugs, teabags … finally, Harry

pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl

held out his leg so Harry could put the money into a

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small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off

through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter

London an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.”

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking

at them. He had just thought of something that made

him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had

got a puncture.

“Um — Hagrid?”

“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge

boots.

“I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle

Vernon last night … he won’t pay for me to go and

learn magic.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up

and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yer parents

didn’t leave yeh anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed —”

“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah,

first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a

sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I wouldn’ say no

teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards have banks?”

“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.

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“Goblins?”

“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh

that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the

safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter

keep safe — ’cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’

fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway Fer Dumbledore.

Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly.

“He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him.

Fetchin’ you — gettin’ things from Gringotts — knows

he can trust me, see.

“Got everythin’? Come on, then.”

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was

quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight.

The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with

a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How did you get here?” Harry asked, looking around

for another boat.

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“Flew?”

“Yeah — but we’ll go back in this. Not s’pposed ter

use magic now I’ve got yeh.”

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at

Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Hagrid, giving

Harry another of his sideways looks. “If I was ter — er

— speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not

mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic.

Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it

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twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?”

Harry asked.

“Spells — enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his

newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons

guardin’ the high-security vaults. And then yeh gotta

find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under

London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die

of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter

get yer hands on summat.”

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read

his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Harry had learned

from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone

while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d

never had so many questions in his life.

“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid

muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, before he

could stop himself.

“ ’Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore fer

Minister, o’ course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so

old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there

was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every

morning, askin’ fer advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles

that there’s still witches an’ wizards up an’ down the

country.”

“Why?”

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“Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left

alone.”

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the

harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and

they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked

through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t

blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as

anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary

things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See

that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep

up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a

dragon.”

“You’d like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to

London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t

understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the

bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid

took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a

canary-yellow circus tent.

“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted

stitches.

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

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“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.”

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t

noticed the night before, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or

similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name

tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the

following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda

Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric

Switch

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One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt

Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin

Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE

NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered

aloud.

“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid.

Harry had never been to London before. Although

Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was

obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary

way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the

Underground, and complained loudly that the seats

were too small and the trains too slow.

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“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without

magic,” he said as they climbed a broken-down

escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with

shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily;

all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They

passed book shops and music stores, hamburger

restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as

if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an

ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there

really be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath

them? Were there really shops that sold spell books

and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge

joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t

known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he

might have thought so; yet somehow, even though

everything Hagrid had told him so far was

unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky

Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t

pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was

there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their

eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the

record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the

Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most

peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it.

Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him

inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A

few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny

glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long

pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old

bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a

toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped

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when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know

Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the

bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual,

Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid,

clapping his great hand on Harry’s shoulder and

making Harry’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Harry, “is

this — can this be — ?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely

still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harry

Potter … what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward

Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking

at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it

without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was

beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the

next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands

with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting

you at last.”

“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand — I’m all of a

flutter.”

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“Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle’s

top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me

once in a shop.”

“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking

around at everyone. “Did you hear that? He

remembers me!”

Harry shook hands again and again — Doris

Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very

nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor

Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping

Harry’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to

meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered

Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think

about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?”

He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your

equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-

book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at

the very thought.

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep

Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get

away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make

himself heard over the babble.

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“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Harry.”

Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time,

and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a

small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but

a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Harry.

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even

Professor Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind

you, he’s usually tremblin’.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine

while he was studyin’ outta books but then he took a

year off ter get some firsthand experience. … They say

he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a

nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the same

since. Scared of the students, scared of his own

subject — now, where’s me umbrella?”

Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall

above the trash can.

“Three up … two across …” he muttered. “Right,

stand back, Harry.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his

umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in

the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider

and wider — a second later they were facing an

archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway

onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of

sight.

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“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped

through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his

shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back

into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons

outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes —

Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring —

Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we

gotta get yer money first.”

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He

turned his head in every direction as they walked up

the street, trying to look at everything at once: the

shops, the things outside them, the people doing their

shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary

was shaking her head as they passed, saying,

“Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad.”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign

saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech,

Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about

Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window

with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of

them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest

ever —” There were shops selling robes, shops selling

telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had

never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of

bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell

books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles,

globes of the moon. …

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

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They had reached a snowy white building that

towered over the other little shops. Standing beside

its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of

scarlet and gold, was —

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they

walked up the white stone steps toward him. The

goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a

swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry

noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they

walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of

doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon

them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said

Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors

and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred

more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long

counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in

brass scales, examining precious stones through

eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count

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leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were

showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry

made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come

ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”

“You have his key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started

emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a

handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblins book of

numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry

watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of

rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden

key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

“That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor

Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out

his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault

seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will

have someone take you down to both vaults.

Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had

crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets,

he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the

doors leading off the hall.

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“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred

and thirteen?” Harry asked.

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very

secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me.

More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who

had expected more marble, was surprised. They were

in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming

torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were

little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled

and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward

them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty

— and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting

passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right,

left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The

rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because

Griphook wasn’t steering.

Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them,

but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw

a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted

around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they

plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake

where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the

ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise

of the cart, “what’s the difference between a

stalagmite and a stalactite?”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’

ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be

sick.”

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He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid

got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his

knees from trembling.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke

came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped.

Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver.

Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t

have known about this or they’d have had it from him

faster than blinking. How often had they complained

how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time

there had been a small fortune belonging to him,

buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained.

“Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine

Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should

be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest

safe for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven

hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go

more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering

speed. The air became colder and colder as they

hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over

an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the

side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom,

but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff

of his neck.

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Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked

the door gently with one of his long fingers and it

simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be

sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said

Griphook.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?”

Harry asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a

rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this

top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned

forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at

the very least — but at first he thought it was empty.

Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up

in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up

and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to

know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to

me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth

shut,” said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the

sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where

to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He

didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to

a pound to know that he was holding more money

than he’d had in his whole life — more money than

even Dudley had ever had.

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“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

“Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a

pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them

Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry

entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all

in mauve.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to

speak. “Got the lot here — another young man being

fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed

face was standing on a footstool while a second witch

pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood

Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over

his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s

up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had

a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them

off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years

can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into

getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on.

“No,” said Harry.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

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“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth

Quidditch could be.

“I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to

play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know

what House you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do

they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family

have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d

leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Harry, wishing he could say something a

bit more interesting.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly,

nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was

standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two

large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know

something the boy didn’t. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of

servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. He was liking the

boy less and less every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a

hut on the school grounds and every now and then he

gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire

to his bed.”

“I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry coldly.

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“Do you?” said the boy, with a slight sneer. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel

much like going into the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all.

“But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you

mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in,

do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been

brought up to know our ways. Some of them have

never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter,

imagine. I think they should keep it in the old

wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said,

“That’s you done, my dear,” and Harry, not sorry for

an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down

from the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the

drawling boy.

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid

had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with

chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment

and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a

bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When

they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s

Quidditch?”

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“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know —

not knowin’ about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told

Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“— and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t

even be allowed in —”

“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh

were — he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his

parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone in

the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh.

Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best

I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ’em in a

long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what

she had fer a sister!”

“So what is Quidditch?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in

the Muggle world — everyone follows Quidditch —

played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four

balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says

Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but —”

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily.

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly.

“There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad

who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”

“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid.

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They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called

Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to

the ceiling with books as large as paving stones

bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in

covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a

few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley,

who never read anything, would have been wild to get

his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to

drag Harry away from Curses and Counter-curses

( Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies

with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs,

Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor

Vindictus Viridian.

“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.”

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter

use magic in the Muggle world except in very special

circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh

couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot

more study before yeh get ter that level.”

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron,

either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice

set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a

collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the

Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make

up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and

rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the

floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders

lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs,

and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While

Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a

supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry,

Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at

twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-

black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

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Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list again.

“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got

yeh a birthday present.”

Harry felt himself go red.

“You don’t have to —”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer

animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years

ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they

make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want

owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’

everythin’.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl

Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling

and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a

large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep

with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop

stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor

Quirrell.

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect

you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just

Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands,

Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand … this was what Harry had been really

looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold

letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine

Wands since 382b.c. A single wand lay on a faded

purple cushion in the dusty window.

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A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place,

empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid

sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had

entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new

questions that had just occurred to him and looked

instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly

right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of

his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here

seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped.

Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a

loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the

spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale

eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the

shop.

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be

seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question.

“You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday

she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten

and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow.

Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished

he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany

wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and

excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father

favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the

wizard, of course.”

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Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry

were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself

reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where …”

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s

forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said

softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful

wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands … well,

if I’d known what that wand was going out into the

world to do. …”

He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted

Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.

… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it

in half when you got expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander,

suddenly stern.

“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his

feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added

brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander

sharply.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he

gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a

piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me see.”

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He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings

out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry

from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder

to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he

measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core

of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use

unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the

heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are

the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or

phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will

never get such good results with another wizard’s

wand.”

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which

was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this

on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the

shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure

crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr.

Potter. Try this one. Beech-wood and dragon

heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take

it and give it a wave.”

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it

around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his

hand almost at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite

whippy. Try —”

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand

when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

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“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr.

Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands

was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair,

but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the

shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the

perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now —

yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and

phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his

fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it

swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of

red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework,

throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid

whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh,

bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well …

how curious … how very curious …”

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it

in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious … curious

…”

“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?”

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter.

Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix

whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another

feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed

that you should be destined for this wand when its

brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

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“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the

wizard, remember. … I think we must expect great

things from you, Mr. Potter. … After all, He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes,

but great.”

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr.

Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for

his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his

shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry

and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley,

back through the wall, back through the Leaky

Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as

they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how

much people were gawking at them on the

Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-

shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its

cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into

Paddington station; Harry only realized where they

were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he

said.

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on

plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around.

Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the

best birthday of his life — and yet — he chewed his

hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All

those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor

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Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander … but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things?

I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m

famous for. I don’t know what happened when Vol-,

sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard

and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough.

Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll

be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve

been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll

have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do,

’smatter of fact.”

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take

him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an

envelope.

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September

— King’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems

with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll

know where to find me. … See yeh soon, Harry.”

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to

watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his

seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he

blinked and Hagrid had gone.

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THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM

NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

Harry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun.

True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn’t

stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle

Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him

to do anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t

speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they

acted as though any chair with Harry in it were

empty. Although this was an improvement in many

ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for

company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name

he had found in A History of Magic. His school books

were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late

into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the

open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt

Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because

Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night

before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day

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on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall,

counting down to September the first.

On the last day of August he thought he’d better

speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King’s

Cross station the next day, so he went down to the

living room where they were watching a quiz show on

television. He cleared his throat to let them know he

was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the

room.

“Er — Uncle Vernon?”

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

“Er — I need to be at King’s Cross tomorrow to — to

go to Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.

“Thank you.”

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon

actually spoke.

“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train.

Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“Where is this school, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first

time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of

his pocket.

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“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o’clock,” he read.

His aunt and uncle stared.

“Platform what?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no

platform nine and three-quarters.”

“It’s on my ticket.”

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of

them. You’ll see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take

you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London

tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”

“Why are you going to London?” Harry asked, trying

to keep things friendly.

“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle

Vernon. “Got to have that ruddy tail removed before

he goes to Smeltings.”

Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was

too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up

and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want to

walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d

change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet

again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw

that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then

paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up.

Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been

loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had

talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had

set off.

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They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle

Vernon dumped Harry’s trunk onto a cart and

wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this

was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead,

facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform

ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the

middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do

they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic

number nine over one platform and a big plastic

number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle,

nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even

nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry

turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of

them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry.

What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to

attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He’d

have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention

platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had

never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn’t

even tell him what part of the country it was in, he

started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being

stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for

the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said

there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away,

muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying

hard not to panic. According to the large clock over

the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on

the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it;

he was stranded in the middle of a station with a

trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard

money, and a large owl.

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Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to

get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get

out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s

stand between platforms nine and ten.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind

him and he caught a few words of what they were

saying.

“— packed with Muggles, of course —”

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump

woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming

red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like

Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them.

They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear

what they were saying.

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’

mother.

“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-

headed, who was holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go

…”

“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right,

Percy, you go first.”

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward

platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to

blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy

reached the dividing barrier between the two

platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in

front of him and by the time the last backpack had

cleared away, the boy had vanished.

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“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly,

woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell

I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear.”

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he

went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he

must have done so, because a second later, he had

gone — but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the

barrier — he was almost there — and then, quite

suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

“Excuse me,” Harry said to the plump woman.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s

new, too.”

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He

was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands

and feet, and a long nose.

“Yes,” said Harry. “The thing is — the thing is, I don’t

know how to —”

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and

Harry nodded.

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk

straight at the barrier between platforms nine and

ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into

it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if

you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

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“Er — okay,” said Harry.

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the

barrier. It looked very solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on

their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked

more quickly. He was going to smash right into that

barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward

on his cart, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier

was coming nearer and nearer — he wouldn’t be able

to stop — the cart was out of control — he was a foot

away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash —

It didn’t come … he kept on running … he opened his

eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform

packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts

Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind him and

saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had

been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-

Quarters on it. He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the

chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound

here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one

another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble

and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with

students, some hanging out of the window to talk to

their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed

his cart off down the platform in search of an empty

seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying,

“Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”

“Oh, Neville, ” he heard the old woman sigh.

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A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small

crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the

people around him shrieked and yelled as something

inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found

an empty compartment near the end of the train. He

put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and

heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift

it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and

twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.

“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins

he’d followed through the barrier.

“Yes, please,” Harry panted.

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked

away in a corner of the compartment.

“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of

his eyes.

“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly,

pointing at Harry’s lightning scar.

“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you — ?”

“He is, ” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to

Harry.

“What?” said Harry.

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“Harry Potter, ” chorused the twins.

“Oh, him,” said Harry. “I mean, yes, I am.”

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself

turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating

in through the train’s open door.

“Fred? George? Are you there?”

“Coming, Mom.”

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the

train.

Harry sat down next to the window where, half

hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the

platform and hear what they were saying. Their

mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.”

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she

grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

“Mom — geroff.” He wriggled free.

“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?”

said one of the twins.

“Shut up,” said Ron.

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.

“He’s coming now.”

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had

already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts

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robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red and gold badge on his chest with the letter P on it.

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the

prefects have got two compartments to themselves —”

“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins,

with an air of great surprise. “You should have said

something, we had no idea.”

“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something

about it,” said the other twin. “Once —”

“Or twice —”

“A minute —”

“All summer —”

“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect.

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one

of the twins.

“Because he’s a prefect, ” said their mother fondly. “All

right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl

when you get there.”

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she

turned to the twins.

“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I

get one more owl telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up

a toilet or —”

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”

“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.”

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“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.”

“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.”

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as

the twins already and his nose was still pink where

his mother had rubbed it.

“Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on

the train?”

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him

looking.

“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in

the station? Know who he is?”

“Who?”

“Harry Potter!”

Harry heard the little girl’s voice.

“Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom,

oh please. …”

“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy

isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really,

Fred? How do you know?”

“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like

lightning.”

“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He

was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the

platform.”

“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what

You-Know-Who looks like?”

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Their mother suddenly became very stern.

“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As

though he needs reminding of that on his first day at

school.”

“All right, keep your hair on.”

A whistle sounded.

“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys

clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the

window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their

younger sister began to cry.

“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”

“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

“George!”

“Only joking, Mom.”

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother

waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying,

running to keep up with the train until it gathered too

much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as

the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the

window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He

didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be

better than what he was leaving behind.

The door of the compartment slid open and the

youngest redheaded boy came in.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat

opposite Harry. “Everywhere else is full.”

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Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He

glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the

window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he

still had a black mark on his nose.

“Hey, Ron.”

The twins were back.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train —

Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce

ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron,

our brother. See you later, then.”

“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the

compartment door shut behind them.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out.

Harry nodded.

“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and

George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got —

you know …”

He pointed at Harry’s forehead.

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning

scar. Ron stared.

“So that’s where You-Know-Who — ?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.

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“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”

“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few

moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized

what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the

window again.

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found

Ron just as interesting as Ron found him.

“Er — yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mom’s got a

second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk

about him.”

“So you must know loads of magic already.”

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding

families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked

about.

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron.

“What are they like?”

“Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle

and cousin are, though. Wish I’d had three wizard

brothers.”

“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking

gloomy. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts.

You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and

Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and

Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a

prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they

still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re

really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the

others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it

first. You never get anything new, either, with five

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brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat

gray rat, which was asleep.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever

wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being

made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff— I mean, I got

Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said

too much, because he went back to staring out of the

window.

Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not

being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had

any money in his life until a month ago, and he told

Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes

and never getting proper birthday presents. This

seemed to cheer Ron up.

“… and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything

about being a wizard or about my parents or

Voldemort —”

Ron gasped.

“What?” said Harry.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding

both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you,

of all people —”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the

name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t.

See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. … I bet,” he

added, voicing for the first time something that had

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been worrying him a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in the class.”

“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from

Muggle families and they learn quick enough.”

While they had been talking, the train had carried

them out of London. Now they were speeding past

fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a

time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering

outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman

slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart,

dears?”

Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet,

but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that

he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the

corridor.

He had never had any money for candy with the

Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with

gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars

Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have

Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s

Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum,

Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes,

Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things

Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss

anything, he got some of everything and paid the

woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the

compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat.

“Hungry, are you?”

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“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped

it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one

of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t

like corned beef.”

“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a

pasty. “Go on —”

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She

hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know,

with five of us.”

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had

anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share

it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron,

eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes,

and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a

pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are

they?” He was starting to feel that nothing would

surprise him.

“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing

Agrippa.”

“What?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs

have cards inside them, you know, to collect —

famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five

hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up

the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon

glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver

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hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture

was the name Albus Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said

Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks

—”

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern

times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his

defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the

discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his

work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.

Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten

pin bowling.

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his

astonishment, that Dumbledore’s face had

disappeared.

“He’s gone!”

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,”

said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again

and I’ve got about six of her … do you want it? You

can start collecting.”

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs

waiting to be unwrapped.

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the

Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.”

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“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded amazed. “Weird!”

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the

picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron

was more interested in eating the frogs than looking

at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry

couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only

Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcraft,

Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He

finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna,

who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie

Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned

Harry. “When they say every flavor, they mean every

flavor — you know, you get all the ordinary ones like

chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then

you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George

reckons he had a booger-flavored one once.”

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully,

and bit into a corner.

“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.”

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans.

Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry,

curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave

enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron

wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper.

The countryside now flying past the window was

becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there

were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment

and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on

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platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost

him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him …”

He left.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d

brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind

you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the

difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him

yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but

the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look …”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a

very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places

and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway —”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment

door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but

this time he had a girl with him. She was already

wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said.

She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown

hair, and rather large front teeth.

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“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the

wand in his hand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

“Er — all right.”

He cleared his throat.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow. ”

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers

stayed gray and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well,

it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells

just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in

my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise

when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of

course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft

there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books

by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m

Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his

stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course

books by heart either.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.

“Harry Potter,” said Harry.

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“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about you, of course — I got a few extra books for

background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical

History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and

Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. ”

“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed.

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out

everything I could if it was me,” said Hermione. “Do

either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been

asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds

by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it,

but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. …

Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad.

You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll

be there soon.”

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said

Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid

spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a

dud.”

“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry.

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling

on him again. “Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don’t

know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose

Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put

me in Slytherin.”

“That’s the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was

in?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat,

looking depressed.

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“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are a bit lighter,” said Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off

Houses. “So what do your oldest brothers do now that

they’ve left, anyway?”

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d

finished school.

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in

Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did

you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily

Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the

Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security

vault.”

Harry stared.

“Really? What happened to them?”

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t

been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful

Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t

think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ’Course,

everyone gets scared when something like this

happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was

starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-

Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of

entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more

comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying.

“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked.

“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed.

“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s

the best game in the world —” And he was off,

explaining all about the four balls and the positions of

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the seven players, describing famous games he’d been to with his brothers and the broomstick he’d like to

get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry

through the finer points of the game when the

compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t

Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this

time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle

one at once: It was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s

robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more

interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train

that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is

it?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys.

Both of them were thickset and looked extremely

mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they

looked like bodyguards.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale

boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking.

“And my names Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been

hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who

you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red

hair, freckles, and more children than they can

afford.”

He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some

wizarding families are much better than others,

Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the

wrong sort. I can help you there.”

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He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry

didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself,

thanks,” he said coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared

in his pale cheeks.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly.

“Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as

your parents. They didn’t know what was good for

them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the

Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy

sneered.

“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely

than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot

bigger than him or Ron.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve

eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.”

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to

Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as

touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp

little teeth sunk deep into Goyle’s knuckle — Crabbe

and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers

round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally

flew off and hit the window, all three of them

disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were

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more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps

they’d heard footsteps, because a second later,

Hermione Granger had come in.

“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the

sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers

by his tail.

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry.

He looked closer at Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it

— he’s gone back to sleep.”

And so he had.

“You’ve met Malfoy before?”

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were

some of the first to come back to our side after You-

Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched.

My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father

didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He

turned to Hermione. “Can we help you with

something?”

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve

just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he

says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting,

have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get

there!”

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron,

scowling at her. “Would you mind leaving while we

change?”

“All right — I only came in here because people

outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and

down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy voice.

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“And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?”

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the

window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains

and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did

seem to be slowing down.

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their

long black robes. Ron’s were a bit short for him, you

could see his sneakers underneath them.

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching

Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your

luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school

separately.”

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he

saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed

their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined

the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped.

People pushed their way toward the door and out on

to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold

night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads

of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice:

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there,

Harry?”

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer

step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down

what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so

dark on either side of them that Harry thought there

must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much.

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Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid

called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge

of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain

on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry

sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to

a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore.

Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville

and Hermione.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to

himself. “Right then — FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once,

gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as

glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great

castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed

nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached

the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats

carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide

opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a

dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right

underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of

underground harbor, where they clambered out onto

rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who

was checking the boats as people climbed out of

them.

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“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the

rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto

smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded

around the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times

on the castle door.

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THE SORTING HAT

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired

witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a

very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this

was not someone to cross.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so

big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’

house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming

torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too

high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase

facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the

flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of

hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right — the

rest of the school must already be here — but

Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a

small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in,

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standing rather closer together than they would

usually have done, peering about nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall.

“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but

before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will

be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very

important ceremony because, while you are here,

your House will be something like your family within

Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your

House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free

time in your House common room.

“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,

Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own

noble history and each has produced outstanding

witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your

triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule-

breaking will lose House points. At the end of the

year, the House with the most points is awarded the

House cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a

credit to whichever House becomes yours.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few

minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest

you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can

while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak,

which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s

smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his

hair.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said

Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

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“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked Ron.

“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but

I think he was joking.”

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of

the whole school? But he didn’t know any magic yet

— what on earth would he have to do? He hadn’t

expected something like this the moment they

arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that

everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking

much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering

very fast about all the spells she’d learned and

wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried hard not

to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never,

not even when he’d had to take a school report home

to the Dursleys saying that he’d somehow turned his

teachers wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door.

Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come

back and lead him to his doom.

Then something happened that made him jump about

a foot in the air — several people behind him

screamed.

“What the — ?”

He gasped. So did the people around him. About

twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back

wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they

glided across the room talking to one another and

hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be

arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was

saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give

him a second chance —”

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the

chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and

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you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say, what are you all doing here?”

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly

noticed the first years.

Nobody answered.

“New students!” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at

them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?”

A few people nodded mutely.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old

House, you know.”

“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting

Ceremony’s about to start.”

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the

ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first

years, “and follow me.”

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead,

Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with

Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber,

back across the hall, and through a pair of double

doors into the Great Hall.

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and

splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands

of candles that were floating in midair over four long

tables, where the rest of the students were sitting.

These tables were laid with glittering golden plates

and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long

table where the teachers were sitting. Professor

McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they

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came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces

staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the

flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among

the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to

avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and

saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard

Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky

outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History. ”

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all,

and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the

heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor

McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front

of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed

wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and

extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in

the house.

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry

thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing —

noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at

the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there

was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip

near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the

hat began to sing:

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,

But don’t judge on what you see,

I’ll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

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Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There’s nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can’t see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you’ve a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

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You’ll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don’t be afraid!

And don’t get in a flap!

You’re in safe hands (though I have none)

For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished

its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then

became quite still again.

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to

Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling

a troll.”

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot

better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they

could have tried it on without everyone watching. The

hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel

brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If

only the hat had mentioned a House for people who

felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for

him.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a

long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and

sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott,

Hannah!”

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A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her

eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause —

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as

Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.

Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at

her.

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan

scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

The table second from the left clapped this time;

several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with

Terry as he joined them.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but

“Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor,

and the table on the far left exploded with cheers;

Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling.

“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin.

Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, after all he’d

heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked

like an unpleasant lot.

He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He

remembered being picked for teams during gym at his

old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not

because he was no good, but because no one wanted

Dudley to think they liked him.

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“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the

House at once, but at others it took a little while to

decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired boy

next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a

whole minute before the hat declared him a

Gryffindor.

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat

eagerly on her head.

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat. Ron groaned.

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts

always do when you’re very nervous. What if he

wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with

the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor

McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had

obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back on

the train?

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his

toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool.

The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When

it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still

wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter

to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.”

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called

and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched

his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”

Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle,

looking pleased with himself.

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There weren’t many people left now.

“Moon” … , “Nott” … , “Parkinson” … , then a pair of

twin girls, “Patil” and “Patil” … , then “Perks, Sally-

Anne” … , and then, at last —

“Potter, Harry!”

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke

out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

“Potter, did she say?”

“The Harry Potter?”

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over

his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a

good look at him. Next second he was looking at the

black inside of the hat. He waited.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very

difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind

either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a

nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. …

So where shall I put you?”

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not

Slytherin, not Slytherin.

“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you

sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in

your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to

greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re

sure — better be GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole

hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward

the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been

chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed

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that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while

the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got

Potter!” Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff

he’d seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving

Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just plunged it

into a bucket of ice-cold water.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end

nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave

him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there,

in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair,

sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once

from the card he’d gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on

the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing

in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts.

Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous

young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking

very peculiar in a large purple turban.

And now there were only four people left to be sorted.

“Thomas, Dean,” a Black boy even taller than Ron,

joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin, Lisa,”

became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He

was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers

under the table and a second later the hat had

shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed

into the chair next to him.

“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley

pompously across Harry as “Zabini, Blaise,” was

made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her

scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had

only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin

pasties seemed ages ago.

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Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was

beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if

nothing could have pleased him more than to see

them all there.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at

Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like

to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit!

Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

“Thank you!”

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered.

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly.

“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard

in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes,

Harry?”

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him

were now piled with food. He had never seen so many

things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast

chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages,

bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes,

fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy,

ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint

humbugs.

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but

he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked.

Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really

wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate

with a bit of everything except the peppermints and

began to eat. It was all delicious.

“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly,

watching Harry cut up his steak.

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“Can’t you — ?”

“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” said

the ghost. “I don’t need to, of course, but one does

miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself? Sir

Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service.

Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.”

“I know who you are!” said Ron suddenly. “My

brothers told me about you — you’re Nearly Headless

Nick!”

“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy

—” the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus

Finnigan interrupted.

“Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?”

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little

chat wasn’t going at all the way he wanted.

“Like this, ” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell

onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone

had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it

properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on

their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head

back onto his neck, coughed, and said, “So — new

Gryffindors! I hope you’re going to help us win the

House Championship this year? Gryffindors have

never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have

got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron’s

becoming almost unbearable — he’s the Slytherin

ghost.”

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a

horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a

gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He

was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to

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see, didn’t look too pleased with the seating

arrangements.

“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus

with great interest.

“I’ve never asked,” said Nearly Headless Nick

delicately.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the

remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving

them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the

desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor

you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate

éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-

O, rice pudding …

As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk

turned to their families.

“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle.

Mom didn’t tell him she was a witch ’til after they

were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”

The others laughed.

“What about you, Neville?” said Ron.

“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,”

said Neville, “but the family thought I was all-Muggle

for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me

off my guard and force some magic out of me — he

pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly

drowned — but nothing happened until I was eight.

Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was

hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles

when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue

and he accidentally let go. But I bounced — all the

way down the garden and into the road. They were all

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really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy.

And you should have seen their faces when I got in

here — they thought I might not be magic enough to

come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he

bought me my toad.”

On Harry’s other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione

were talking about lessons (“I do hope they start right

away, there’s so much to learn, I’m particularly

interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning

something into something else, of course, it’s

supposed to be very difficult —”; “You’ll be starting

small, just matches into needles and that sort of

thing —”).

Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy,

looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was

drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall

was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor

Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a

teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and

sallow skin.

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher

looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s

eyes — and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on

Harry’s forehead.

“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.

“What is it?” asked Percy.

“N-nothing.”

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder

to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the

teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at

all.

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“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asked Percy.

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder

he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He

teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone

knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot

about the Dark Arts, Snape.”

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t

look at him again.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor

Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all

fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to

give you.

“First years should note that the forest on the

grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our

older students would do well to remember that as

well.”

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction

of the Weasley twins.

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to

remind you all that no magic should be used between

classes in the corridors.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of

the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House

teams should contact Madam Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-

floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds

to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful

death.”

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Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.

“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy.

“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s

odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re

not allowed to go somewhere — the forest’s full of

dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he

might have told us prefects, at least.”

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school

song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other

teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was

trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden

ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables

and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore,

“and off we go!”

And the school bellowed:

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they’re bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

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So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we’ve forgot,

Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot. ”

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last,

only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a

very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their

last few lines with his wand and when they had

finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic

beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you

trot!”

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the

chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the

marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again,

but only because he was so tired and full of food. He

was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in

the portraits along the corridors whispered and

pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them

through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and

hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases,

yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just

wondering how much farther they had to go when

they came to a sudden halt.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair

ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them

they started throwing themselves at him.

“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A

poltergeist.” He raised his voice, “Peeves — show

yourself.”

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A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?”

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark

eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-

legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

“Oooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle

Firsties! What fun!”

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I

mean it!” barked Percy.

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping

the walking sticks on Neville’s head. They heard him

zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.

“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as

they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one

who can control him, he won’t even listen to us

prefects. Here we are.”

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a

very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said.

“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung

forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all

scrambled through it — Neville needed a leg up —

and found themselves in the Gryffindor common

room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.

Percy directed the girls through one door to their

dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of

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a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one of the towers — they found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their

trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk

much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.

“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through

the hangings. “Get off, Scabbers! He’s chewing my

sheets.”

Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the

treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he

had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor

Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him, telling

him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it

was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want

to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried

to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there

was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it —

then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher,

Snape, whose laugh became high and cold — there

was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating

and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he

woke next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all.

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THE POTIONS MASTER

“There, look.”

“Where?”

“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.”

“Wearing the glasses?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Did you see his scar?”

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his

dormitory the next day. People lining up outside

classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or

doubled back to pass him in the corridors again,

staring. Harry wished they wouldn’t, because he was

trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at

Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones;

some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some

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with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to

remember to jump. Then there were doors that

wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled

them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t

really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It

was also very hard to remember where anything was,

because it all seemed to move around a lot. The

people in the portraits kept going to visit each other,

and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk.

The ghosts didn’t help, either. It was always a nasty

shock when one of them glided suddenly through a

door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick

was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the

right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth

two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him

when you were late for class. He would drop

wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from

under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak

up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech,

“GOT YOUR CONK!”

Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the

caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get

on the wrong side of him on their very first morning.

Filch found them trying to force their way through a

door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to

the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He

wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were

trying to break into it on purpose, and was

threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they

were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.

Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-

colored creature with bulging, lamplike eyes just like

Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule

in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d

whisk off for Filch, who’d appear, wheezing, two

seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of

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the school better than anyone (except perhaps the

Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any

of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was

the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a

good kick.

And then, once you had managed to find them, there

were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to

magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your

wand and saying a few funny words.

They had to study the night skies through their

telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn

the names of different stars and the movements of the

planets. Three times a week they went out to the

greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology,

with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout,

where they learned how to take care of all the strange

plants and fungi, and found out what they were used

for.

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic,

which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor

Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen

asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next

morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns

droned on and on while they scribbled down names

and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the

Oddball mixed up.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny

little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to

see over his desk. At the start of their first class he

took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name

he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had

been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to

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cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and

dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she

said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave

and not come back. You have been warned.”

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again.

They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get

started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be

changing the furniture into animals for a long time.

After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each

given a match and started trying to turn it into a

needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione

Granger had made any difference to her match;

Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had

gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare

smile.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to

was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s

lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom

smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to

ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania and was

afraid would be coming back to get him one of these

days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him

by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of

a troublesome zombie, but they weren’t sure they

believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus

Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had

fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started

talking about the weather; for another, they had

noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban,

and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full

of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected

wherever he went.

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Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come

from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had any

idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so

much to learn that even people like Ron didn’t have

much of a head start.

Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They

finally managed to find their way down to the Great

Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.

“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he

poured sugar on his porridge.

“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron.

“Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always

favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.”

“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor

McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, but it

hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge pile of

homework the day before.

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to

this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on

the first morning, when about a hundred owls had

suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during

breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their

owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their

laps.

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She

sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of

toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the

other school owls. This morning, however, she

fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar

bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry

tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:

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Dear Harry,

I know you get Friday afternoons off so would you like

to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an

answer back with Hedwig.

Hagrid

Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see

you later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off

again.

It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look

forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to

be the worst thing that had happened to him so far.

At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the

idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of

the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong.

Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the

dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main

castle, and would have been quite creepy enough

without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all

around the walls.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the

roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes, ” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new —

celebrity. ”

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle

sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling

the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were

black like Hagrid’s, but they had none of Hagrid’s

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warmth. They were cold and empty and made you

think of dark tunnels.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art

of potion-making,” he began. He spoke in barely more

than a whisper, but they caught every word — like

Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a

class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish

wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe

this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand

the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its

shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that

creep through human veins, bewitching the mind,

ensnaring the senses. … I can teach you how to bottle

fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t

as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to

teach.”

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and

Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione

Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked

desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a

dunderhead.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I

added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of

wormwood?”

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry

glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was;

Hermione’s hand had shot into the air.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.

Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”

He ignored Hermione’s hand.

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“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it

would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry

didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He

tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who

were shaking with laughter.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming,

eh, Potter?”

Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into

those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at

the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember

everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and

Fungi?

Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood

and wolfsbane?”

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching

toward the dungeon ceiling.

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione

does, though, why don’t you try her?”

A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye,

and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not

pleased.

“Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your

information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a

sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the

Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken

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from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they

are the same plant, which also goes by the name of

aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and

parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, “And a point

will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek,

Potter.”

Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the

Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into

pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to

cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak,

watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake

fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy,

whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone

to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his

horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a

loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow

managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted

blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone

floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within

seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools

while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion

when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as

angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion

away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you

added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron

off the fire?”

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over

his nose.

“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at

Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who

had been working next to Neville.

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“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got

it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for

Gryffindor.”

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to

argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can

turn very nasty.”

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour

later, Harry’s mind was racing and his spirits were

low. He’d lost two points for Gryffindor in his very

first week — why did Snape hate him so much?

“Cheer up,” said Ron, “Snape’s always taking points

off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid

with you?”

At five to three they left the castle and made their way

across the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden

house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow

and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.

When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling

from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid’s

voice rang out, saying, “Back, Fang — back. ”

Hagrid’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he

pulled the door open.

“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.”

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar

of an enormous black boarhound.

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants

were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was

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boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of

Fang, who bounded straight at Ron and started

licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as

fierce as he looked.

“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring

boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock

cakes onto a plate.

“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s

freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers

away from the forest.”

The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins

that almost broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron

pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all

about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on

Harry’s knee and drooled all over his robes.

Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call

Filch “that old git.’’

“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce

her to Fang sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up

ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can’t get

rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.”

Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like

Ron, told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape

liked hardly any of the students.

“But he seemed to really hate me.”

“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?”

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Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t quite meet his eyes when he said that.

“How’s yer brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked Ron. “I

liked him a lot — great with animals.”

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on

purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie’s

work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper

that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was

a cutting from the Daily Prophet:

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts

on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark

wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had

been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact

been emptied the same day.

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep

your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said

a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that

someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t

mentioned the date.

“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in

happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening

while we were there!”

There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t

meet Harry’s eyes this time. He grunted and offered

him another rock cake. Harry read the story again.

The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied

earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven

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hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been

what the thieves were looking for?

As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for

dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes

they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that

none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as

much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid

collected that package just in time? Where was it

now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape

that he didn’t want to tell Harry?

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THE MIDNIGHT DUEL

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he

hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met

Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had

Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn’t have to put

up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn’t until

they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor

common room that made them all groan. Flying

lessons would be starting on Thursday — and

Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.

“Typical,” said Harry darkly. “Just what I always

wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in

front of Malfoy.”

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more

than anything else.

“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,”

said Ron reasonably. “Anyway, I know Malfoy’s always

going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet

that’s all talk.”

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Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He

complained loudly about first years never getting on

the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful

stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly

escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn’t the only

one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he’d

spent most of his childhood zooming around the

countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell

anyone who’d listen about the time he’d almost hit a

hang glider on Charlie’s old broom. Everyone from

wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly.

Ron had already had a big argument with Dean

Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer.

Ron couldn’t see what was exciting about a game with

only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry

had caught Ron prodding Dean’s poster of West Ham

soccer team, trying to make the players move.

Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life,

because his grandmother had never let him near one.

Privately, Harry felt she’d had good reason, because

Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of

accidents even with both feet on the ground.

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about

flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn’t

learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn’t

tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored them all

stupid with flying tips she’d gotten out of a library

book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville was

hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything

that might help him hang on to his broomstick later,

but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione’s

lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.

Harry hadn’t had a single letter since Hagrid’s note,

something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of

course. Malfoy’s eagle owl was always bringing him

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packages of sweets from home, which he opened

gloatingly at the Slytherin table.

A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his

grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed

them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which

seemed to be full of white smoke.

“It’s a Remembrall!” he explained. “Gran knows I

forget things — this tells you if there’s something

you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this

and if it turns red — oh …” His face fell, because the

Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “… you’ve

forgotten something …”

Neville was trying to remember what he’d forgotten

when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor

table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand.

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half

hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor

McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any

teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

“What’s going on?”

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor.”

Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall

back on the table.

“Just looking,” he said, and he sloped away with

Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the

other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto

the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear,

breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as

they marched down the sloping lawns toward a

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smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying

darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty

broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry

had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about

the school brooms, saying that some of them started

to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly

to the left.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short,

gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked.

“Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry

up.”

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and

some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called

Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’ ”

“UP!” everyone shouted.

Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it

was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger’s had

simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville’s hadn’t

moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell

when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a

quaver in Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that

he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their

brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up

and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and

Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been

doing it wrong for years.

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“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your

brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight

back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle

— three — two —”

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of

being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the

whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips.

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising

straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve

feet — twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face

look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp,

slip sideways off the broom and —

WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay

facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was

still rising higher and higher, and started to drift

lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as

white as his.

“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on,

boy — it’s all right, up you get.”

She turned to the rest of the class.

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the

hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are

or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say

‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.”

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist,

hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm

around him.

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No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

The other Slytherins joined in.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy

Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought

you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching

something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing

Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

“Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone

stopped talking to watch.

Malfoy smiled nastily.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find

— how about — up a tree?”

“Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto

his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he

could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost

branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it,

Potter!”

Harry grabbed his broom.

“No!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told

us not to move — you’ll get us all into trouble.”

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Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears.

He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the

ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his

hair, and his robes whipped out behind him — and in

a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found something

he could do without being taught — this was easy,

this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a

little to take it even higher, and heard screams and

gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring

whoop from Ron.

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in

midair. Malfoy looked stunned.

“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that

broom!”

“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking

worried.

Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward

and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it

shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got

out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-

face and held the broom steady. A few people below

were clapping.

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck,

Malfoy,” Harry called.

The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.

“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw

the glass ball high into the air and streaked back

toward the ground.

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up

in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward

and pointed his broom handle down — next second

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he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball

— wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the

screams of people watching — he stretched out his

hand — a foot from the ground he caught it, just in

time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently

onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in

his fist.

“HARRY POTTER!”

His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor

McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his

feet, trembling.

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —”

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with

shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “— how dare

you — might have broken your neck —”

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil —”

“But Malfoy —”

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”

Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s

triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in

Professor McGonagall’s wake as she strode toward the

castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it.

He wanted to say something to defend himself, but

there seemed to be something wrong with his voice.

Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without

even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now

he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. He’d be

packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the

Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep?

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Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to

him. She wrenched open doors and marched along

corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her.

Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He

thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as

gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant.

His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron

and the others becoming wizards while he stumped

around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag.

Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom.

She opened the door and poked her head inside.

“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood

for a moment?”

Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane

she was going to use on him?

But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year

boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking

confused.

“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and

they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking

curiously at Harry.

“In here.”

Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom

that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy

writing rude words on the blackboard.

“Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk

into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out

cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door

behind him and turned to face the two boys.

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“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a Seeker.”

Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to

delight.

“Are you serious, Professor?”

“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The

boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was

that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?”

Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was

going on, but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and

some of the feeling started coming back to his legs.

“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot

dive,” Professor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even

scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done

it.”

Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had

come true at once.

“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked

excitedly.

“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor

McGonagall explained.

“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now

walking around Harry and staring at him. “Light —

speedy — we’ll have to get him a decent broom,

Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand or a

Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”

“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we

can’t bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need

a better team than last year. Flattened in that last

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match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks. …”

Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses

at Harry.

“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may

change my mind about punishing you.”

Then she suddenly smiled.

“Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He

was an excellent Quidditch player himself.”

“You’re joking. ”

It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron

what had happened when he’d left the grounds with

Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and

kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all

about it.

“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must be the youngest House player in about —”

“— a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his

mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the

excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.”

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and

gaped at Harry.

“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t

tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.”

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall,

spotted Harry, and hurried over.

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“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us.

We’re on the team too — Beaters.”

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for

sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since

Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be

brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost

skipping when he told us.”

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s

found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the

Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.”

Fred and George had hardly disappeared when

someone far less welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked

by Crabbe and Goyle.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the

train back to the Muggles?”

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the

ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,”

said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all

little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table

was full of teachers, neither of them could do more

than crack their knuckles and scowl.

“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy.

“Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only —

no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a

wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”

“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m

his second, who’s yours?”

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

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“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”

When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each

other.

“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do

you mean, you’re my second?”

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said

Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie.

Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added quickly,

“But people only die in proper duels, you know, with

real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do

is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows

enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he

expected you to refuse, anyway.”

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”

“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron

suggested.

“Excuse me.”

They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron.

Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy

were saying —”

“Bet you could,” Ron muttered.

“— and you mustn’t go wandering around the school

at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if

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you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very selfish of you.”

“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry.

“Good-bye,” said Ron.

All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end

to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later

listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville

wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent

all evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to

curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t

remember how to block them.” There was a very good

chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs.

Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck,

breaking another school rule today. On the other

hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of

the darkness — this was his big chance to beat

Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it.

“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better

go.”

They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their

wands, and crept across the tower room, down the

spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common

room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace,

turning all the armchairs into hunched black

shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole

when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I

can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.”

A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger,

wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown.

“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”

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“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped,

“Percy — he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.”

Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.

“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the

portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole.

Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She

followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at

them like an angry goose.

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care

about yourselves, I don’t want Slytherin to win the

House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from

Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching

Spells.”

“Go away.”

“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what

I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow,

you’re so —”

But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione

had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back

inside and found herself facing an empty painting.

The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and

Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower.

“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.

“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go,

we’re going to be late.”

They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor

when Hermione caught up with them.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

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“You are not. ”

“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for

Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell

him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you

can back me up.”

“You’ve got some nerve —” said Ron loudly.

“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard

something.”

It was a sort of snuffling.

“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the

dark.

It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up

on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake

as they crept nearer.

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for

hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get

in to bed.”

“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig

snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone

off somewhere.”

“How’s your arm?” said Harry.

“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey

mended it in about a minute.”

“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be

somewhere, we’ll see you later —”

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“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet,

“I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s

been past twice already.”

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at

Hermione and Neville.

“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve

learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us

about, and used it on you.”

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron

exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry

hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all

forward.

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of

moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry

expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they

were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor

and tiptoed toward the trophy room.

Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal

trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught

them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver

and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls,

keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the

room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in

and started at once. The minutes crept by.

“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.

Then a noise in the next room made them jump.

Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard

someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy.

“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a

corner.”

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It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as

quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the

door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had

barely whipped round the corner when they heard

Filch enter the trophy room.

“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter,

“probably hiding.”

“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and,

petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full

of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting

nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak

and broke into a run — he tripped, grabbed Ron

around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right

into a suit of armor.

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the

whole castle.

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted

down the gallery, not looking back to see whether

Filch was following — they swung around the

doorpost and galloped down one corridor then

another, Harry in the lead, without any idea where

they were or where they were going — they ripped

through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden

passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their

Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from

the trophy room.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against

the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was

bent double, wheezing and spluttering.

“I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the

stitch in her chest, “I — told — you.”

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“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron,

“quickly as possible.”

“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You

realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet

you — Filch knew someone was going to be in the

trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”

Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t

going to tell her that.

“Let’s go.”

It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone

more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled

and something came shooting out of a classroom in

front of them.

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a

squeal of delight.

“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown

out.”

Peeves cackled.

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut,

tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.”

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”

“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a sanity

voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your

own good, you know.”

“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at

Peeves — this was a big mistake.

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“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed,

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS

CORRIDOR!”

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right

to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a

door — and it was locked.

“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at

the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!”

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he

could toward Peeves’s shouts.

“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed

Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered,

“Alohomora!”

The lock clicked and the door swung open — they

piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their

ears against it, listening.

“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying.

“Quick, tell me.”

“Say ‘please.’ ”

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?”

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said

Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.

“All right — please. ”

“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing

if you didn’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they

heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch

cursing in rage.

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“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I think we’ll be okay — get off, Neville!” For Neville had

been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s bathrobe for the

last minute. “What?”

Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what.

For a moment, he was sure he’d walked into a

nightmare — this was too much, on top of everything

that had happened so far.

They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They

were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third

floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a

monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space

between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three

pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and

quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths,

saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them,

and Harry knew that the only reason they weren’t

already dead was that their sudden appearance had

taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over

that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous

growls meant.

Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and

death, he’d take Filch.

They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut,

and they ran, they almost flew, back down the

corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them

somewhere else, because they didn’t see him

anywhere, but they hardly cared — all they wanted to

do was put as much space as possible between them

and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they

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reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked,

looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders

and their flushed, sweaty faces.

“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted

Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They

scrambled into the common room and collapsed,

trembling, into armchairs.

It was a while before any of them said anything.

Neville, indeed, looked as if he’d never speak again.

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing

like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If

any dog needs exercise, that one does.”

Hermione had got both her breath and her bad

temper back again.

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she

snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its

feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s

obviously guarding something.”

She stood up, glaring at them.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all

have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you

don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

Ron stared after her, his mouth open.

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“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged her along, wouldn’t you?”

But Hermione had given Harry something else to

think about as he climbed back into bed. The dog was

guarding something. … What had Hagrid said?

Gringotts was the safest place in the world for

something you wanted to hide — except perhaps

Hogwarts.

It looked as though Harry had found out where the

grubby little package from vault seven hundred and

thirteen was.

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HALLOWEEN

Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that

Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day,

looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the

next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting

the three-headed dog had been an excellent

adventure, and they were quite keen to have another

one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the

package that seemed to have been moved from

Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time

wondering what could possibly need such heavy

protection.

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said

Ron.

“Or both,” said Harry.

But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious

object was that it was about two inches long, they

didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was

without further clues.

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Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest

interest in what lay underneath the dog and the

trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near

the dog again.

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and

Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they

saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted

now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their

great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail

about a week later.

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual,

everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long,

thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry

was just as interested as everyone else to see what

was in this large parcel, and was amazed when the

owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him,

knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly

fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a

letter on top of the parcel.

Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky,

because it said:

DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I

don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a

broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will

meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven

o’clock for your first training session.

Professor M. McGonagall

Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the

note to Ron to read.

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously.

“I’ve never even touched one.”

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the

broomstick in private before their first class, but

halfway across the entrance hall they found the way

upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized

the package from Harry and felt it.

“That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to

Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face.

“You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t

allowed them.”

Ron couldn’t resist it.

“It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus

Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home,

Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at Harry.

“Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same

league as the Nimbus.”

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you

couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back.

“I suppose you and your brothers have to save up

twig by twig.”

Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared

at Malfoy’s elbow.

“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked.

“Potters been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said

Malfoy quickly.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick,

beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all

about the special circumstances, Potter. And what

model is it?”

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face.

“And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,”

he added.

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their

laughter at Malfoy’s obvious rage and confusion.

“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the

top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen

Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team. …”

“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking

rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them.

Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking

disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry.

“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so

much good.”

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.

Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his

lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the

dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under

his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where

he’d be learning to play that night. He bolted his

dinner that evening without noticing what he was

eating, and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap

the Nimbus Two Thousand at last.

“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto

Harry’s bedspread.

Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different

brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and

shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of

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neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand

written in gold near the top.

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and

set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. He’d

never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of

seats were raised in stands around the field so that

the spectators were high enough to see what was

going on. At either end of the field were three golden

poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of

the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles

through, except that they were fifty feet high.

Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry

mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the

ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of

the goal posts and then sped up and down the field.

The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he

wanted at his lightest touch.

“Hey, Potter, come down!”

Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large

wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to

him.

“Very nice,” said Wood, his eyes glinting. “I see what

McGonagall meant … you really are a natural. I’m

just going to teach you the rules this evening, then

you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.”

He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized

balls.

“Right,” said Wood. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to

understand, even if it’s not too easy to play. There are

seven players on each side. Three of them are called

Chasers.”

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“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Wood took out a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball.

“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Wood. “The

Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and

get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten

points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the

hoops. Follow me?”

“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through

the hoops to score,” Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of

like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn’t

it?”

“What’s basketball?” said Wood curiously.

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly.

“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called

the Keeper — I’m Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly

around our hoops and stop the other team from

scoring.”

“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was

determined to remember it all. “And they play with

the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?” He

pointed at the three balls left inside the box.

“I’ll show you now,” said Wood. “Take this.”

He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short

baseball bat.

“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood

said. “These two are the Bludgers.”

He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and

slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed

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that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box.

“Stand back,” Wood warned Harry. He bent down and

freed one of the Bludgers.

At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then

pelted straight at Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with

the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it

zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their

heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it

and managed to pin it to the ground.

“See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger

back into the crate and strapping it down safely. “The

Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off

their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on

each team — the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their

job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and

knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve

got all that?”

“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the

Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the

Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled off.

“Very good,” said Wood.

“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry

asked, hoping he sounded offhand.

“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken

jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last

member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And

you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the

Bludgers —”

“— unless they crack my head open.”

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“Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers — I mean, they’re like a pair of human

Bludgers themselves.”

Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth

and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the

Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut.

It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver

wings.

“This, ” said Wood, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the

most important ball of the lot. It’s very hard to catch

because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s the

Seeker’s job to catch it. You’ve got to weave in and out

of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get

it before the other team’s Seeker, because whichever

Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra

hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win.

That’s why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of

Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it

can go on for ages — I think the record is three

months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so

the players could get some sleep.

“Well, that’s it — any questions?”

Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to

do all right, it was doing it that was going to be the

problem.

“We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Wood,

carefully shutting it back inside the crate, “it’s too

dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a few of

these.”

He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket

and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the

air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as he could

in every direction for Harry to catch.

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Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Wood was

delighted. After half an hour, night had really fallen

and they couldn’t carry on.

“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year,”

said Wood happily as they trudged back up to the

castle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out better

than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for

England if he hadn’t gone off chasing dragons.”

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what

with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top

of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it

when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts

two months. The castle felt more like home than

Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming

more and more interesting now that they had

mastered the basics.

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious

smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the

corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced

in Charms that he thought they were ready to start

making objects fly, something they had all been dying

to try since they’d seen him make Neville’s toad zoom

around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the

class into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was

Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, because Neville

had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however, was

to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to

tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this.

She hadn’t spoken to either of them since the day

Harry’s broomstick had arrived.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve

been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick,

perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish

and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the

magic words properly is very important, too — never

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forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his

chest.”

It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and

flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be

sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus got

so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set

fire to it — Harry had to put it out with his hat.

Ron, at the next table, wasn’t having much more

luck.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he shouted, waving his long

arms like a windmill.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap.

“It’s Wing- gar-dium Levi- o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked

her wand, and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four

feet above their heads.

“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping.

“Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!”

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class.

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to

Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded

corridor, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”

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Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past

him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her

face — and was startled to see that she was in tears.

“I think she heard you.”

“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.

“She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”

Hermione didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t

seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great

Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard

Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione

was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be

left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but

a moment later they had entered the Great Hall,

where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of

their minds.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and

ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the

tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the

pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on

the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term

banquet.

Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato

when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall,

his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone

stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair,

slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll — in

the dungeons — thought you ought to know.”

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was an uproar. It took several purple

firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor

Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.

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“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

Percy was in his element.

“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear

the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind

me, now. Make way, first years coming through!

Excuse me, I’m a prefect!”

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they

climbed the stairs.

“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,”

said Ron. “Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween

joke.”

They passed different groups of people hurrying in

different directions. As they jostled their way through

a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly

grabbed Ron’s arm.

“I’ve just thought — Hermione.”

“What about her?”

“She doesn’t know about the troll.”

Ron bit his lip.

“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not

see us.”

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the

other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and

hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom. They had just

turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps

behind them.

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“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large

stone griffin.

Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but

Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from

view.

“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he

down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?”

“Search me.”

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor

after Snape’s fading footsteps.

“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry said, but Ron

held up his hand.

“Can you smell something?”

Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a

mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no

one seems to clean.

And then they heard it — a low grunting, and the

shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed — at

the end of a passage to the left, something huge was

moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows

and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a

dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder

with its small bald head perched on top like a

coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with

flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was

incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which

dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

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The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside.

It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then

slouched slowly into the room.

“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could

lock it in.”

“Good idea,” said Ron nervously.

They edged toward the open door, mouths dry,

praying the troll wasn’t about to come out of it. With

one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam

the door, and lock it.

“Yes!”

Flushed with their victory, they started to run back

up the passage, but as they reached the corner they

heard something that made their hearts stop — a

high, petrified scream — and it was coming from the

chamber they’d just chained up.

“Oh, no,” said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.

“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” Harry gasped.

“Hermione!” they said together.

It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what

choice did they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted

back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in their

panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran

inside.

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall

opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll

was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the

walls as it went.

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“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and,

seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against

the wall.

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It

lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had

made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It

hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club

as it went.

“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the

chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll

didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its

shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again,

turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving

Harry time to run around it.

“Come on, run, run!” Harry yelled at Hermione, trying

to pull her toward the door, but she couldn’t move,

she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open

with terror.

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the

troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron,

who was nearest and had no way to escape.

Harry then did something that was both very brave

and very stupid: He took a great running jump and

managed to fasten his arms around the troll’s neck

from behind. The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging

there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit

of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wand had still been

in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight

up one of the troll’s nostrils.

Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its

club, with Harry clinging on for dear life; any second,

the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a

terrible blow with the club.

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Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled out his own wand — not knowing what he was going

to do he heard himself cry the first spell that came

into his head: “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The club flew suddenly out of the troll’s hand, rose

high, high up into the air, turned slowly over — and

dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s

head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat

on its face, with a thud that made the whole room

tremble.

Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of

breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still

raised, staring at what he had done.

It was Hermione who spoke first.

“Is it — dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been

knocked out.”

He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll’s

nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray

glue.

“Urgh — troll boogers.”

He wiped it on the troll’s trousers.

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the

three of them look up. They hadn’t realized what a

racket they had been making, but of course, someone

downstairs must have heard the crashes and the

troll’s roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall

had come bursting into the room, closely followed by

Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell

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took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was

looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her

look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning

fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry’s

mind.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor

McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked

at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the

air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you

in your dormitory?”

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked

at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down.

Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

“Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for

me.”

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.

“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I

could deal with it on my own — you know, because

I’ve read all about them.”

Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a

downright lie to a teacher?

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry

stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out

with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and

fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they

arrived.”

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Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story

wasn’t new to them.

“Well — in that case …” said Professor McGonagall,

staring at the three of them, “Miss Granger, you

foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a

mountain troll on your own?”

Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless.

Hermione was the last person to do anything against

the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to

get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started

handing out sweets.

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from

Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m

very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all,

you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are

finishing the feast in their Houses.”

Hermione left.

Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron.

“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first

years could have taken on a full-grown mountain

troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor

Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”

They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at

all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief

to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from

anything else.

“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron

grumbled.

“Five, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione’s.”

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“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron admitted. “Mind you, we did save her.”

“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t

locked the thing in with her,” Harry reminded him.

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Pig snout,” they said and entered.

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone

was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione,

however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them.

There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of

them looking at each other, they all said “Thanks,”

and hurried off to get plates.

But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became

their friend. There are some things you can’t share

without ending up liking each other, and knocking

out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

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QUIDDITCH

As they entered November, the weather turned very

cold. The mountains around the school became icy

gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the

ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen

from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on

the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin

overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin

boots.

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry

would be playing in his first match after weeks of

training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor

won, they would move up into second place in the

House Championship.

Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood

had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry

should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was

playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry

didn’t know which was worse — people telling him

he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d be

running around underneath him holding a mattress.

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It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through

all his homework without her, what with all the last-

minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them

do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages,

which turned out to be a very interesting read.

Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of

committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had

happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that

Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players,

and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to

happen to them; that although people rarely died

playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish

and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert.

Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about

breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her

from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for

it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the

three of them were out in the freezing courtyard

during break, and she had conjured them up a bright

blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar.

They were standing with their backs to it, getting

warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at

once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from

view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed.

Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces

caught Snape’s eye. He limped over. He hadn’t seen

the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to

tell them off anyway.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”

It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.

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“Library books are not to be taken outside the

school,” said Snape. “Give it to me. Five points from

Gryffindor.”

“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily

as Snape limped away. “Wonder what’s wrong with

his leg?”

“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron

bitterly.

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that

evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next

to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron’s

Charms homework for them. She would never let

them copy (“How will you learn?”), but by asking her

to read it through, they got the right answers anyway.

Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the

Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about

tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting

up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask

Snape if he could have it.

“Better you than me,” they said together, but Harry

had an idea that Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were

other teachers listening.

He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing.

Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was

worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered

inside — and a horrible scene met his eyes.

Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was

holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was

bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape

bandages.

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“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you

supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at

once?”

Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but —

“POTTER!”

Snape’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his

robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.

“I just wondered if I could have my book back.”

“GET OUT! OUT!”

Harry left, before Snape could take any more points

from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs.

“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them.

“What’s the matter?”

In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen.

“You know what this means?” he finished

breathlessly. “He tried to get past that three-headed

dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we

saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d

bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a

diversion!”

Hermione’s eyes were wide.

“No — he wouldn’t,” she said. “I know he’s not very

nice, but he wouldn’t try and steal something

Dumbledore was keeping safe.”

“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints

or something,” snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I

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wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s he

after? What’s that dog guarding?”

Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the

same question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry

couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind — he

needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch

match in a few hours — but the expression on

Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t easy

to forget.

The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The

Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried

sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking

forward to a good Quidditch match.

“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione.

“I’m not hungry.”

Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking

onto the field.

“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus

Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get

clobbered by the other team.”

“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile

ketchup on his sausages.

By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out

in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many

students had binoculars. The seats might be raised

high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what

was going on sometimes.

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Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean

the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for

Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the

sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for

President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had

done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then

Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that

the paint flashed different colors.

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of

the team were changing into their scarlet Quidditch

robes (Slytherin would be playing in green).

Wood cleared his throat for silence.

“Okay, men,” he said.

“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson.

“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.”

“The big one,” said Fred Weasley.

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George.

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry,

“we were on the team last year.”

“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team

Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know

it.”

He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.”

“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.”

Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker

room and, hoping his knees weren’t going to give way,

walked onto the field to loud cheers.

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Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the

middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her

broom in her hand.

“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said,

once they were all gathered around her. Harry noticed

that she seemed to be speaking particularly to the

Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth year. Harry

thought Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in

him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering

banner high above, flashing Potter for President over

the crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver.

“Mount your brooms, please.”

Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They

were off.

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina

Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser

that girl is, and rather attractive, too —”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the

commentary for the match, closely watched by

Professor McGonagall.

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass

to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last

year only a reserve — back to Johnson and — no, the

Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain

Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint

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flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper

Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s

Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive

around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that

must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a

Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s

Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but

he’s blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by

Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which — nice play

by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back

in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and

off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a speeding

Bludger — the goal posts are ahead — come on, now,

Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses —

GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and

moans from the Slytherins.

“Budge up there, move along.”

“Hagrid!”

Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid

enough space to join them.

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a

large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t

the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch

yet, eh?”

“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”

“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said

Hagrid, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at

the speck that was Harry.

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Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. This was

part of his and Wood’s game plan.

“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the

Snitch,” Wood had said. “We don’t want you attacked

before you have to be.”

When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple

of loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was

back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he caught

sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection

from one of the Weasleys’ wristwatches, and once a

Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a

cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and

Fred Weasley came chasing after it.

“All right there, Harry?” he had time to yell, as he

beat the Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint.

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying,

“Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys,

and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a

moment — was that the Snitch?”

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey

dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his

shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left

ear.

Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived

downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker

Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck they

hurtled toward the Snitch — all the Chasers seemed

to have forgotten what they were supposed to be

doing as they hung in midair to watch.

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Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead — he

put on an extra spurt of speed —

WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors

below — Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose,

and Harry’s broom spun off course, Harry holding on

for dear life.

“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors.

Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered

a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all

the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had

disappeared from sight again.

Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send

him off, ref! Red card!”

“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron.

“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get

shown the red card and you’re out of the game!”

“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him.

Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side.

“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked

Harry outta the air.”

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.

“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of

cheating —”

“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall.

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul —”

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“Jordan, I’m warning you —”

“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor

Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a

penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it

away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor

still in possession.”

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went

spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened.

His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a

split second, he thought he was going to fall. He

gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and

knees. He’d never felt anything like that.

It happened again. It was as though the broom was

trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands

did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry

tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal posts —

he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out —

and then he realized that his broom was completely

out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t

direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and

every now and then making violent swishing

movements that almost unseated him.

Lee was still commentating.

“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle —

passes Spinnet — passes Bell — hit hard in the face

by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only joking,

Professor — Slytherins score — oh no …”

The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have

noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely It

was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game,

jerking and twitching as it went.

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“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid

mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. “If I

didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his

broom … but he can’t have. …”

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over

the stands. His broom had started to roll over and

over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then

the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a

wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling

from it, holding on with only one hand.

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?”

Seamus whispered.

“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t

nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful

Dark magic — no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two

Thousand.”

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid’s binoculars,

but instead of looking up at Harry, she started

looking frantically at the crowd.

“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced.

“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.”

Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle

of the stands opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on

Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath.

“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said

Hermione.

“What should we do?”

“Leave it to me.”

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Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had

disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on

Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost

impossible for him to hang on much longer. The

whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the

Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one

of their brooms, but it was no good — every time they

got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They

dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously

hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the

Quaffle and scored five times without anyone

noticing.

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.

Hermione had fought her way across to the stand

where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row

behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as she

knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in

front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled

out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen

words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto

the hem of Snape’s robes.

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize

that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had

done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar

in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row —

Snape would never know what had happened.

It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able

to clamber back on to his broom.

“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been

sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes.

Harry was speeding toward the ground when the

crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though

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he was about to be sick — he hit the field on all fours

— coughed — and something gold fell into his hand.

“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his

head, and the game ended in complete confusion.

“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no

difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee

Jordan was still happily shouting the results —

Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy

points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He

was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid’s

hut, with Ron and Hermione.

“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I

saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering,

he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of

what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why

would Snape do somethin’ like that?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another,

wondering what to tell him. Harry decided on the

truth.

“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid.

“He tried to get past that three-headed dog on

Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal

whatever it’s guarding.”

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.

“Fluffy?”

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“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore

to guard the —”

“Yes?” said Harry eagerly.

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly.

“That’s top secret, that is.”

“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts

teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried

Hermione.

The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have

changed her mind about Snape.

“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all

about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and

Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’

know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape

wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all

three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’

concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’

you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor

Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel —”

“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas

Flamel involved, is there?”

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

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THE MIRROR OF ERISED

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-

December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in

several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the

Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several

snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around,

bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that

managed to battle their way through the stormy sky

to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by

Hagrid before they could fly off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the

Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had

roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and

a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms.

Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in

the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist

before them and they kept as close as possible to

their hot cauldrons.

“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions

class, “for all those people who have to stay at

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Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted

at home.”

He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and

Goyle chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out

powdered spine of lion-fish, ignored them. Malfoy had

been even more unpleasant than usual since the

Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had

lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at how a

wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as

Seeker next. Then he’d realized that nobody found

this funny, because they were all so impressed at the

way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking

broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone

back to taunting Harry about having no proper

family.

It was true that Harry wasn’t going back to Privet

Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come

around the week before, making a list of students

who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had

signed up at once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at

all; this would probably be the best Christmas he’d

ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too,

because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania

to visit Charlie.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions,

they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead.

Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a

loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind

it.

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his

head through the branches.

“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.”

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“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came

Malfoy’s cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying

to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be

gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I

suppose — that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a

palace compared to what your family’s used to.”

Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.

“WEASLEY!”

Ron let go of the front of Malfoy’s robes.

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid,

sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree.

“Malfoy was insultin’ his family.”

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules,

Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from

Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more.

Move along, all of you.”

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the

tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking.

“I’ll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s

back, “one of these days, I’ll get him —”

“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.”

“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said

Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the

Great Hall, looks a treat.”

So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off

to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and

Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas

decorations.

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“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, would you?”

The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and

mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than

twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the

room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering

with hundreds of candles.

“How many days you got left until yer holidays?”

Hagrid asked.

“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me —

Harry, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we

should be in the library.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes

away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden

bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing

them over the branches of the new tree.

“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the

hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?”

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly.

“Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been

trying to find out who he is.”

“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here —

I’ve told yeh — drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that

dog’s guardin’.”

“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s

all,” said Hermione.

“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?”

Harry added. “We must’ve been through hundreds of

books already and we can’t find him anywhere — just

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give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name

somewhere.”

“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” said Hagrid flatly.

“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron,

and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried

off to the library.

They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s

name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how

else were they going to find out what Snape was

trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to

know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might

have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t in

Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable

Magical Names of Our Time; he was missing, too, from

Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of

Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of

course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of

thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds

of narrow rows.

Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had

decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of

books and started pulling them off the shelves at

random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted

Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel

wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you

needed a specially signed note from one of the

teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he

knew he’d never get one. These were the books

containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at

Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying

advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“What are you looking for, boy?”

“Nothing,” said Harry.

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Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather

duster at him.

“You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!”

Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some

story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione

had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam

Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure

she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk

Snape hearing what they were up to.

Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other

two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful.

They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as

they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t

surprising they’d found nothing. What they really

needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince

breathing down their necks.

Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him,

shaking their heads. They went off to lunch.

“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?”

said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find

anything.”

“And you could ask your parents if they know who

Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.”

“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione.

Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were

having too good a time to think much about Flamel.

They had the dormitory to themselves and the

common room was far emptier than usual, so they

were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They

sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a

toasting fork — bread, English muffins,

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marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they

wouldn’t work.

Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This

was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures

were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in

battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like

everything else he owned, it had once belonged to

someone else in his family — in this case, his

grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a

drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had

trouble getting them to do what he wanted.

Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had

lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a

very good player yet and they kept shouting different

bits of advice at him, which was confusing. “Don’t

send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we

can afford to lose him. ”

On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward

to the next day for the food and the fun, but not

expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in

the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a

small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

“Merry Christmas,” said Ron sleepily as Harry

scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe.

“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got

some presents!”

“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to

his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry’s.

Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in

thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To

Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden

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flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry blew it — it sounded a bit like an owl.

A second, very small parcel contained a note.

We received your message and enclose your Christmas

present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped

to the note was a fifty-pence piece.

“That’s friendly,” said Harry.

Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.

“Weird!” he said, “What a shape! This is money?”

“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how

pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle —

so who sent these?”

“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron,

turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy

parcel. “My mom. I told her you didn’t expect any

presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she’s made you

a Weasley sweater.”

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-

knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of

homemade fudge.

“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron,

unwrapping his own, “and mine’s always maroon.”

“That’s really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the

fudge, which was very tasty.

His next present also contained candy — a large box

of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

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This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He unwrapped it.

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the

floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.

“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice,

dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he’d gotten

from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is — they’re

really rare, and really valuable.”

“What is it?”

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It

was strange to the touch, like water woven into

material.

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on

his face. “I’m sure it is — try it on.”

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron

gave a yell.

“It is! Look down!”

Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He

dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection

looked back at him, just his head suspended in

midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the

cloak over his head and his reflection vanished

completely.

“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of

it!”

Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter.

Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen

before were the following words:

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Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.

Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron

was admiring the cloak.

“I’d give anything for one of these,” he said. “Anything.

What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had

sent the cloak? Had it really once belonged to his

father?

Before he could say or think anything else, the

dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George

Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak quickly

out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone

else yet.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!”

Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one

with a large yellow F on it, the other a G.

“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred,

holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes

more of an effort if you’re not family.”

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George

demanded. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and

warm.”

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“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned halfheartedly as he

pulled it over his head.

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed.

“I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But

we’re not stupid — we know we’re called Gred and

Forge.”

“What’s all this noise?”

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door,

looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway

through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a

lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized.

“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all

wearing ours, even Harry got one.”

“I — don’t — want —” said Percy thickly, as the twins

forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses

askew.

“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today,

either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.”

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms

pinned to his side by his sweater.

Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas

dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of

roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas;

tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich

gravy and cranberry sauce — and stacks of wizard

crackers every few feet along the table. These

fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble

Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their

little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside.

Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t

just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and

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engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several

live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore

had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered

bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor

Flitwick had just read him.

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey.

Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver Sickle

embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting

redder and redder in the face as he called for more

wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the

cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and

blushed, her top hat lopsided.

When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down

with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a

pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-

Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess

set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a

nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs.

Norris’s Christmas dinner.

Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon

having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then,

cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the

fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry

broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to

Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so badly if

Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much.

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle,

and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy

to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy

chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower

because they’d stolen his prefect badge.

It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet

something had been nagging at the back of his mind

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all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had

sent it.

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing

mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon

as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry

leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the

cloak out from under it.

His father’s … this had been his father’s. He let the

material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light

as air. Use it well, the note had said.

He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and

wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at

his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a

very funny feeling.

Use it well.

Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of

Hogwarts was open to him in this cloak. Excitement

flooded through him as he stood there in the dark

and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere,

and Filch would never know.

Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him?

Something held him back — his father’s cloak — he

felt that this time — the first time — he wanted to use

it alone.

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across

the common room, and climbed through the portrait

hole.

“Who’s there?” squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said

nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor.

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Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing,

and thought. And then it came to him. The Restricted

Section in the library. He’d be able to read as long as

he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel

was. He set off, drawing the Invisibility Cloak tight

around him as he walked.

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a

lamp to see his way along the rows of books. The

lamp looked as if it was floating along in midair, and

even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it,

the sight gave him the creeps.

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the

library. Stepping carefully over the rope that

separated these books from the rest of the library, he

held up his lamp to read the titles.

They didn’t tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold

letters spelled words in languages Harry couldn’t

understand. Some had no title at all. One book had a

dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The

hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled. Maybe he

was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint

whispering was coming from the books, as though

they knew someone was there who shouldn’t be.

He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down

carefully on the floor, he looked along the bottom

shelf for an interesting-looking book. A large black

and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out

with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and,

balancing it on his knee, let it fall open.

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence —

the book was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but

the shriek went on and on, one high, unbroken,

earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked

over his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he

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heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside —

stuffing the shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran

for it. He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale,

wild eyes looked straight through him, and Harry

slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked

off up the corridor, the book’s shrieks still ringing in

his ears.

He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of

armor. He had been so busy getting away from the

library, he hadn’t paid attention to where he was

going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn’t

recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of

armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be

five floors above there.

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if

anyone was wandering around at night, and

somebody’s been in the library — Restricted Section.”

Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he

was, Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft,

greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his horror, it

was Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well,

they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.”

Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape

came around the corner ahead. They couldn’t see

him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if

they came much nearer they’d knock right into him —

the cloak didn’t stop him from being solid.

He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood

ajar to his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed

through it, holding his breath, trying not to move it,

and to his relief he managed to get inside the room

without their noticing anything. They walked straight

past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing

deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That

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had been close, very close. It was a few seconds

before he noticed anything about the room he had

hidden in.

It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes

of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and

there was an upturned wastepaper basket — but

propped against the wall facing him was something

that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something that

looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it

out of the way.

It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling,

with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed

feet. There was an inscription carved around the top:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch

and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror,

wanting to look at himself but see no reflection again.

He stepped in front of it.

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself

from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was

pounding far more furiously than when the book had

screamed — for he had seen not only himself in the

mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right

behind him.

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he

turned slowly back to the mirror.

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-

looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least

ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but still,

no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was

he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this

mirrors trick was that it reflected them, invisible or

not?

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He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing

right behind his reflection was smiling at him and

waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind

him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their

reflections were so close together, but he felt only air

— she and the others existed only in the mirror.

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair

and her eyes — her eyes are just like mine, Harry

thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright

green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed

that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same

time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next

to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and

his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just

as Harry’s did.

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose

was nearly touching that of his reflection.

“Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?”

They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry

looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror,

and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses

like his, even a little old man who looked as though

he had Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at

his family, for the first time in his life.

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared

hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against

the glass as though he was hoping to fall right

through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of

ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The

reflections did not fade and he looked and looked

until a distant noise brought him back to his senses.

He couldn’t stay here, he had to find his way back to

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bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother’s face, whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the

room.

“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly.

“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show

you the mirror.”

“I’d like to see your mom and dad,” Ron said eagerly.

“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys,

you’ll be able to show me your other brothers and

everyone.”

“You can see them any old time,” said Ron. “Just

come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe

it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding

Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why

aren’t you eating anything?”

Harry couldn’t eat. He had seen his parents and

would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost

forgotten about Flamel. It didn’t seem very important

anymore. Who cared what the three-headed dog was

guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really?

“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.”

What Harry feared most was that he might not be

able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered

in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly

the next night. They tried retracing Harry’s route from

the library, wandering around the dark passageways

for nearly an hour.

“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.”

“No!” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

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They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else. Just as Ron

started moaning that his feet were dead with cold,

Harry spotted the suit of armor.

“It’s here — just here — yes!”

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak

from around his shoulders and ran to the mirror.

There they were. His mother and father beamed at the

sight of him.

“See?” Harry whispered.

“I can’t see anything.”

“Look! Look at them all … there are loads of them. …”

“I can only see you.”

“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.”

Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the

mirror, he couldn’t see his family anymore, just Ron

in his paisley pajamas.

Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.

“Look at me!” he said.

“Can you see all your family standing around you?”

“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older —

and I’m Head Boy!”

“What?”

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“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and I’m holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup —

I’m Quidditch captain, too!”

Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to

look excitedly at Harry.

“Do you think this mirror shows the future?”

“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have

another look —”

“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit

more time.”

“You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s

interesting about that? I want to see my parents.”

“Don’t push me —”

A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to

their discussion. They hadn’t realized how loudly they

had been talking.

“Quick!”

Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous

eyes of Mrs. Norris came round the door. Ron and

Harry stood quite still, both thinking the same thing

— did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an

age, she turned and left.

“This isn’t safe — she might have gone for Filch, I bet

she heard us. Come on.”

And Ron pulled Harry out of the room.

The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning.

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“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron.

“No.”

“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?”

“No … you go …”

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that

mirror. Don’t go back tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and

anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already.

Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around.

So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into

you? What if you knock something over?”

“You sound like Hermione.”

“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.”

But Harry only had one thought in his head, which

was to get back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn’t

going to stop him.

That third night he found his way more quickly than

before. He was walking so fast he knew he was

making more noise than was wise, but he didn’t meet

anyone.

And there were his mother and father smiling at him

again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily.

Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the

mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying

here all night with his family. Nothing at all.

Except —

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“So — back again, Harry?”

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He

looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the

wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry

must have walked straight past him, so desperate to

get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him.

“I — I didn’t see you, sir.”

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make

you,” said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see

that he was smiling.

“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on

the floor with Harry, “you, like hundreds before you,

have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.”

“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”

“It — well — it shows me my family —”

“And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy.”

“How did you know — ?”

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said

Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the

Mirror of Erised shows us all?”

Harry shook his head.

“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be

able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror,

that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly

as he is. Does that help?”

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Harry thought. Then he said slowly, “It shows us

what we want … whatever we want …”

“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us

nothing more or less than the deepest, most

desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never

known your family, see them standing around you.

Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed

by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best

of all of them. However, this mirror will give us

neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away

before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been

driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or

even possible.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow,

Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If

you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It

does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,

remember that. Now, why don’t you put that

admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Harry stood up.

“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you

something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled.

“You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

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

Harry stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said

Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone

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and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck

Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite

truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved

Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal

question.

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NICHOLAS FLAMEL

Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking

for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the

Christmas holidays the Invisibility Cloak stayed

folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he

could forget what he’d seen in the mirror as easily,

but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over

and over again he dreamed about his parents

disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high

voice cackled with laughter.

“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could

drive you mad,” said Ron, when Harry told him about

these dreams.

Hermione, who came back the day before term

started, took a different view of things. She was torn

between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed,

roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had

caught you!”), and disappointment that he hadn’t at

least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

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They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Harry was still sure

he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had

started, they were back to skimming through books

for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even

less time than the other two, because Quidditch

practice had started again.

Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even

the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t

dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained that

Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on

Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against

Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the

House Championship for the first time in seven years.

Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he

had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after

training.

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice

session, Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d

just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept

dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off

their brooms.

“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That’s

exactly the sort of thing that’ll lose us the match!

Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for

any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these

words.

“Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a

mouthful of mud. “When’s he ever refereed a

Quidditch match? He’s not going to be fair if we might

overtake Slytherin.”

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The rest of the team landed next to George to

complain, too.

“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make

sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an

excuse to pick on us.”

Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had

another reason for not wanting Snape near him while

he was playing Quidditch. …

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another

as usual at the end of practice, but Harry headed

straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where

he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was

the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry

and Ron thought was very good for her.

“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry

sat down next to him, “I need to concen-” He caught

sight of Harry’s face. “What’s the matter with you?

You look terrible.”

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear,

Harry told the other two about Snape’s sudden,

sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once.

“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.

“Really break your leg,” said Ron.

“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I

back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”

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At that moment Neville toppled into the common

room. How he had managed to climb through the

portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs

had been stuck together with what they recognized at

once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to

bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who

leapt up and performed the countercurse. Neville’s

legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling.

“What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him

over to sit with Harry and Ron.

“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the

library. He said he’d been looking for someone to

practice that on.”

“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged

Neville. “Report him!”

Neville shook his head.

“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled.

“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” said Ron.

“He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no

reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.”

“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be

in Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville

choked out.

Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a

Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box

Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it to

Neville, who looked as though he might cry.

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“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry said. “The

Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And

where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”

Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he

unwrapped the frog.

“Thanks, Harry … I think I’ll go to bed. … D’you want

the card, you collect them, don’t you?”

As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous

Wizard card.

“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I

ever —”

He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he

looked up at Ron and Hermione.

“I’ve found him!” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I

told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it

on the train coming here — listen to this:

‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of

the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the

discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his

work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’!”

Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so

excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their

very first piece of homework.

“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs

to the girls’ dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had

time to exchange mystified looks before she was

dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.

“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered

excitedly. “I got this out of the library weeks ago for a

bit of light reading.”

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“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d looked something up, and started flicking

frantically through the pages, muttering to herself.

At last she found what she was looking for.

“I knew it! I knew it!”

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily.

Hermione ignored him.

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the

only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone!”

This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.

“The what?” said Harry and Ron.

“Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look — read that,

there.”

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and

Ron read:

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with

making the Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance

with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform

any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of

Life, which will make the drinker immortal.

There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone

over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in

existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted

alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated

his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year,

enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle

(six hundred and fifty-eight).

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“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had

finished. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s

Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep

it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew

someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone

moved out of Gringotts!”

“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever

dying!” said Harry. “No wonder Snape’s after it!

Anyone would want it.”

“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study

of Recent Developments in Wizardry, ” said Ron. “He’s

not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is

he?”

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts,

while copying down different ways of treating werewolf

bites, Harry and Ron were still discussing what they’d

do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t

until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that

Harry remembered about Snape and the coming

match.

“I’m going to play,” he told Ron and Hermione. “If I

don’t, all the Slytherins will think I’m just too scared

to face Snape. I’ll show them … it’ll really wipe the

smiles off their faces if we win.”

“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,”

said Hermione.

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became

more and more nervous, whatever he told Ron and

Hermione. The rest of the team wasn’t too calm,

either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the House

Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for

seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such

a biased referee?

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Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever

he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape

was following him, trying to catch him on his own.

Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly

torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape

possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s

Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could — yet he

sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could

read minds.

Harry knew, when they wished him good luck

outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that Ron

and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever

see him alive again. This wasn’t what you’d call

comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep

talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked

up his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in

the stands next to Neville, who couldn’t understand

why they looked so grim and worried, or why they had

both brought their wands to the match. Little did

Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly

practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten the

idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready

to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to

hurt Harry.

“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis, ” Hermione

muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.

“I know, ” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”

Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry

aside.

“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever

need an early capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish

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the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too

much.”

“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley,

peering out of the door. “Even — blimey —

Dumbledore’s come to watch!”

Harry’s heart did a somersault.

“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make

sure. Fred was right. There was no mistaking that

silver beard.

Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was

safe. There was simply no way that Snape would dare

to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was watching.

Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as

the teams marched onto the field, something that Ron

noticed, too.

“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told

Hermione. “Look — they’re off. Ouch!”

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It

was Malfoy.

“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.”

Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.

“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom

this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you,

Weasley?”

Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded

Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit

a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers

crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,

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who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

“You know how I think they choose people for the

Gryffindor team?” said Malfoy loudly a few minutes

later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty

for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for.

See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s

the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be

on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”

Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face

Malfoy.

“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but

Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game,

said, “You tell him, Neville.”

“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than

Weasley, and that’s saying something.”

Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking

point with anxiety about Harry.

“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word —”

“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !”

“What? Where?”

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive,

which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd.

Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth,

as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted

some money on the ground!” said Malfoy.

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Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was

happening, Ron was on top of him, wrestling him to

the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the

back of his seat to help.

“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto

her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape —

she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling around

under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from

the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in

time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing

him by inches — the next second, Harry had pulled

out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch

clasped in his hand.

The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one

could ever remember the Snitch being caught so

quickly.

“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s

won! We’ve won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked

Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and

hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.

Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground.

He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it — the game was

over; it had barely lasted five minutes. As Gryffindors

came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land

nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped — then Harry felt

a hand on his shoulder and looked up into

Dumbledore’s smiling face.

“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only

Harry could hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been

brooding about that mirror … been keeping busy …

excellent …”

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Snape spat bitterly on the ground.

* * *

Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to

take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the

broomshed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling

happier. He’d really done something to be proud of

now — no one could say he was just a famous name

any more. The evening air had never smelled so

sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the

last hour in his head, which was a happy blur:

Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders;

Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and

down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.

Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the

wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its

windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in

the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape. …

And speaking of Snape …

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of

the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked

as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest.

Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched.

He recognized the figure’s prowling walk. Snape,

sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at

dinner — what was going on?

Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand

and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw

Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed.

The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape

had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower,

brushing the top branches of trees until he heard

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voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech tree.

He climbed carefully along one of the branches,

holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through

the leaves.

Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he

wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t

make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering

worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they

were saying.

“… d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of

all p-places, Severus …”

“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his

voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about

the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.”

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling

something. Snape interrupted him.

“Have you found out how to get past that beast of

Hagrid’s yet?”

“B-b-but Severus, I —”

“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said

Snape, taking a step toward him.

“I-I don’t know what you —”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the

tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say,

“— your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.”

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“B-but I d-d-don’t —”

“Very well,” Snape cut in. “We’ll have another little

chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over

and decided where your loyalties lie.”

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the

clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see

Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was

petrified.

* * *

“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.

“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping

Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye,

and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-

handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says

he’ll be all right — talk about showing Slytherin!

Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re

having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and

stuff from the kitchens.”

“Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s

find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this. …”

He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting

the door behind them, then he told them what he’d

seen and heard.

“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and

Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He

asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he said

something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’ — I reckon

there are other things guarding the stone apart from

Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell

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would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that

Snape needs to break through —”

“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell

stands up to Snape?” said Hermione in alarm.

“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron.

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NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN

RIDGEBACK

Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d

thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be

getting paler and thinner, but it didn’t look as though

he’d cracked yet.

Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry,

Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door

to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape

was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which

surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever

Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an

encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling

people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter.

Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the

Sorcerer’s Stone. She had started drawing up study

schedules and color-coding all her notes. Harry and

Ron wouldn’t have minded, but she kept nagging

them to do the same.

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“Hermione, the exams are ages away.”

“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages,

that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.”

“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded

her. “Anyway, what are you studying for, you already

know it all.”

“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize

we need to pass these exams to get into the second

year? They’re very important, I should have started

studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into

me.”

Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking

along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so

much homework on them that the Easter holidays

weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It

was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting

the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand

movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron

spent most of their free time in the library with her,

trying to get through all their extra work.

“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one

afternoon, throwing down his quill and looking

longingly out of the library window. It was the first

really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a

clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in

the air of summer coming.

Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand

Magical Herbs and Fungi, didn’t look up until he

heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the

library?”

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Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin

overcoat.

“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their

interest at once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He

looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’ fer

Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?”

“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron

impressively. “And we know what that dog’s guarding,

it’s a Sorcerer’s St —”

“Shhhh!” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if

anyone was listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it,

what’s the matter with yeh?”

“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a

matter of fact,” said Harry, “about what’s guarding

the Stone apart from Fluffy —”

“SHHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen — come an’ see

me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind,

but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’

s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh —”

“See you later, then,” said Harry.

Hagrid shuffled off.

“What was he hiding behind his back?” said

Hermione thoughtfully.

“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?”

“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron,

who’d had enough of working. He came back a

minute later with a pile of books in his arms and

slammed them down on the table.

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“Dragons!” he whispered. “Hagrid was looking up stuff about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great

Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon

Keeper’s Guide. ”

“Hagrid’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the

first time I ever met him,” said Harry.

“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon

breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention

of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop

Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in

the back garden — anyway, you can’t tame dragons,

it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got

off wild ones in Romania.”

“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry.

“Of course there are,” said Ron. “Common Welsh

Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic

has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind

have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted

them, to make them forget.”

“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” said Hermione.

When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s

hut an hour later, they were surprised to see that all

the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is it?”

before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly

behind them.

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a

warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate.

Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat

sandwiches, which they refused.

“So — yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?”

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“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point beating around the bush. “We were wondering if you could tell us

what’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone apart from

Fluffy.”

Hagrid frowned at him.

“O’ course I can’t,” he said. “Number one, I don’ know

meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I

wouldn’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s here fer a good

reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts — I

s’ppose yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how

yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.”

“Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us,

but you do know, you know everything that goes on

round here,” said Hermione in a warm, flattering

voice. Hagrid’s beard twitched and they could tell he

was smiling. “We only wondered who had done the

guarding, really.” Hermione went on. “We wondered

who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him,

apart from you.”

Hagrid’s chest swelled at these last words. Harry and

Ron beamed at Hermione.

“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that …

let’s see … he borrowed Fluffy from me … then some

o’ the teachers did enchantments … Professor Sprout

— Professor Flitwick — Professor McGonagall —” he

ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell —

an’ Dumbledore himself did somethin’, o’ course.

Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor

Snape.”

“Snape?”

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“Yeah — yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped protect the Stone, he’s not about ter

steal it.”

Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the

same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting

the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the

other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew

everything — except, it seemed, Quirrell’s spell and

how to get past Fluffy.

“You’re the only one who knows how to get past

Fluffy, aren’t you, Hagrid?” said Harry anxiously.

“And you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you? Not even

one of the teachers?”

“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said

Hagrid proudly.

“Well, that’s something,” Harry muttered to the

others. “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m

boiling.”

“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Harry noticed him

glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too.

“Hagrid — what’s that?”

But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of

the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.

“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard,

“That’s — er …”

“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching

over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. “It must’ve

cost you a fortune.”

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“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards

with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of

it, ter be honest.”

“But what are you going to do with it when it’s

hatched?” said Hermione.

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling

a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the

library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit —

it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep

the egg in the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on

’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’

brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’

see here — how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I

got there’s a Norwegian Ridge-back. They’re rare,

them.”

He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione

didn’t.

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house, ” she said.

But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily

as he stoked the fire.

So now they had something else to worry about: what

might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was

hiding an illegal dragon in his hut.

“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron

sighed, as evening after evening they struggled

through all the extra homework they were getting.

Hermione had now started making study schedules

for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts.

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Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry

another note from Hagrid. He had written only two

words: It’s hatching.

Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to

the hut. Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.

“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going

to see a dragon hatching?”

“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s

nothing to what Hagrid’s going to be in when someone

finds out what he’s doing —”

“Shut up!” Harry whispered.

Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped

dead to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn’t

like the look on Malfoy’s face at all.

Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology

and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to

Hagrid’s with the other two during morning break.

When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of

their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels

at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge

of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed

and excited.

“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside.

The egg was lying on the table. There were deep

cracks in it. Something was moving inside; a funny

clicking noise was coming from it.

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched

with bated breath.

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All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It

wasn’t exactly pretty; Harry thought it looked like a

crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge

compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout

with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging,

orange eyes.

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached

out a hand to stroke the dragon’s head. It snapped at

his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

“Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!” said Hagrid.

“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian

Ridgebacks grow, exactly?”

Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly

drained from his face — he leapt to his feet and ran to

the window.

“What’s the matter?”

“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains

— it’s a kid — he’s runnin’ back up ter the school.”

Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a

distance there was no mistaking him.

Malfoy had seen the dragon.

Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy’s face

during the next week made Harry, Ron, and Hermione

very nervous. They spent most of their free time in

Hagrid’s darkened hut, trying to reason with him.

“Just let him go,” Harry urged. “Set him free.”

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“I can’t,” said Hagrid. “He’s too little. He’d die.”

They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times

in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its

nostrils. Hagrid hadn’t been doing his gamekeeping

duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy.

There were empty brandy bottles and chicken

feathers all over the floor.

“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking

at the dragon with misty eyes. “He really knows me

now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s Mommy?”

“He’s lost his marbles,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.

“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and

Norbert’s going to be as long as your house. Malfoy

could go to Dumbledore at any moment.”

Hagrid bit his lip.

“I — I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’

dump him, can’t.”

Harry suddenly turned to Ron.

“Charlie,” he said.

“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?”

“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania.

Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him.

Charlie can take care of him and then put him back

in the wild!”

“Brilliant!” said Ron. “How about it, Hagrid?”

And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send

an owl to Charlie to ask him.

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The following week dragged by. Wednesday night

found Hermione and Harry sitting alone in the

common room, long after everyone else had gone to

bed. The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight

when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out

of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.

He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed

Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by the crate.

“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which

was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going

to be able to hold a quill for a week. I tell you, that

dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but

the way Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a

fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off

for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a

lullaby.”

There was a tap on the dark window.

“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll

have Charlie’s answer!”

The three of them put their heads together to read the

note.

Dear Ron,

How are you? Thanks for the letter — I’d be glad to

take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy

getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send

him over with some friends of mine who are coming to

visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen

carrying an illegal dragon.

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at

midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and

take him away while it’s still dark.

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Send me an answer as soon as possible.

Love,

Charlie

They looked at one another.

“We’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It

shouldn’t be too difficult — I think the cloak’s big

enough to cover two of us and Norbert.”

It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that

the other two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of

Norbert — and Malfoy.

There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten

hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t

know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey —

would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon,

though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty

shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were

poisonous.

Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing

at the end of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in

bed.

“It’s not just my hand,” he whispered, “although that

feels like it’s about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam

Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he

could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept

threatening to tell her what really bit me — I’ve told

her it was a dog, but I don’t think she believes me — I

shouldn’t have hit him at the Quidditch match, that’s

why he’s doing this.”

Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down.

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“It’ll all be over at midnight on Saturday,” said

Hermione, but this didn’t soothe Ron at all. On the

contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat.

“Midnight on Saturday!” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Oh no — oh no — I’ve just remembered — Charlie’s

letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going to

know we’re getting rid of Norbert.”

Harry and Hermione didn’t get a chance to answer.

Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made

them leave, saying Ron needed sleep.

“It’s too late to change the plan now,” Harry told

Hermione. “We haven’t got time to send Charlie

another owl, and this could be our only chance to get

rid of Norbert. We’ll have to risk it. And we have got

the Invisibility Cloak, Malfoy doesn’t know about

that.”

They found Fang the boarhound sitting outside with a

bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who

opened a window to talk to them.

“I won’t let you in,” he puffed. “Norbert’s at a tricky

stage — nothin’ I can’t handle.”

When they told him about Charlie’s letter, his eyes

filled with tears, although that might have been

because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg.

“Aargh! It’s all right, he only got my boot — jus’

playin’ — he’s only a baby, after all.”

The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the

windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to

the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly

enough.

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They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t

been so worried about what they had to do. It was a

very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late

arriving at Hagrid’s hut because they’d had to wait for

Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall,

where he’d been playing tennis against the wall.

Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate.

“He’s got lots o’ rats an’ some brandy fer the journey,”

said Hagrid in a muffled voice. “An’ I’ve packed his

teddy bear in case he gets lonely.”

From inside the crate came ripping noises that

sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his

head torn off.

“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and

Hermione covered the crate with the Invisibility Cloak

and stepped underneath it themselves. “Mommy will

never forget you!”

How they managed to get the crate back up to the

castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as

they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the

entrance hall and along the dark corridors. Up

another staircase, then another — even one of Harry’s

shortcuts didn’t make the work much easier.

“Nearly there!” Harry panted as they reached the

corridor beneath the tallest tower.

Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them

almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were

already invisible, they shrank into the shadows,

staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling

with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared.

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Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, had Malfoy by the ear.

“Detention!” she shouted. “And twenty points from

Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the

night, how dare you —”

“You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s

coming — he’s got a dragon!”

“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies!

Come on — I shall see Professor Snape about you,

Malfoy!”

The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower

seemed the easiest thing in the world after that. Not

until they’d stepped out into the cold night air did

they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe

properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig.

“Malfoy’s got detention! I could sing!”

“Don’t,” Harry advised her.

Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert

thrashing about in his crate. About ten minutes later,

four broomsticks came swooping down out of the

darkness.

Charlie’s friends were a cheery lot. They showed

Harry and Hermione the harness they’d rigged up, so

they could suspend Norbert between them. They all

helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry

and Hermione shook hands with the others and

thanked them very much.

At last, Norbert was going … going … gone.

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They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their hearts as light as their hands, now that Norbert was

off them. No more dragon — Malfoy in detention —

what could spoil their happiness?

The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the

stairs. As they stepped into the corridor, Filch’s face

loomed suddenly out of the darkness.

“Well, well, well,” he whispered, “we are in trouble.”

They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower.

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THE FORBIDDEN FOREST

Things couldn’t have been worse.

Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s

study on the first floor, where they sat and waited

without saying a word to each other. Hermione was

trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover-up stories

chased each other around Harry’s brain, each more

feeble than the last. He couldn’t see how they were

going to get out of trouble this time. They were

cornered. How could they have been so stupid as to

forget the cloak? There was no reason on earth that

Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out

of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of

night, let alone being up the tallest Astronomy Tower,

which was out-of-bounds except for classes. Add

Norbert and the Invisibility Cloak, and they might as

well be packing their bags already.

Had Harry thought that things couldn’t have been

worse? He was wrong. When Professor McGonagall

appeared, she was leading Neville.

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“Harry!” Neville burst out, the moment he saw the

other two. “I was trying to find you to warn you, I

heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you, he

said you had a drag —”

Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but

Professor McGonagall had seen. She looked more

likely to breathe fire than Norbert as she towered over

the three of them.

“I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch

says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one

o’clock in the morning. Explain yourselves. ”

It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to

answer a teacher’s question. She was staring at her

slippers, as still as a statue.

“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,”

said Professor McGonagall. “It doesn’t take a genius

to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and-

bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed

and into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose

you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the

story and believed it, too?”

Harry caught Neville’s eye and tried to tell him

without words that this wasn’t true, because Neville

was looking stunned and hurt. Poor, blundering

Neville — Harry knew what it must have cost him to

try and find them in the dark, to warn them.

“I’m disgusted,” said Professor McGonagall. “Four

students out of bed in one night! I’ve never heard of

such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I thought you

had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought

Gryffindor meant more to you than this. All three of

you will receive detentions — yes, you too, Mr.

Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk

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around school at night, especially these days, it’s very dangerous — and fifty points will be taken from

Gryffindor.”

“Fifty?” Harry gasped — they would lose the lead, the

lead he’d won in the last Quidditch match.

“Fifty points each, ” said Professor McGonagall,

breathing heavily through her long, pointed nose.

“Professor — please —”

“You can’t —”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Now get

back to bed, all of you. I’ve never been more ashamed

of Gryffindor students.”

A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in

last place. In one night, they’d ruined any chance

Gryffindor had had for the House Cup. Harry felt as

though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.

How could they ever make up for this?

Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could hear Neville

sobbing into his pillow for what seemed like hours.

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort

him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the

dawn. What would happen when the rest of

Gryffindor found out what they’d done?

At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses

that recorded the House points the next day thought

there’d been a mistake. How could they suddenly

have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday?

And then the story started to spread: Harry Potter,

the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch

matches, had lost them all those points, him and a

couple of other stupid first years.

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From being one of the most popular and admired

people at the school, Harry was suddenly the most

hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on

him, because everyone had been longing to see

Slytherin lose the House Cup. Everywhere Harry

went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to lower their

voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other

hand, clapped as he walked past them, whistling and

cheering, “Thanks Potter, we owe you one!”

Only Ron stood by him.

“They’ll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George

have lost loads of points in all the time they’ve been

here, and people still like them.”

“They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one

go, though, have they?” said Harry miserably.

“Well — no,” Ron admitted.

It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry

swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren’t

his business from now on. He’d had it with sneaking

around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that

he went to Wood and offered to resign from the

Quidditch team.

“Resign?” Wood thundered. “What good’ll that do?

How are we going to get any points back if we can’t

win at Quidditch?”

But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the

team wouldn’t speak to Harry during practice, and if

they had to speak about him, they called him “the

Seeker.”

Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn’t

have as bad a time as Harry, because they weren’t as

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well-known, but nobody would speak to them, either.

Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in

class, keeping her head down and working in silence.

Harry was almost glad that the exams weren’t far

away. All the studying he had to do kept his mind off

his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to

themselves, working late into the night, trying to

remember the ingredients in complicated potions,

learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates

of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions. …

Then, about a week before the exams were due to

start, Harry’s new resolution not to interfere in

anything that didn’t concern him was put to an

unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his

own one afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering

from a classroom up ahead. As he drew closer, he

heard Quirrell’s voice.

“No — no — not again, please —”

It sounded as though someone was threatening him.

Harry moved closer.

“All right — all right —” he heard Quirrell sob.

Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the

classroom straightening his turban. He was pale and

looked as though he was about to cry. He strode out

of sight; Harry didn’t think Quirrell had even noticed

him. He waited until Quirrell’s footsteps had

disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was

empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry

was halfway toward it before he remembered what

he’d promised himself about not meddling.

All the same, he’d have gambled twelve Sorcerer’s

Stones that Snape had just left the room, and from

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what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking

with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to

have given in at last.

Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was

testing Ron on Astronomy. Harry told them what he’d

heard.

“Snape’s done it, then!” said Ron. “If Quirrell’s told

him how to break his Anti-Dark Force spell —”

“There’s still Fluffy, though,” said Hermione.

“Maybe Snape’s found out how to get past him

without asking Hagrid,” said Ron, looking up at the

thousands of books surrounding them. “I bet there’s a

book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a

giant three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?”

The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron’s

eyes, but Hermione answered before Harry could.

“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should have done

ages ago. If we try anything ourselves we’ll be thrown

out for sure.”

“But we’ve got no proof!” said Harry. “Quirrell’s too

scared to back us up. Snape’s only got to say he

doesn’t know how the troll got in at Halloween and

that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do

you think they’ll believe, him or us? It’s not exactly a

secret we hate him, Dumbledore’ll think we made it

up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn’t help us if his life

depended on it, he’s too friendly with Snape, and the

more students get thrown out, the better, he’ll think.

And don’t forget, we’re not supposed to know about

the Stone or Fluffy. That’ll take a lot of explaining.”

Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn’t.

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“If we just do a bit of poking around —”

“No,” said Harry flatly, “we’ve done enough poking

around.”

He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to

learn the names of its moons.

The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry,

Hermione, and Neville at the breakfast table. They

were all the same:

Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock

tonight.

Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.

Professor M. McGonagall

Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do in

the furor over the points they’d lost. He half expected

Hermione to complain that this was a whole night of

studying lost, but she didn’t say a word. Like Harry,

she felt they deserved what they’d got.

At eleven o’clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron

in the common room and went down to the entrance

hall with Neville. Filch was already there — and so

was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had

gotten a detention, too.

“Follow me,” said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading

them outside.

“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule

again, won’t you, eh?” he said, leering at them. “Oh

yes … hard work and pain are the best teachers if you

ask me. … It’s just a pity they let the old

punishments die out … hang you by your wrists from

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the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the chains still in my office, keep ’em well oiled in case they’re ever

needed. … Right, off we go, and don’t think of running

off, now, it’ll be worse for you if you do.”

They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville

kept sniffing. Harry wondered what their punishment

was going to be. It must be something really horrible,

or Filch wouldn’t be sounding so delighted.

The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it

kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Harry

could see the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut. Then

they heard a distant shout.

“Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.”

Harry’s heart rose; if they were going to be working

with Hagrid it wouldn’t be so bad. His relief must

have showed in his face, because Filch said, “I

suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with

that oaf? Well, think again, boy — it’s into the forest

you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come

out in one piece.”

At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy

stopped dead in his tracks.

“The forest?” he repeated, and he didn’t sound quite

as cool as usual. “We can’t go in there at night —

there’s all sorts of things in there — werewolves, I

heard.”

Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry’s robe and made a

choking noise.

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Filch, his voice

cracking with glee. “Should’ve thought of them

werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn’t you?”

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Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark,

Fang at his heel. He was carrying his large crossbow,

and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder.

“Abou’ time,” he said. “I bin waitin’ fer half an hour

already. All right, Harry, Hermione?”

“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said

Filch coldly, “they’re here to be punished, after all.”

“That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at

Filch. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? ’Snot your place ter do

that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from here.”

“I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of

them,” he added nastily, and he turned and started

back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the

darkness.

Malfoy now turned to Hagrid.

“I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was

pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice.

“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said

Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got

ter pay fer it.”

“But this is servant stuff, it’s not for students to do. I

thought we’d be copying lines or something, if my

father knew I was doing this, he’d —”

“— tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts,” Hagrid

growled. “Copyin’ lines! What good’s that ter anyone?

Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think

yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back

off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!”

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Malfoy didn’t move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but then dropped his gaze.

“Right then,” said Hagrid, “now, listen carefully,

’cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight, an’

I don’ want no one takin’ risks. Follow me over here a

moment.”

He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his

lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding

earth track that disappeared into the thick black

trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked

into the forest.

“Look there,” said Hagrid, “see that stuff shinin’ on

the ground? Silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood.

There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat.

This is the second time in a week. I found one dead

last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor

thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.”

“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us

first?” said Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his

voice.

“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh

if yer with me or Fang,” said Hagrid. “An’ keep ter the

path. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter two parties

an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood

all over the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around

since last night at least.”

“I want Fang,” said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang’s

long teeth.

“All right, but I warn yeh, he’s a coward,” said Hagrid.

“So me, Harry, an’ Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco,

Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now, if any of us

finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right?

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Get yer wands out an’ practice now — that’s it — an’

if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an’ we’ll

all come an’ find yeh — so, be careful — let’s go.”

The forest was black and silent. A little way into it

they reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry,

Hermione, and Hagrid took the left path while Malfoy,

Neville, and Fang took the right.

They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground.

Every now and then a ray of moonlight through the

branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the

fallen leaves.

Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried.

“Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?” Harry

asked.

“Not fast enough,” said Hagrid. “It’s not easy ter catch

a unicorn, they’re powerful magic creatures. I never

knew one ter be hurt before.”

They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could

hear running water; there must be a stream

somewhere close by. There were still spots of unicorn

blood here and there along the winding path.

“You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’

worry, it can’t’ve gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’

then we’ll be able ter — GET BEHIND THAT TREE!”

Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them

off the path behind a towering oak. He pulled out an

arrow and fitted it into his crossbow, raising it, ready

to fire. The three of them listened. Something was

slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a

cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting

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up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound faded away.

“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here

that shouldn’ be.”

“A werewolf?” Harry suggested.

“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn,

neither,” said Hagrid grimly. “Right, follow me, but

careful, now.”

They walked more slowly, ears straining for the

faintest sound. Suddenly, in a clearing ahead,

something definitely moved.

“Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m

armed!”

And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a

horse? To the waist, a man, with red hair and beard,

but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut body

with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws

dropped.

“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are

yeh?”

He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand.

“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a

deep, sorrowful voice. “Were you going to shoot me?”

“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his

crossbow. “There’s summat bad loose in this forest.

This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger, by the

way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan,

you two. He’s a centaur.”

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“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly.

“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And

do you learn much, up at the school?”

“Erm —”

“A bit,” said Hermione timidly.

“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed. He

flung back his head and stared at the sky. “Mars is

bright tonight.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad

we’ve run inter yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn

bin hurt — you seen anythin’?”

Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared

unblinkingly upward, then sighed again.

“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said.

“So it has been for ages past, so it is now.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’,

Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?”

“Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated, while

Hagrid watched him impatiently. “Unusually bright.”

“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit

nearer home,” said Hagrid. “So yeh haven’t noticed

anythin’ strange?”

Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he

said, “The forest hides many secrets.”

A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid

raise his bow again, but it was only a second centaur,

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black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking than

Ronan.

“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?”

“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?”

“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you

seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn

bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about it?”

Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked

skyward.

“Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply.

“We’ve heard,” said Hagrid grumpily. “Well, if either of

you do see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be

off, then.”

Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing,

staring over their shoulders at Ronan and Bane until

the trees blocked their view.

“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight

answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not

interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.”

“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione.

“Oh, a fair few. … Keep themselves to themselves

mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if

ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind, centaurs …

they know things … jus’ don’ let on much.”

“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?”

said Harry.

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“Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask me, that was what’s bin killin’ the unicorns — never

heard anythin’ like it before.”

They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry

kept looking nervously over his shoulder. He had the

nasty feeling they were being watched. He was very

glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them.

They had just passed a bend in the path when

Hermione grabbed Hagrid’s arm.

“Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!”

“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the

path, I’ll come back for yeh!”

They heard him crashing away through the

undergrowth and stood looking at each other, very

scared, until they couldn’t hear anything but the

rustling of leaves around them.

“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?”

whispered Hermione.

“I don’t care if Malfoy has, but if something’s got

Neville … it’s our fault he’s here in the first place.”

The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper

than usual. Harry’s seemed to be picking up every

sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What was going

on? Where were the others?

At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid’s

return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him.

Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked

up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville

had panicked and sent up the sparks.

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“We’ll be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket you two were makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups —

Neville, you stay with me an’ Hermione, Harry, you go

with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in a

whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time

frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.”

So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with

Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an

hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path

became almost impossible to follow because the trees

were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be

getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a

tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing

around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing

ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient

oak.

“Look —” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop

Malfoy.

Something bright white was gleaming on the ground.

They inched closer.

It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry

had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its

long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where

it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on

the dark leaves.

Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering

sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on

the edge of the clearing quivered. … Then, out of the

shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the

ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and

Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the

unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the

animals side, and began to drink its blood.

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“AAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did

Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked

right at Harry — unicorn blood was dribbling down its

front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry

— he couldn’t move for fear.

Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his

head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half

blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves

behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean

over Harry, charging at the figure.

The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his

knees. It took a minute or two to pass. When he

looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was

standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one

looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a

palomino body.

“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to

his feet.

“Yes — thank you — what was that?”

The centaur didn’t answer. He had astonishingly blue

eyes, like pale sapphires. He looked carefully at

Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar that stood out,

livid, on Harry’s forehead.

“You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get

back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time —

especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker

this way.

“My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered

himself on to his front legs so that Harry could

clamber onto his back.

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There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from

the other side of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came

bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and

sweaty.

“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You

have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are

you a common mule?”

“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the

Potter boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the

better.”

“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane.

“Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set

ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what

is to come in the movements of the planets?”

Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze

thought he was acting for the best,” he said in his

gloomy voice.

Bane kicked his back legs in anger.

“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs

are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not

our business to run around like donkeys after stray

humans in our forest!”

Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger,

so that Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on.

“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at

Bane. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or

have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set

myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane,

yes, with humans alongside me if I must.”

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And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on as best he could, they plunged off into the trees,

leaving Ronan and Bane behind them.

Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on.

“Why’s Bane so angry?” he asked. “What was that

thing you saved me from, anyway?”

Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his

head bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but did

not answer Harry’s question. They made their way

through the trees in silence for so long that Harry

thought Firenze didn’t want to talk to him anymore.

They were passing through a particularly dense patch

of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped.

“Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is

used for?”

“No,” said Harry, startled by the odd question. “We’ve

only used the horn and tail hair in Potions.”

“That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a

unicorn,” said Firenze. “Only one who has nothing to

lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a

crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even

if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price.

You have slain something pure and defenseless to

save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a

cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your

lips.”

Harry stared at the back of Firenze’s head, which was

dappled silver in the moonlight.

“But who’d be that desperate?” he wondered aloud. “If

you’re going to be cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t

it?”

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“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to drink something else —

something that will bring you back to full strength

and power — something that will mean you can never

die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the

school at this very moment?”

“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course — the Elixir of Life!

But I don’t understand who —”

“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years

to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting

their chance?”

It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly

around Harry’s heart. Over the rustling of the trees,

he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told

him on the night they had met: “Some say he died.

Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough

human left in him to die.”

“Do you mean,” Harry croaked, “that was Vol —”

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?”

Hermione was running toward them down the path,

Hagrid puffing along behind her.

“I’m fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was

saying. “The unicorn’s dead, Hagrid, it’s in that

clearing back there.”

“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as

Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are

safe now.”

Harry slid off his back.

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“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs.

I hope this is one of those times.”

He turned and cantered back into the depths of the

forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him.

Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room,

waiting for them to return. He shouted something

about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him

awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide-

eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what

had happened in the forest.

Harry couldn’t sit down. He paced up and down in

front of the fire. He was still shaking.

“Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort … and

Voldemort’s waiting in the forest … and all this time

we thought Snape just wanted to get rich. …”

“Stop saying the name!” said Ron in a terrified

whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them.

Harry wasn’t listening.

“Firenze saved me, but he shouldn’t have done so. …

Bane was furious … he was talking about interfering

with what the planets say is going to happen. … They

must show that Voldemort’s coming back. … Bane

thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. … I

suppose that’s written in the stars as well.”

“Will you stop saying the name!” Ron hissed.

“So all I’ve got to wait for now is Snape to steal the

Stone,” Harry went on feverishly, “then Voldemort will

be able to come and finish me off. … Well, I suppose

Bane’ll be happy.”

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Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word of comfort.

“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore’s the only one

You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore

around, You-Know-Who won’t touch you. Anyway,

who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like

fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says

that’s a very imprecise branch of magic.”

The sky had turned light before they stopped talking.

They went to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But

the night’s surprises weren’t over.

When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his

Invisibility Cloak folded neatly underneath them.

There was a note pinned to it:

Just in case.

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THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR

In years to come, Harry would never quite remember

how he had managed to get through his exams when

he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through

the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and

there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and

well behind the locked door.

It was sweltering hot, especially in the large

classroom where they did their written papers. They

had been given special, new quills for the exams,

which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating

spell.

They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick

called them one by one into his class to see if they

could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk.

Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse

into a snuffbox — points were given for how pretty the

snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers.

Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their

necks while they tried to remember how to make a

Forgetfulness potion.

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Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the

stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been

bothering him ever since his trip into the forest.

Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves

because Harry couldn’t sleep, but the truth was that

Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except

that it was now worse than ever because there was a

hooded figure dripping blood in it.

Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen what Harry

had seen in the forest, or because they didn’t have

scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and

Hermione didn’t seem as worried about the Stone as

Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them,

but he didn’t keep visiting them in dreams, and they

were so busy with their studying they didn’t have

much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else

might be up to.

Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour

of answering questions about batty old wizards who’d

invented self-stirring cauldrons and they’d be free,

free for a whole wonderful week until their exam

results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns

told them to put down their quills and roll up their

parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the

rest.

“That was far easier than I thought it would be,” said

Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto

the sunny grounds. “I needn’t have learned about the

1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of

Elfric the Eager.”

Hermione always liked to go through their exam

papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill,

so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under

a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were

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tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows.

“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching

out on the grass. “You could look more cheerful,

Harry, we’ve got a week before we find out how badly

we’ve done, there’s no need to worry yet.”

Harry was rubbing his forehead.

“I wish I knew what this means!” he burst out angrily.

“My scar keeps hurting — it’s happened before, but

never as often as this.”

“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested.

“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning … it

means danger’s coming. …”

Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot.

“Harry, relax, Hermione’s right, the Stone’s safe as

long as Dumbledore’s around. Anyway, we’ve never

had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy.

He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he’s not going to

try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch

for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down.”

Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking

feeling that there was something he’d forgotten to do,

something important. When he tried to explain this,

Hermione said, “That’s just the exams. I woke up last

night and was halfway through my Transfiguration

notes before I remembered we’d done that one.”

Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have

anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl

flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a

note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one

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who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to

get past Fluffy … never … but —

Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.

“Where’re you going?” said Ron sleepily.

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had

turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.”

“Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry,

scrambling up the grassy slope, “that what Hagrid

wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a

stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in

his pocket? How many people wander around with

dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they

found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it

before?”

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, but Harry,

sprinting across the grounds toward the forest, didn’t

answer.

Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house;

his trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was

shelling peas into a large bowl.

“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “Finished yer exams? Got

time fer a drink?”

“Yes, please,” said Ron, but Harry cut him off.

“No, we’re in a hurry. Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you

something. You know that night you won Norbert?

What did the stranger you were playing cards with

look like?”

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“Dunno,” said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’ take his cloak off.”

He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his

eyebrows.

“It’s not that unusual, yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in

the Hog’s Head — that’s one o’ the pubs down in the

village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn’ he? I

never saw his face, he kept his hood up.”

Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas.

“What did you talk to him about, Hagrid? Did you

mention Hogwarts at all?”

“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried

to remember. “Yeah … he asked what I did, an’ I told

him I was gamekeeper here. … He asked a bit about

the sorta creatures I look after … so I told him … an’ I

said what I’d always really wanted was a dragon …

an’ then … I can’ remember too well, ’cause he kept

buyin’ me drinks. … Let’s see … yeah, then he said he

had the dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I

wanted … but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he

didn’ want it ter go ter any old home. … So I told him,

after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. …”

“And did he — did he seem interested in Fluffy?”

Harry asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh

meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a

piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’

play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter

sleep —”

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.

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“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I said it! Hey — where’re yeh goin’?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t speak to each other

at all until they came to a halt in the entrance hall,

which seemed very cold and gloomy after the

grounds.

“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid

told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was

either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak — it

must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just

hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us

up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s Dumbledore’s

office?”

They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign

pointing them in the right direction. They had never

been told where Dumbledore lived, nor did they know

anyone who had been sent to see him.

“We’ll just have to —” Harry began, but a voice

suddenly rang across the hall.

“What are you three doing inside?”

It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of

books.

“We want to see Professor Dumbledore,” said

Hermione, rather bravely, Harry and Ron thought.

“See Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall

repeated, as though this was a very fishy thing to

want to do. “Why?”

Harry swallowed — now what?

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“It’s sort of secret,” he said, but he wished at once he hadn’t, because Professor McGonagall’s nostrils

flared.

“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said

coldly. “He received an urgent owl from the Ministry

of Magic and flew off for London at once.”

“He’s gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter,

he has many demands on his time —”

“But this is important.”

“Something you have to say is more important than

the Ministry of Magic, Potter?”

“Look,” said Harry, throwing caution to the winds,

“Professor — it’s about the Sorcerer’s Stone —”

Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it

wasn’t that. The books she was carrying tumbled out

of her arms, but she didn’t pick them up.

“How do you know — ?” she spluttered.

“Professor, I think — I know — that Sn— that

someone’s going to try and steal the Stone. I’ve got to

talk to Professor Dumbledore.”

She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she

said finally. “I don’t know how you found out about

the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal

it, it’s too well protected.”

“But Professor —”

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“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she said

shortly. She bent down and gathered up the fallen

books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy

the sunshine.”

But they didn’t.

“It’s tonight,” said Harry, once he was sure Professor

McGonagall was out of earshot. “Snape’s going

through the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out

everything he needs, and now he’s got Dumbledore

out of the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of

Magic will get a real shock when Dumbledore turns

up.”

“But what can we —”

Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round.

Snape was standing there.

“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly.

They stared at him.

“You shouldn’t be inside on a day like this,” he said,

with an odd, twisted smile.

“We were —” Harry began, without any idea what he

was going to say.

“You want to be more careful,” said Snape. “Hanging

around like this, people will think you’re up to

something. And Gryffindor really can’t afford to lose

any more points, can it?”

Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape

called them back.

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“Be warned, Potter — any more nighttime wanderings and I will personally make sure you are expelled.

Good day to you.”

He strode off in the direction of the staffroom.

Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others.

“Right, here’s what we’ve got to do,” he whispered

urgently. “One of us has got to keep an eye on Snape

— wait outside the staffroom and follow him if he

leaves it. Hermione, you’d better do that.”

“Why me?”

“It’s obvious,” said Ron. “You can pretend to be

waiting for Professor Flitwick, you know.” He put on a

high voice, “ ‘Oh Professor Flitwick, I’m so worried, I

think I got question fourteen b wrong. …’ ”

“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione, but she agreed to go

and watch out for Snape.

“And we’d better stay outside the third-floor corridor,”

Harry told Ron. “Come on.”

But that part of the plan didn’t work. No sooner had

they reached the door separating Fluffy from the rest

of the school than Professor McGonagall turned up

again and this time, she lost her temper.

“I suppose you think you’re harder to get past than a

pack of enchantments!” she stormed. “Enough of this

nonsense! If I hear you’ve come anywhere near here

again, I’ll take another fifty points from Gryffindor!

Yes, Weasley, from my own House!”

Harry and Ron went back to the common room. Harry

had just said, “At least Hermione’s on Snape’s tail,”

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when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and

Hermione came in.

“I’m sorry, Harry!” she wailed. “Snape came out and

asked me what I was doing, so I said I was waiting for

Flitwick, and Snape went to get him, and I’ve only

just got away, I don’t know where Snape went.”

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said.

The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes

were glittering.

“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and

get to the Stone first.”

“You’re mad!” said Ron.

“You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall

and Snape have said? You’ll be expelled!”

“SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand?

If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming

back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was

trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to

get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a

school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn’t matter

anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave you

and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House

Cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well,

I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for

Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later

than I would have, because I’m never going over to

the Dark Side! I’m going through that trapdoor

tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me!

Voldemort killed my parents, remember?”

He glared at them.

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“You’re right, Harry,” said Hermione in a small voice.

“I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just

lucky I got it back.”

“But will it cover all three of us?” said Ron.

“All — all three of us?”

“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go

alone?”

“Of course not,” said Hermione briskly. “How do you

think you’d get to the Stone without us? I’d better go

and look through my books, there might be

something useful. …”

“But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Hermione grimly. “Flitwick

told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve

percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out

after that.”

After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in

the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of

the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any

more, after all. This was the first night he hadn’t been

upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her

notes, hoping to come across one of the

enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry

and Ron didn’t talk much. Both of them were

thinking about what they were about to do.

Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.

“Better get the cloak,” Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan

finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran

upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the

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cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on

Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing.

He ran back down to the common room.

“We’d better put the cloak on here, and make sure it

covers all three of us — if Filch spots one of our feet

wandering along on its own —”

“What are you doing?” said a voice from the corner of

the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair,

clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he’d

been making another bid for freedom.

“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” said Harry, hurriedly

putting the cloak behind his back.

Neville stared at their guilty faces.

“You’re going out again,” he said.

“No, no, no,” said Hermione. “No, we’re not. Why don’t

you go to bed, Neville?”

Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door.

They couldn’t afford to waste any more time, Snape

might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep.

“You can’t go out,” said Neville, “you’ll be caught

again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble.”

“You don’t understand,” said Harry, “this is

important.”

But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do

something desperate.

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“I won’t let you do it,” he said, hurrying to stand in front of the portrait hole. “I’ll — I’ll fight you!”

“Neville, ” Ron exploded, “get away from that hole and

don’t be an idiot —”

“Don’t you call me an idiot!” said Neville. “I don’t

think you should be breaking any more rules! And

you were the one who told me to stand up to people!”

“Yes, but not to us, ” said Ron in exasperation.

“Neville, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the

toad, who leapt out of sight.

“Go on then, try and hit me!” said Neville, raising his

fists. “I’m ready!”

Harry turned to Hermione.

“Do something, ” he said desperately.

Hermione stepped forward.

“Neville,” she said, “I’m really, really sorry about this.”

She raised her wand.

“Petrificus Totalus!” she cried, pointing it at Neville.

Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang

together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he

stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a board.

Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville’s jaws were

jammed together so he couldn’t speak. Only his eyes

were moving, looking at them in horror.

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“What’ve you done to him?” Harry whispered.

“It’s the full Body-Bind,” said Hermione miserably.

“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry.”

“We had to, Neville, no time to explain,” said Harry.

“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they

stepped over him and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak.

But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t

feel like a very good omen. In their nervous state,

every statue’s shadow looked like Filch, every distant

breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on

them.

At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs.

Norris skulking near the top.

“Oh, let’s kick her, just this once,” Ron whispered in

Harry’s ear, but Harry shook his head. As they

climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris turned her

lamplike eyes on them, but didn’t do anything.

They didn’t meet anyone else until they reached the

staircase up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing

halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people would

trip.

“Who’s there?” he said suddenly as they climbed

toward him. He narrowed his wicked black eyes.

“Know you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Are you

ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?”

He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at

them.

“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping

around unseen.”

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Harry had a sudden idea.

“Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody

Baron has his own reasons for being invisible.”

Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught

himself in time and hovered about a foot off the

stairs.

“So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir,” he said

greasily. “My mistake, my mistake — I didn’t see you

— of course I didn’t, you’re invisible — forgive old

Peevsie his little joke, sir.”

“I have business here, Peeves,” croaked Harry. “Stay

away from this place tonight.”

“I will, sir, I most certainly will,” said Peeves, rising up

in the air again. “Hope your business goes well,

Baron, I’ll not bother you.”

And he scooted off.

“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron.

A few seconds later, they were there, outside the

third-floor corridor — and the door was already ajar.

“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s

already got past Fluffy.”

Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress

upon all three of them what was facing them.

Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other two.

“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said.

“You can take the cloak, I won’t need it now.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron.

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“We’re coming,” said Hermione.

Harry pushed the door open.

As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their

ears. All three of the dog’s noses sniffed madly in their

direction, even though it couldn’t see them.

“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered.

“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it

there.”

“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said

Harry. “Well, here goes …”

He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t

really a tune, but from the first note the beast’s eyes

began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the

dog’s growls ceased — it tottered on its paws and fell

to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast

asleep.

“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out

of the cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They

could feel the dog’s hot, smelly breath as they

approached the giant heads.

“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron,

peering over the dog’s back. “Want to go first,

Hermione?”

“No, I don’t!”

“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully

over the dog’s legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the

trapdoor, which swung up and open.

“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously.

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“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing down, we’ll just have to drop.”

Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to

get his attention and pointed at himself.

“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I

don’t know how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to

Hermione so she can keep him asleep.”

Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’

silence, the dog growled and twitched, but the

moment Hermione began to play, it fell back into its

deep sleep.

Harry climbed over it and looked down through the

trapdoor. There was no sign of the bottom.

He lowered himself through the hole until he was

hanging on by his fingertips. Then he looked up at

Ron and said, “If anything happens to me, don’t

follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to

Dumbledore, right?”

“Right,” said Ron.

“See you in a minute, I hope. …”

And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as

he fell down, down, down and —

FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he

landed on something soft. He sat up and felt around,

his eyes not used to the gloom. It felt as though he

was sitting on some sort of plant.

“It’s okay!” he called up to the light the size of a

postage stamp, which was the open trapdoor, “it’s a

soft landing, you can jump!”

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Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to Harry.

“What’s this stuff?” were his first words.

“Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it’s here

to break the fall. Come on, Hermione!”

The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark

from the dog, but Hermione had already jumped. She

landed on Harry’s other side.

“We must be miles under the school,” she said.

“Lucky this plant thing’s here, really,” said Ron.

“Lucky!” shrieked Hermione. “Look at you both!”

She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She

had to struggle because the moment she had landed,

the plant had started to twist snakelike tendrils

around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs

had already been bound tightly in long creepers

without their noticing.

Hermione had managed to free herself before the

plant got a firm grip on her. Now she watched in

horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off

them, but the more they strained against it, the

tighter and faster the plant wound around them.

“Stop moving!” Hermione ordered them. “I know what

this is — it’s Devil’s Snare!”

“Oh, I’m so glad we know what it’s called, that’s a

great help,” snarled Ron, leaning back, trying to stop

the plant from curling around his neck.

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“Shut up, I’m trying to remember how to kill it!” said Hermione.

“Well, hurry up, I can’t breathe!” Harry gasped,

wrestling with it as it curled around his chest.

“Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare … what did Professor

Sprout say? — it likes the dark and the damp —”

“So light a fire!” Harry choked.

“Yes — of course — but there’s no wood!” Hermione

cried, wringing her hands.

“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron bellowed. “ARE YOU A

WITCH OR NOT?”

“Oh, right!” said Hermione, and she whipped out her

wand, waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of

the same bluebell flames she had used on Snape at

the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it

loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light

and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself

from their bodies, and they were able to pull free.

“Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione,”

said Harry as he joined her by the wall, wiping sweat

off his face.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “and lucky Harry doesn’t lose his

head in a crisis — ‘there’s no wood,’ honestly. ”

“This way,” said Harry, pointing down a stone

passageway, which was the only way forward.

All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the

gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The

passageway sloped downward, and Harry was

reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the

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heart, he remembered the dragons said to be

guarding vaults in the wizards’ bank. If they met a

dragon, a fully-grown dragon — Norbert had been bad

enough …

“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered.

Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to

be coming from up ahead.

“Do you think it’s a ghost?”

“I don’t know … sounds like wings to me.”

“There’s light ahead — I can see something moving.”

They reached the end of the passageway and saw

before them a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling

arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel-

bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the

room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a

heavy wooden door.

“Do you think they’ll attack us if we cross the room?”

said Ron.

“Probably,” said Harry. “They don’t look very vicious,

but I suppose if they all swooped down at once …

well, there’s no other choice … I’ll run.”

He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms,

and sprinted across the room. He expected to feel

sharp beaks and claws tearing at him any second,

but nothing happened. He reached the door

untouched. He pulled the handle, but it was locked.

The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved

at the door, but it wouldn’t budge, not even when

Hermione tried her Alohomora Charm.

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“Now what?” said Ron.

“These birds … they can’t be here just for decoration,”

said Hermione.

They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering —

glittering?

“They’re not birds!” Harry said suddenly. “They’re

keys! Winged keys — look carefully. So that must

mean …” he looked around the chamber while the

other two squinted up at the flock of keys. “… yes —

look! Broomsticks! We’ve got to catch the key to the

door!”

“But there are hundreds of them!”

Ron examined the lock on the door.

“We’re looking for a big, old-fashioned one — probably

silver, like the handle.”

They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the

air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They

grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted

and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to

catch one.

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest

Seeker in a century. He had a knack for spotting

things other people didn’t. After a minute’s weaving

about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he

noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it

had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the

keyhole.

“That one!” he called to the others. “That big one —

there — no, there — with bright blue wings — the

feathers are all crumpled on one side.”

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Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was

pointing, crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off

his broom.

“We’ve got to close in on it!” Harry called, not taking

his eyes off the key with the damaged wing. “Ron, you

come at it from above — Hermione, stay below and

stop it from going down — and I’ll try and catch it.

Right, NOW!”

Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key

dodged them both, and Harry streaked after it; it sped

toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with a

nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone

with one hand. Ron and Hermione’s cheers echoed

around the high chamber.

They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the

key struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock

and turned — it worked. The moment the lock had

clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very

battered now that it had been caught twice.

“Ready?” Harry asked the other two, his hand on the

door handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open.

The next chamber was so dark they couldn’t see

anything at all. But as they stepped into it, light

suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing

sight.

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard,

behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than

they were and carved from what looked like black

stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were

the white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered

slightly — the towering white chessmen had no faces.

“Now what do we do?” Harry whispered.

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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ron. “We’ve got to play our way across the room.”

Behind the white pieces they could see another door.

“How?” said Hermione nervously.

“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be

chessmen.”

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out

to touch the knights horse. At once, the stone sprang

to life. The horse pawed the ground and the knight

turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron.

“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?”

The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other

two.

“This needs thinking about. …” he said. “I suppose

we’ve got to take the place of three of the black pieces.

…”

Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron

think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or

anything, but neither of you are that good at chess —

”

“We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us

what to do.”

“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and

Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron.

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The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because at these words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned

their backs on the white pieces and walked off the

board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron,

and Hermione took.

“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering

across the board. “Yes … look …”

A white pawn had moved forward two squares.

Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved

silently wherever he sent them. Harry’s knees were

trembling. What if they lost?

“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.”

Their first real shock came when their other knight

was taken. The white queen smashed him to the floor

and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite

still, facedown.

“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken.

“Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go

on.”

Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces

showed no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp

black players slumped along the wall. Twice, Ron only

just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in

danger. He himself darted around the board, taking

almost as many white pieces as they had lost black

ones.

“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me

think — let me think …”

The white queen turned her blank face toward him.

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“Yes …” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way … I’ve got to be taken.”

“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted.

“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make

some sacrifices! I make my move and she’ll take me —

that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”

“But —”

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”

“Ron —”

“Look, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll already have the

Stone!”

There was no alternative.

“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined.

“Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve

won.”

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced.

She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone

arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione

screamed but stayed on her square — the white

queen dragged Ron to one side. He looked as if he’d

been knocked out.

Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left.

The white king took off his crown and threw it at

Harry’s feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and

bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With one last

desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione

charged through the door and up the next

passageway.

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“What if he’s — ?”

“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince

himself. “What do you reckon’s next?”

“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devil’s Snare;

Flitwick must’ve put charms on the keys; McGonagall

transfigured the chessmen to make them alive; that

leaves Quirrell’s spell, and Snape’s …”

They had reached another door.

“All right?” Harry whispered.

“Go on.”

Harry pushed it open.

A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of

them pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes

watering, they saw, flat on the floor in front of them, a

troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out

cold with a bloody lump on its head.

“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry

whispered as they stepped carefully over one of its

massive legs. “Come on, I can’t breathe.”

He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly

daring to look at what came next — but there was

nothing very frightening in here, just a table with

seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a

line.

“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?”

They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a

fire sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t

ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same

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instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward. They were trapped.

“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to

the bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it:

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues

four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first

sight.

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Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like

doing.

“Brilliant, ” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s

logic — a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t

got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.”

“But so will we, won’t we?”

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “Everything we need

is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison;

two are wine; one will get us safely through the black

fire, and one will get us back through the purple.”

“But how do we know which to drink?”

“Give me a minute.”

Hermione read the paper several times. Then she

walked up and down the line of bottles, muttering to

herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her

hands.

“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us

through the black fire — toward the Stone.”

Harry looked at the tiny bottle.

“There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said.

“That’s hardly one swallow.”

They looked at each other.

“Which one will get you back through the purple

flames?”

Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end

of the line.

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“You drink that,” said Harry. “No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room,

they’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy —

go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to

Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold

Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him,

really.”

“But Harry — what if You-Know-Who’s with him?”

“Well — I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” said Harry,

pointing at his scar. “I might get lucky again.”

Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at

Harry and threw her arms around him.

“Hermione!”

“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.”

“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very

embarrassed, as she let go of him.

“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There

are more important things — friendship and bravery

and — oh Harry — be careful!”

“You drink first,” said Harry. “You are sure which is

which, aren’t you?”

“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from

the round bottle at the end, and shuddered.

“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously.

“No — but it’s like ice.”

“Quick, go, before it wears off.”

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“Good luck — take care —”

“GO!”

Hermione turned and walked straight through the

purple fire.

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest

bottle. He turned to face the black flames.

“Here I come,” he said, and he drained the little bottle

in one gulp.

It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He

put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced

himself, saw the black flames licking his body, but

couldn’t feel them — for a moment he could see

nothing but dark fire — then he was on the other

side, in the last chamber.

There was already someone there — but it wasn’t

Snape. It wasn’t even Voldemort.

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THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

It was Quirrell.

“You!” gasped Harry.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all.

“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be

meeting you here, Potter.”

“But I thought — Snape —”

“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual

quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. “Yes,

Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to

have him swooping around like an overgrown bat.

Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-

stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”

Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it

couldn’t.

“But Snape tried to kill me!”

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“No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed

to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She

broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds

and I’d have got you off that broom. I’d have managed

it before then if Snape hadn’t been muttering a

countercurse, trying to save you.”

“Snape was trying to save me?”

“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think

he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying

to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny, really … he

needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with

Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought

Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he

did make himself unpopular … and what a waste of

time, when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.”

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin

air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.

“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the

school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you’d

seen me coming to look at what was guarding the

Stone.”

“You let the troll in?”

“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must

have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back

there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was

running around looking for it, Snape, who already

suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head

me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to

death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to

bite Snape’s leg off properly.

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“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

It was only then that Harry realized what was

standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.

“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell

murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust

Dumbledore to come up with something like this …

but he’s in London … I’ll be far away by the time he

gets back. …”

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell

talking and stop him from concentrating on the

mirror.

“I saw you and Snape in the forest —” he blurted out.

“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to

look at the back. “He was on to me by that time,

trying to find out how far I’d got. He suspected me all

along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could,

when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. …”

Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and

stared hungrily into it.

“I see the Stone … I’m presenting it to my master …

but where is it?”

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but

they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving

his whole attention to the mirror.

“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.”

“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes.

He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you

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know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead. ”

“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought

Snape was threatening you.

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across

Quirrell’s face.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my

master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am

weak —”

“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?”

Harry gasped.

“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I

met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish

young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about

good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong

I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power,

and those too weak to seek it. … Since then, I have

served him faithfully, although I have let him down

many times. He has had to be very hard on me.”

Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive

mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from

Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me

… decided he would have to keep a closer watch on

me. …”

Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering

his trip to Diagon Alley — how could he have been so

stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken

hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.

Quirrell cursed under his breath.

“I don’t understand … is the Stone inside the mirror?

Should I break it?”

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Harry’s mind was racing.

What I want more than anything else in the world at

the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before

Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see

myself finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s

hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing

what I’m up to?

He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass

without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his

ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell

ignored him. He was still talking to himself.

“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help

me, Master!”

And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice

seemed to come from Quirrell himself.

“Use the boy … Use the boy …”

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

“Yes — Potter — come here.”

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding

Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet.

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror

and tell me what you see.”

Harry walked toward him.

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that’s all.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in

the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s

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turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first.

But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It

put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-

red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its

pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy

drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly —

he’d gotten the Stone.

“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?”

Harry screwed up his courage.

“I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore,” he

invented. “I — I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.”

Quirrell cursed again.

“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside,

he felt the Sorcerer’s Stone against his leg. Dare he

make a break for it?

But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice

spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips.

“He lies … He lies …”

“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me

the truth! What did you just see?”

The high voice spoke again.

“Let me speak to him … face-to-face. …”

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough … for this. …”

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Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he

watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap

his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away.

Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it.

Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a

sound. Where there should have been a back to

Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible

face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with

glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

“Harry Potter …” it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs

wouldn’t move.

“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere

shadow and vapor … I have form only when I can

share another’s body … but there have always been

those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. …

Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks

… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the

forest … and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be

able to create a body of my own. … Now … why don’t

you give me that Stone in your pocket?”

So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into

Harry’s legs. He stumbled backward.

“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your

own life and join me … or you’ll meet the same end as

your parents. … They died begging me for mercy. …”

“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly.

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Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that

Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now

smiling.

“How touching …” it hissed. “I always value bravery.

… Yes, boy, your parents were brave. … I killed your

father first, and he put up a courageous fight … but

your mother needn’t have died … she was trying to

protect you. … Now give me the Stone, unless you

want her to have died in vain.”

“NEVER!”

Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort

screamed “SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry

felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, a

needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his

head felt as though it was about to split in two; he

yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his

surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head

lessened — he looked around wildly to see where

Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain,

looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his

eyes.

“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again,

and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet,

landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s

neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with

pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my

hands!”

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground

with his knees, let go of his neck and stared,

bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they

looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.

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“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched

Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse,

but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed

Quirrell’s face —

“AAAARGH!”

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and

then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare

skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only

chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in

enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm,

and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed

and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s

head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only

hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells

of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other voices, maybe in

Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!”

He felt Quirrell’s arm wrenched from his grasp, knew

all was lost, and fell into blackness, down … down …

down …

Something gold was glinting just above him. The

Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too

heavy.

He blinked. It wasn’t the Snitch at all. It was a pair of

glasses. How strange.

He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus

Dumbledore swam into view above him.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

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Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: “Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick —

”

“Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the

times,” said Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the

Stone.”

“Then who does? Sir, I —”

“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me

thrown out.”

Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized

he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed

with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table

piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said

Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the

dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a

complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school

knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George

Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a

toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse

you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be

very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

“How long have I been in here?”

“Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger

will be most relieved you have come round, they have

been extremely worried.”

“But sir, the Stone —”

“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the

Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it

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from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say.”

“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?”

“We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I

reached London than it became clear to me that the

place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived

just in time to pull Quirrell off you —”

“It was you. ”

“I feared I might be too late.”

“You nearly were, I couldn’t have kept him off the

Stone much longer —”

“Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly

killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid

it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend —

Nicolas Flamel —”

“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore,

sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing

properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a

little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.”

“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?”

“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in

order and then, yes, they will die.”

Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on

Harry’s face.

“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible,

but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to

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bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great

adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a

wonderful thing. As much money and life as you

could want! The two things most human beings would

choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a

knack of choosing precisely those things that are

worst for them.”

Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed

a little and smiled at the ceiling.

“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking … Sir — even if

the Stone’s gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who —”

“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper

name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the

thing itself.”

“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of

coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has

he?”

“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there

somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to

share … not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He

left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his

followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while

you may only have delayed his return to power, it will

merely take someone else who is prepared to fight

what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is

delayed again, and again, why, he may never return

to power.”

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made

his head hurt. Then he said, “Sir, there are some

other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me …

things I want to know the truth about. …”

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“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with

great caution. However, I shall answer your questions

unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case

I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”

“Well … Voldemort said that he only killed my mother

because she tried to stop him from killing me. But

why would he want to kill me in the first place?”

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you.

Not today. Not now. You will know, one day … put it

from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older …

I know you hate to hear this … when you are ready,

you will know.”

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.

“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?”

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing

Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t

realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you

leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign … to

have been loved so deeply, even though the person

who loved us is gone, will give us some protection

forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred,

greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort,

could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to

touch a person marked by something so good.”

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out

on the windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his

eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again,

Harry said, “And the Invisibility Cloak — do you know

who sent it to me?”

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“Ah — your father happened to leave it in my

possession, and I thought you might like it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things … your

father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens

to steal food when he was here.”

“And there’s something else …”

“Fire away.”

“Quirrell said Snape —”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“Yes, him — Quirrell said he hates me because he

hated my father. Is that true?”

“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike

yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did

something Snape could never forgive.”

“What?”

“He saved his life.”

“What?”

“Yes …” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way

people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape

couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. … I do

believe he worked so hard to protect you this year

because he felt that would make him and your father

even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s

memory in peace. …”

Harry tried to understand this but it made his head

pound, so he stopped.

“And sir, there’s one more thing …”

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“Just the one?”

“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?”

“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of

my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me,

that’s saying something. You see, only one who

wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it —

would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see

themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My

brain surprises even me sometimes. … Now, enough

questions. I suggest you make a start on these

sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was

unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a

vomit-flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve

rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe

with a nice toffee, don’t you?”

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his

mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!”

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but

very strict.

“Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded.

“Absolutely not.”

“You let Professor Dumbledore in. …”

“Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite

different. You need rest. ”

“I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go

on, Madam Pomfrey …”

“Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only. ”

And she let Ron and Hermione in.

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“Harry!”

Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him

again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his

head was still very sore.

“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to —

Dumbledore was so worried —”

“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What

really happened?”

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story

is even more strange and exciting than the wild

rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the

mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione

were a very good audience; they gasped in all the

right places, and when Harry told them what was

under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud.

“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just

going to die?”

“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that —

what was it? — ‘to the well-organized mind, death is

but the next great adventure.’ ”

“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron,

looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was.

“So what happened to you two?” said Harry.

“Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought

Ron round — that took a while — and we were

dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when

we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew —

he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and

hurtled off to the third floor.”

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“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron.

“Sending you your fathers cloak and everything?”

“Well, ” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say

— that’s terrible — you could have been killed.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny

man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give

me a chance. I think he knows more or less

everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he

had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and

instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to

help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find

out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought

I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. …”

“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said

Ron proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end-

of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and

Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last

Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by

Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.”

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

“You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she

said firmly.

* * *

After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to

normal.

“I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as

she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t

I?”

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“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion

Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts

could be. “And you have another visitor.”

“Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?”

Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual

when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be

allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at

him, and burst into tears.

“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his

face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past

Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t

know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a

dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked

out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”

“Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking

with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into

his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow,

this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found

out even if you hadn’t told him.”

“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the

name!”

“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so

shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m

calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we

saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a

Chocolate Frog, I’ve got loads. …”

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and

said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.”

“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry

anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.

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“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead —

anyway, got yeh this …”

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book.

Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard

photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every

page were his mother and father.

“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends,

askin’ fer photos … knew yeh didn’ have any … d’yeh

like it?”

Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.

Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast

alone that night. He had been held up by Madam

Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one

last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It

was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and

silver to celebrate Slytherin’s winning the House Cup

for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing

the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the

High Table.

When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and

then everybody started talking loudly at once. He

slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the

Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that

people were standing up to look at him.

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The

babble died away.

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully.

“And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing

waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious

feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads

are all a little fuller than they were … you have the

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whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty

before next year starts. …

“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs

awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place,

Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in

third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two;

Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and

Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the

Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging

his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore.

“However, recent events must be taken into account.”

The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded

a little.

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute

points to dish out. Let me see. Yes …

“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley …”

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish

with a bad sunburn.

“… for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has

seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty

points.”

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling;

the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be

heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you

know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s

giant chess set!”

At last there was silence again.

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“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger … for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House

fifty points.”

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly

suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up

and down the table were beside themselves — they

were a hundred points up.

“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter …” said Dumbledore.

The room went deadly quiet. “… for pure nerve and

outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty

points.”

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while

yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now

had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly

the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House

Cup — if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one

more point.

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell

silent.

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore,

smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up

to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our

friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville

Longbottom.”

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well

have thought some sort of explosion had taken place,

so loud was the noise that erupted from the

Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up

to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock,

disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He

had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor

before. Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs

and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more

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stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind Curse put on him.

“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of

applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were

celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little

change of decoration.”

He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green

hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold;

the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering

Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking

Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced

smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once

that Snape’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one

jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life

would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it

ever was at Hogwarts.

It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than

winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out

mountain trolls … he would never, ever forget tonight.

Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results

were still to come, but come they did. To their great

surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks;

Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first

years. Even Neville scraped through, his good

Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions

one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as

stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he

had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you

couldn’t have everything in life.

And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their

trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking

in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all

students, warning them not to use magic over the

holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us

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these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across

the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express;

talking and laughing as the countryside became

greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor

Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off

their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats;

pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at

King’s Cross station.

It took quite a while for them all to get off the

platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket

barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and

threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting

out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.

“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron,

“both of you — I’ll send you an owl.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look

forward to.”

People jostled them as they moved forward toward the

gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them

called:

“Bye, Harry!”

“See you, Potter!”

“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him.

“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry.

He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway

together.

“There he is, Mom, there he is, look!”

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It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she wasn’t pointing at Ron.

“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mom! I can see –”

“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.

“Busy year?” she said.

“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the

sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh, it was nothing, dear.”

“Ready, are you?”

It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still

mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry,

carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary

people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley,

looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.

“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry

up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away.

Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and

Hermione.

“See you over the summer, then.”

“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said

Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon,

shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

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“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t

know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m

going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…”

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Document Outline

- THE BOY WHO LIVED

- THE VANASHIG GLASS

- THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

- THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

- DIAGON ALLY

- THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

- THE SORTING HAT

- THE POTIONS MASTER

- THE MIDNIGHT DUEL

- HALLOWEEN

- QUIDDITCH

- THE MIRROR OF ERISED

- NICHOLAS FLAMEL

- NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK

- THE FORBIDDEN FOREST

- THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR

- THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

THE WORST BIRTHDAY

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out

over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr.

Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of

the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew

Harry’s room.

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If

you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

“She’s bored, ” he said. “She’s used to flying around

outside. If I could just let her out at night —”

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of

fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know

what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned

by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“I want more bacon.”

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt

Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We

must build you up while we’ve got the chance. … I

don’t like the sound of that school food. …”

“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was

at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley

gets enough, don’t you, son?”

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over

either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to

Harry.

“Pass the frying pan.”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry

irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the

family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his

chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs.

Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands

to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins

throbbing in his temples.

“I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean

—”

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle,

spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’

WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”

“But I —”

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared

Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“I just —”

“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION

OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”

Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale

aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

“All right,” said Harry, “all right …”

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded

rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the

corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer

holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a

bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry

Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he

was as not normal as it is possible to be.

Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his

first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have

him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how

Harry felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a

constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its

secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though

perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail

arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall,

sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory,

visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to

the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially,

Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding

world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and

fourteen players on broomsticks).

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had

been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle

Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did

the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House

Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all

summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went

back to school without any of his homework done?

The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a

drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as

they were concerned, having a wizard in the family

was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had

even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage,

to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the

wizarding world.

Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle

Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous

black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and

bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on

the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant

green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy.

He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a

thin, lightning-shaped scar.

It was this scar that made Harry so particularly

unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only

hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he

had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years

before.

At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow

survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all

time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and

wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died

in Voldemort’s attack, but Harry had escaped with his

lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood

why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the

instant he had failed to kill Harry.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s

sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with

the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept

making odd things happen without meaning to,

believing the Dursleys’ story that he had got his scar

in the car crash that had killed his parents.

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to

Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had

taken up his place at wizard school, where he and his

scar were famous … but now the school year was

over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the

summer, back to being treated like a dog that had

rolled in something smelly.

The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today

happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course,

his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a

real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it

completely …

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat

importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a

very important day.”

Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of

my career,” said Uncle Vernon.

Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought

bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid

dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else for two

weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to

dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge

order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“I think we should run through the schedule one

more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in

position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?”

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting

to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a

foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and

Mrs. Mason?”

“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he

rounded on Harry. “And you?”

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and

pretending I’m not there,” said Harry tonelessly.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them

into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour

them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.

“And, Dudley, you’ll say —”

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs.

Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an

invisible woman.

“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.

“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending

I’m not there,” said Harry dully.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good

compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”

“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr.

Mason. … Do tell me where you bought your dress,

Mrs. Mason. …”

“Perfect … Dudley?”

“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our

hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you. ’ ”

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry.

Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son,

while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn’t

see him laughing.

“And you, boy?”

Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending

I’m not there,” he said.

“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully.

“The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s

going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take

Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia,

and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any

luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the

news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in

Majorca this time tomorrow.”

Harry couldn’t feel too excited about this. He didn’t

think the Dursleys would like him any better in

Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner

jackets for Dudley and me. And you, ” he snarled at

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Harry. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s

cleaning.”

Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant,

sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped down on

the garden bench, and sang under his breath:

“Happy birthday to me … happy birthday to me …”

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the

evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably

into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than

anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing

Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron

Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t

seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had

written to him all summer, even though Ron had said

he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.

Countless times, Harry had been on the point of

unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to

Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn’t worth

the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use

magic outside of school. Harry hadn’t told the

Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he

might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped

them from locking him in the cupboard under the

stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the first

couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering

nonsense words under his breath and watching

Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs

would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and

Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the

magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its

appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten

his birthday.

What wouldn’t he give now for a message from

Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? He’d almost be

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream. …

Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At

the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face

with none other than Lord Voldemort himself.

Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he

was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to

regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort’s

clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow

escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking

in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where

Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his

wide, mad eyes —

Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench.

He had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge

— and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous

green eyes had appeared among the leaves.

Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated

across the lawn.

“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward

him.

The huge eyes blinked and vanished.

“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot

where they had been.

“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right

up to him.

“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the

days of the week.”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Today’s your birthday, ” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got

friends at that freak place?”

“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my

school,” said Harry coolly.

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping

down his fat bottom.

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said

suspiciously.

“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to

set it on fire,” said Harry.

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic

on his fat face.

“You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic

— he said he’ll chuck you out of the house — and you

haven’t got anywhere else to go — you haven’t got any

friends to take you —”

“Jiggery pokery!” said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus

pocus — squiggly wiggly —”

“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet

as he dashed back toward the house. “MUUUUM!

He’s doing you know what!”

Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither

Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt

Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he still

had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head

with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to

do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d

finished.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice

cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car,

mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and

watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench.

The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his

neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s

bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had

been thinking himself … maybe he didn’t have any

friends at Hogwarts. …

Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he

thought savagely as he spread manure on the flower

beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face.

It was half past seven in the evening when at last,

exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him.

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”

Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming

kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding:

a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets.

A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped

Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a

lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already

wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.

Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful

supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia

whisked away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!”

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry

caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow

ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the

upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle

Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the

stairs.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Remember, boy — one sound —”

Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped

inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his

bed.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting

on it.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

DOBBY’S WARNING

Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close

thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-

like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis

balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had

been watching him out of the garden hedge that

morning.

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley’s

voice from the hall.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low

that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet.

Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an

old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched

voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir … Such an

honor it is. …”

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and

sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was

asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask, “What are

you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead

he said, “Who are you?”

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said

the creature.

“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be

rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me

to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”

Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the

living room. The elf hung his head.

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harry

quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re

here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come

to tell you, sir … it is difficult, sir … Dobby wonders

where to begin. …”

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy

tears.

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never … never ever …”

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you

or anything —”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal —

”

Harry, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the

same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where

he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly

doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat

with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of

watery adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said

Harry, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he

leapt up and started banging his head furiously on

the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

“Don’t — what are you doing?” Harry hissed,

springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed —

Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud

screech and was beating her wings wildly against the

bars of her cage.

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who

had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill

of his family, sir. …”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. … Dobby is a

house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family

forever. …”

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harry curiously.

Dobby shuddered.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Oh, no, sir, no … Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will

have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they

ever knew, sir —”

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the

oven door?”

“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to

punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get

on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do

extra punishments. …”

“But why don’t you leave? Escape?”

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will

never set Dobby free … Dobby will serve the family

until he dies, sir. …”

Harry stared.

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another

four weeks,” he said. “This makes the Dursleys sound

almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?”

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken.

Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet.

If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re

here —”

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby … Dobby has

heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness,

Dobby never knew. …”

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said,

“Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; that’s Hermione, she —”

But he stopped quickly, because thinking about

Hermione was painful.

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby

reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry Potter

speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named —”

“Voldemort?” said Harry.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and

moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the

name!”

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people

don’t like it. My friend Ron —”

He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful,

too.

Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as

headlights.

“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry

Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just

weeks ago … that Harry Potter escaped yet again. ”

Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with

tears.

“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of

the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter

is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers

already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter,

to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

the oven door later. … Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts. ”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of

knives and forks from downstairs and the distant

rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back

— term starts on September first. It’s all that’s

keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here.

I don’t belong here. I belong in your world — at

Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so

hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where

he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry

Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal

danger.”

“Why?” said Harry in surprise.

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most

terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby,

suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for

months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in

peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s

plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged

his head frantically against the wall.

“All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop

him. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are

you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought

struck him. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to

do with Vol — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it?

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

You could just shake or nod,” he added hastily as

Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

“Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir —”

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be

trying to give Harry a hint. Harry, however, was

completely lost.

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?”

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a

chance of making horrible things happen at

Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore,

for one thing — you know who Dumbledore is, don’t

you?”

Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster

Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby

has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his

strength. But, sir” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an

urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore

doesn’t … powers no decent wizard …”

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off

the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started

beating himself around the head with earsplitting

yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later

Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon

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coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby

in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the

bed just as the door handle turned.

“What — the — devil — are — you — doing?” said

Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly

close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of

my Japanese golfer joke. … One more sound and

you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to

go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got —

well, I think I’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said

Dobby slyly.

“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said

Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends

haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby

did it for the best —”

“Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping

nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of

envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was

wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts

gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry. … Dobby hoped … if

Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him …

Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir.

…”

Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters,

but Dobby jumped out of reach.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his

word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this

is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back,

sir!”

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!”

“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the

elf sadly.

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the

bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the

stairs.

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him,

trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six

steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking

around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard

Uncle Vernon saying, “… tell Petunia that very funny

story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason.

She’s been dying to hear …”

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his

stomach disappear.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the

mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating

up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the

corner crouched Dobby.

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please … they’ll kill me. …”

“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school

—”

“Dobby … please …”

“Say it, sir —”

“I can’t —”

Dobby gave him a tragic look.

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own

good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping

crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the

dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby

vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle

Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with

shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s

pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would

manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our

nephew — very disturbed — meeting strangers upsets

him, so we kept him upstairs. …”) He shooed the

shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised

Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life

when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop.

Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the

kitchen clean.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his

deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-

dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through

the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs.

Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason

screamed like a banshee and ran from the house

shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long

enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally

afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask

whether this was their idea of a joke.

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for

support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a

demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the

owl had delivered. “Go on — read it!”

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was

used at your place of residence this evening at twelve

minutes past nine.

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to

perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on

your part may lead to expulsion from said school

(Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage

Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

We would also ask you to remember that any magical

activity that risks notice by members of the non-

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of

Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic

outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam

dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it. … Slipped

your mind, I daresay. …”

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog,

all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy. …

I’m locking you up. … You’re never going back to that

school … never … and if you try and magic yourself

out — they’ll expel you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back

upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following

morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry’s window.

He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so

that small amounts of food could be pushed inside

three times a day. They let Harry out to use the

bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was

locked in his room around the clock.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and Harry couldn’t see any way out of his

situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun sinking

behind the bars on the window and wondered

miserably what was going to happen to him.

What was the good of magicking himself out of his

room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Yet life

at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that

the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as

fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might

have saved Harry from horrible happenings at

Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he’d

probably starve to death anyway.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand

appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the

room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger,

jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-

cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he

crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the

soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her

empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave

him a look of deep disgust.

“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all

we’ve got,” said Harry grimly.

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the

cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even

hungrier than he had been before the soup.

Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks,

what would happen if he didn’t turn up at Hogwarts?

Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t come

back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let

him go?

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach

rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable

questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card

reading UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to his cage.

People goggled through the bars at him as he lay,

starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby’s

face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help,

but Dobby called, “Harry Potter is safe there, sir!” and

vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley

rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him.

“Stop it,” Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in

his sore head. “Leave me alone … cut it out … I’m

trying to sleep. …”

He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through

the bars on the window. And someone was goggling

through the bars at him: a freckle-faced, red-haired,

long-nosed someone.

Ron Weasley was outside Harry’s window.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

THE BURROW

“Ron!” breathed Harry, creeping to the window and

pushing it up so they could talk through the bars.

“Ron, how did you — What the — ?”

Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he

was seeing hit him. Ron was leaning out of the back

window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in

midair. Grinning at Harry from the front seats were

Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers.

“All right, Harry?” asked George.

“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you

been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay

about twelve times, and then Dad came home and

said you’d got an official warning for using magic in

front of Muggles —”

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”

“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know

we’re not supposed to do spells outside school —”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“You should talk,” said Harry, staring at the floating car.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only

borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But

doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with —”

“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain

now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the

Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let me come

back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because

the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done

in three days, so —”

“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you

home with us.”

“But you can’t magic me out either —”

“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward

the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got

with me.”

“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the

end of a rope to Harry.

“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he

tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up

the car.

“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”

Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig,

who seemed to have realized how important this was

and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and

louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the

bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred

drove straight up in the air. Harry ran back to the

window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car.

Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound

from the Dursleys’ bedroom.

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron,

Fred reversed as close as possible to Harry’s window.

“Get in,” Ron said.

“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my

broomstick —”

“Where is it?”

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t

get out of this room —”

“No problem,” said George from the front passenger

seat. “Out of the way, Harry.”

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window

into Harry’s room. You had to hand it to them,

thought Harry, as George took an ordinary hairpin

from his pocket and started to pick the lock.

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing

this sort of Muggle trick,” said Fred, “but we feel

they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a bit

slow.”

There was a small click and the door swung open.

“So — we’ll get your trunk — you grab anything you

need from your room and hand it out to Ron,”

whispered George.

“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Harry

whispered back as the twins disappeared onto the

dark landing.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things and passing them out of the window to Ron. Then he

went to help Fred and George heave his trunk up the

stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then

carried the trunk through Harry’s room to the open

window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with

Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the bedroom

side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.

Uncle Vernon coughed again.

“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from

inside the car. “One good push —”

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the

trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat

of the car.

“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered.

But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came

a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed

immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“THAT RUDDY OWL!”

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light

clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed

to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was

scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when

Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door — and

it crashed open.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull

and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.

Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry’s arms and pulled

as hard as they could.

“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away!

HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg

slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp — Harry was in the

car — he’d slammed the door shut —

“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, and the car

shot suddenly toward the moon.

Harry couldn’t believe it — he was free. He rolled

down the window, the night air whipping his hair,

and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet

Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were

all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window.

“See you next summer!” Harry yelled.

The Weasleys roared with laughter and Harry settled

back in his seat, grinning from ear to ear.

“Let Hedwig out,” he told Ron. “She can fly behind us.

She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for

ages.”

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment

later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to

glide alongside them like a ghost.

“So — what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently.

“What’s been happening?”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d

given Harry and the fiasco of the violet pudding.

There was a long, shocked silence when he had

finished.

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t

even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this

stuff?”

“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every

time he got close to letting something slip, he started

banging his head against the wall.”

He saw Fred and George look at each other.

“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry.

“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have

got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t

usually use it without their master’s permission. I

reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back

to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think

of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”

“Yes,” said Harry and Ron together, instantly.

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.”

“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not

Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said

Harry. “Why?”

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He

was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred,

craning around to look at Harry, “Lucius Malfoy came

back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung

— Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who’s

inner circle.”

Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family

before, and they didn’t surprise him at all. Malfoy

made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful,

and sensitive boy.

“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf.

…” said Harry.

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding

family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred.

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to

do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a

lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the

garden. House-elves come with big old manors and

castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in

our house. …”

Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco

Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family

was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy

strutting around a large manor house. Sending the

family servant to stop Harry from going back to

Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing

Malfoy would do. Had Harry been stupid to take

Dobby seriously?

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron. “I

was getting really worried when you didn’t answer

any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first

—”

“Who’s Errol?”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow

Hermes —”

“Who?”

“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was

made prefect,” said Fred from the front.

“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said

he needed him.”

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said

George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of

letters and spending a load of time shut up in his

room. … I mean, there’s only so many times you can

polish a prefect badge. … You’re driving too far west,

Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the

dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.

“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said

Harry, guessing the answer.

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully

we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum

noticing we flew it.”

“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic,

anyway?”

“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron.

“The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“The what?”

“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-

made, you know, in case they end up back in a

Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch

died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare —

Dad was working overtime for weeks.”

“What happened?”

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all

over the place and one man ended up in the hospital

with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was

going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock

called Perkins in the office — and they had to do

Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up —

”

“But your dad — this car —”

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to

do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He

takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back

together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put

himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.”

“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down

through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten

minutes. … Just as well, it’s getting light. …”

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to

the east.

Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark

patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.

“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George.

“Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a

brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a

tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked

out for the first time at Ron’s house.

It looked as though it had once been a large stone

pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and

there until it was several stories high and so crooked

it looked as though it were held up by magic (which,

Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five

chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A

lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance

read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a

jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron.

Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way

around the yard.

“It’s not much,” said Ron.

“It’s wonderful, ” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet

Drive.

They got out of the car.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and

wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you

come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who

turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to

see Harry and no one need ever know we flew the

car.”

“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Harry, I sleep at the —

at the top —”

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on

the house. The other three wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard,

scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

faced woman, it was remarkable how much she

looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“Ah, ” said Fred.

“Oh, dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her

hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the

next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand

sticking out of the pocket.

“So, ” she said.

“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly

thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs.

Weasley in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she

was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed

— out of my mind with worry — did you care? —

never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father

gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or

Charlie or Percy —”

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF

PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a

finger in Fred’s chest. “You could have died, you could

have been seen, you could have lost your father his

job —”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had

shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry,

who backed away.

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said.

“Come in and have some breakfast.”

She turned and walked back into the house and

Harry, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded

encouragingly, followed her.

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There

was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the

middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat,

looking around. He had never been in a wizard house

before.

The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand

and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were

things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the

chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm

Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One

Minute Feasts — It’s Magic! And unless Harry’s ears

were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had

just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour,

with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina

Warbeck.”

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking

breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at

her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan.

Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t

know what you were thinking of,” and “never would

have believed it.”

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping

eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I

have been worried about you, too. Just last night we

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you

hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she

was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), “flying

an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone

could have seen you —”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the

sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking

gently in the background.

“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!”

Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“They were starving him, Mum!” said George.

“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a

slightly softened expression that she started cutting

Harry bread and buttering it for him.

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a

small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who

appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran

out again.

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My

sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred

said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and

bent his face over his plate without another word.

Nothing more was said until all four plates were

clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his

knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”

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“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely

out of hand again —”

“Oh, Mum —”

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred.

“You can go up to bed, dear,” she added to Harry.

“You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car —”

But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help

Ron. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,”

said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got

to say on the subject —”

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the

mantelpiece. George groaned.

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book.

Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words

Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests. There

was a big photograph on the front of a very good-

looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue

eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the

photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry

supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking

cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down

at him.

“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his

household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book. …”

“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible

whisper.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know

better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it,

and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that

garden when I come out to inspect it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched

outside with Harry behind them. The garden was

large, and in Harry’s eyes, exactly what a garden

should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it —

there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed

cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the

walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every

flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry

told Ron as they crossed the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,”

said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush,

“like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. …”

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush

shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “This is a

gnome,” he said grimly.

“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome.

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small

and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head

exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it

kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped

it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the

gnome above his head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to

swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the

shocked look on Harry’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t

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hurt them — you’ve just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.”

He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet

into the air and landed with a thud in the field over

the hedge.

“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that

stump.”

Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the

gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he

caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing

weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry’s

finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until —

“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet. …”

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five

or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the

de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look.

You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay

put.”

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking

away in a straggling line, their little shoulders

hunched.

“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the

gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of

the field. “They love it here. … Dad’s too soft with

them; he thinks they’re funny. …”

Just then, the front door slammed.

“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

They hurried through the garden and back into the

house.

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his

glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man,

going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as

any of his children’s. He was wearing long green

robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as

they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And

old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me

when I had my back turned. …”

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting

kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty

nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though.

Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some

extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on

Experimental Charms, thank goodness. …”

“Why would anyone bother making door keys

shrink?” said George.

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them

a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can

never find it when they need it. … Of course, it’s very

hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would

admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they

just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any

lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in

the face. … But the things our lot have taken to

enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”

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Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared

guiltily at his wife.

“C-cars, Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes

flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and

telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it

apart to see how it worked, while really he was

enchanting it to make it fly. ”

Mr. Weasley blinked.

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite

within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe

would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth.

… There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find. … As long

as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the

car could fly wouldn’t —”

“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole

when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley.

“Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that

Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your

information, Harry arrived this morning in the car

you weren’t intending to fly!”

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?”

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet

you, Ron’s told us so much about —”

“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back

last night!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got

to say about that, eh?”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong,

boys — very wrong indeed. …”

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as

Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll

show you my bedroom.”

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow

passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its

way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third

landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of

a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it

closed with a snap.

“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for

her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally —”

They climbed two more flights until they reached a

door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it,

saying RONALD’S ROOM.

Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the

sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a

furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to

be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls,

even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had

covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper

with posters of the same seven witches and wizards,

all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks,

and waving energetically.

“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry.

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the

orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two

giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in

the league.”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a

corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to

feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad

Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish

tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his

fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of

sun.

Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing

cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window.

In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes

sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’

hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was

watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for

his opinion.

“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room

you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath

the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the

pipes and groaning. …”

But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best

house I’ve ever been in.”

Ron’s ears went pink.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from

life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything

neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house burst with the

strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first

time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen

mantelpiece and it shouted, “Tuck your shirt in,

scruffy!” The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped

pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet,

and small explosions from Fred and George’s

bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What

Harry found most unusual about life at Ron’s,

however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking

ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to

like him.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and

tried to force him to eat fourth helpings at every meal.

Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit next to him at the

dinner table so that he could bombard him with

questions about life with Muggles, asking him to

explain how things like plugs and the postal service

worked.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“Fascinating!” he would say as Harry talked him through using a telephone. “Ingenious, really, how

many ways Muggles have found of getting along

without magic.”

Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about

a week after he had arrived at the Burrow. He and

Ron went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs.

Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen

table. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally

knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud

clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things

over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under

the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her

face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn’t

noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs.

Weasley offered him.

“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing

Harry and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish

parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore

already knows you’re here, Harry — doesn’t miss a

trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” he added,

as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas.

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read

their letters. Harry’s told him to catch the Hogwarts

Express as usual from King’s Cross station on

September first. There was also a list of the new

books he’d need for the coming year.

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda

Goshawk

Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart

Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart

Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart

Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart

Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at

Harry’s.

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he

said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher

must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.”

At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and

quickly busied himself with the marmalade.

“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a

quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really

expensive. …”

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she

looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot

of Ginny’s things secondhand.”

“Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” Harry

asked Ginny.

She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair,

and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no

one saw this except Harry, because just then Ron’s

elder brother Percy walked in. He was already

dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his

sweater vest.

“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”

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He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath

him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that

was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it

was breathing.

“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and

extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally — he’s

got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were

going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door

and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped

straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining

board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped

open Hermione’s letter and read it out loud:

“ ‘ Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there,

“ ‘ I hope everything went all right and that Harry is

okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him

out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble,

too. I’ve been really worried and if Harry is all right,

will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it

would be better if you used a different owl, because I

think another delivery might finish your one off.

“ ‘ I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’ — How can

she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! —

‘ and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my

new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley?

“ ‘ Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can.

Love from Hermione.’ ”

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your

things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear

the table. “What’re you all up to today?”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It

was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of

the village below, meaning that they could practice

Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high.

They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would

have been hard to explain if they had escaped and

flown away over the village; instead they threw apples

for one another to catch. They took turns riding

Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the

best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often

outstripped by passing butterflies.

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill,

broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked

Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he

was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so

far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning.

“He’s not himself. His exam results came the day

before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated

at all.”

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing

Harry’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not

careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I

don’t think I could stand the shame.”

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next

brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry

had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie

was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt

working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts.

“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our

school stuff this year,” said George after a while. “Five

sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a

wand and everything. …”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a

small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course,

it was only in the wizarding world that he had money;

you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in

Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts

bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their

horror of anything connected with magic would

stretch to a large pile of gold.

Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following

Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon

sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs.

Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece

and peered inside.

“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have

to buy some more today. … Ah well, guests first! After

you, Harry dear!”

And she offered him the flowerpot.

Harry stared at them all watching him.

“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered.

“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron

suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.”

“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to

Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”

“I went on the Underground —”

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there

escapators? How exactly —”

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“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never

used it before —”

“He’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, watch us

first.”

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the

flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the

powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose

higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted,

“Diagon Alley!” and vanished.

“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told

Harry as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot.

“And be sure to get out at the right grate. …”

“The right what?” said Harry nervously as the fire

roared and whipped George out of sight, too.

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose

from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly

—”

“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley,

helping himself to Floo powder, too.

“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain

to his aunt and uncle?”

“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley

would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a

chimney, don’t worry about that —”

“Well … all right … you go after Arthur,” said Mrs.

Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where

you’re going —”

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“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised.

“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —

”

“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of

the wrong fireplace —”

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you

see Fred and George.”

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a

pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the

fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into

the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a

warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately

swallowed a lot of hot ash.

“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed.

It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant

drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the

roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep

his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him

feel sick — something hard knocked his elbow and he

tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now

it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face —

squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred

stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the

rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were

churning inside him — he closed his eyes again

wishing it would stop, and then —

He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the

bridge of his glasses snap.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to

his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He

was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s

shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a

Hogwarts school list.

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a

cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring

glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the

walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the

counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from

the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry

could see through the dusty shop window was

definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still

stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his

way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before

he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on

the other side of the glass — and one of them was the

very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was

lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses:

Draco Malfoy.

Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large

black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled

the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer

through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy

stepped into the shop.

The man who followed could only be Draco’s father.

He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold,

gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily

at the items on display, and rang a bell on the

counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch

nothing, Draco.”

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I

thought you were going to buy me a present.”

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his

father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House

team?” said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered.

“Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year.

Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play

for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just

because he’s famous … famous for having a stupid

scar on his forehead. …”

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

“… everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter

with his scar and his broomstick —”

“You have told me this at least a dozen times

already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his

son. “And I would remind you that it is not — prudent

— to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when

most of our kind regard him as the hero who made

the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr. Borgin.”

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter,

smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said

Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted —

and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed. How may I

be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and

very reasonably priced —”

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said

Mr. Malfoy.

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s

face.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is

conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll

of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it

for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah — items at

home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were

to call. …”

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and

looked down the list.

“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir,

surely?”

Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.

“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still

commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows

ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a

new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-

bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it

—”

Harry felt a hot surge of anger.

“— and as you see, certain of these poisons might

make it appear —”

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let

me see …”

“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the

withered hand on its cushion.

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning

Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a

candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend

of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste,

sir.”

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“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr.

Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant

—”

“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy,

more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for

—”

“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all

have favorites, that Hermione Granger —”

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of

no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped

Mr. Malfoy.

“Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see

Draco looking both abashed and angry.

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily

voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere —

”

“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils

flaring.

“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a

deep bow.

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said

Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a hurry,

Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today —”

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as

Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place,

examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to

examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read,

smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front

of him. He walked forward — he stretched out his

hand for the handle —

“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco

—”

Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco

turned away.

“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the

manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped

his oily manner.

“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories

are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in

your manor. …”

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back

room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came

back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the

cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop

door.

Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared

around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that

seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the

Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes,

looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty

window display of shrunken heads and, two doors

down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black

spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching

him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each

other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his

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glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a way out of here.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling

poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn

Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of

such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly

enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the

Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what

to do.

“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear,

making him jump.

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of

what looked horribly like whole human fingernails.

She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry

backed away.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just —”

“HARRY! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”

Harry’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of

fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she

cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts

gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black

eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo

powder —”

Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and

pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray

right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all

the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright

sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble

building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Hagrid

had steered him right into Diagon Alley.

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“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Harry so forcefully he nearly knocked him into a

barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary.

“Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno — dodgy

place, Harry — don’ want no one ter see yeh down

there —”

“I realized that, ” said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made

to brush him off again. “I told you, I was lost — what

were you doing down there, anyway?”

“I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,”

growled Hagrid. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages.

Yer not on yer own?”

“I’m staying with the Weasleys but we got separated,”

Harry explained. “I’ve got to go and find them. …”

They set off together down the street.

“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid

as Harry jogged alongside him (he had to take three

steps to every stride of Hagrid’s enormous boots).

Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys.

“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known —”

“Harry! Harry! Over here!”

Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing

at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She

ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying

behind her.

“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid — Oh,

it’s wonderful to see you two again — Are you coming

into Gringotts, Harry?”

“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry.

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“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a

grin.

Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the

crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and

Mr. Weasley.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only

gone one grate too far. …” He mopped his glistening

bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now —”

“Where did you come out?” Ron asked.

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.

“Excellent!” said Fred and George together.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her

handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just

clinging onto the other.

“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been

anywhere —”

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush

out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid

hadn’t managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took

Harry’s glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and

returned them, good as new.

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his

hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you

hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”). “See yer at Hogwarts!”

And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than

anyone else in the packed street.

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“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry

asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the

Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley

sharply behind them.

“No, he was selling —”

“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim

satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for

something. …”

“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply

as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the

door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more

than you can chew —”

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?”

said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted

almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s parents,

who were standing nervously at the counter that ran

all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione

to introduce them.

“But you’re Muggles!” said Mr. Weasley delightedly.

“We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there?

Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He

pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr.

Granger’s hand.

“Meet you back here,” Ron said to Hermione as the

Weasleys and Harry were led off to their underground

vaults by another Gringotts goblin.

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-

driven carts that sped along minature train tracks

through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry

enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’

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vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in

Knock-turn Alley, when it was opened. There was a

very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one

gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners

before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt

even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to

block the contents from view as he hastily shoved

handfuls of coins into a leather bag.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated.

Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill.

Fred and George had spotted their friend from

Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were

going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was

insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky

Cauldron for a drink.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to

buy your schoolbooks,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting off

with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn

Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the

winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and

bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry’s pocket was

clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large

strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they

slurped happily as they wandered up the alley,

examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed

longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the

windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until

Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment

next door. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke

Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who

were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-

Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full

of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old

cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy,

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deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book

called Prefects Who Gained Power.

“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers, ”

Ron read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds

fascinating. …”

“Go away,” Percy snapped.

“ ’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all

planned out. … He wants to be Minister of Magic …”

Ron told Harry and Hermione in an undertone as they

left Percy to it.

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts.

They were by no means the only ones making their

way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw

to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the

doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was

proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the

upper windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I

mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches

around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard

stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies. …

Don’t push, there … mind the books, now. …”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long

line wound right to the back of the shop, where

Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each

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grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the

Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She

sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “We’ll

be able to see him in a minute. …”

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a

table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all

winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the

crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-

me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his

pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his

wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around

taking photographs with a large black camera that

emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding

flash.

“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving

back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet

—”

“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the

photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw

Ron — and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he

leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be

Harry Potter?”

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart

dived forward, seized Harry’s arm, and pulled him to

the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry’s face

burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the

photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting

thick smoke over the Weasleys.

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“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth

the front page.”

When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could

hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to

the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his

shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for

quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The

perfect moment for me to make a little announcement

I’ve been sitting on for some time!

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and

Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography

— which I shall be happy to present him now, free of

charge —” The crowd applauded again. “He had no

idea, ” Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake

that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that

he would shortly be getting much, much more than

my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in

fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and

gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in

announcing that this September, I will be taking up

the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found

himself being presented with the entire works of

Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their

weight, he managed to make his way out of the

limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was

standing next to her new cauldron.

“You have these,” Harry mumbled to her, tipping the

books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own —”

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“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Harry had no trouble recognizing. He straightened up

and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy,

who was wearing his usual sneer.

“Famous Harry Potter,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go

into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny.

It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry.

She was glaring at Malfoy.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” drawled

Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione

fought their way over, both clutching stacks of

Lockhart’s books.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he

were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe.

“Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop,

Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I suppose your parents

will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”

Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into

the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy, but

Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.

“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred

and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in

here, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”

It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s

shoulder, sneering in just the same way.

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

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“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy.

“All those raids … I hope they’re paying you

overtime?”

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from

amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very

battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s

the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if

they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the

name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said.

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to

Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching

apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley …

and I thought your family could sink no lower —”

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went

flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy,

knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of

heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their

heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred

or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur,

no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more

shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the

assistant, and then, louder than all —

“Break it up, there, gents, break it up —”

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of

books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and

Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr.

Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of

Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old

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Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your

father can give you —” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s

grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid,

almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he

straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole

family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth

listenin’ ter — bad blood, that’s what it is — come on

now — let’s get outta here.”

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop

them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s

waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried

up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and

Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.

“A fine example to set for your children … brawling in public … what Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought —”

“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as

we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the

Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his

report — said it was all publicity —”

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the

fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the

Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling

back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said

good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub

for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley

started to ask them how bus stops worked, but

stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face.

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Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. It

definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

THE WHOMPING WILLOW

The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for

Harry’s liking. He was looking forward to getting back

to Hogwarts, but his month at the Burrow had been

the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to feel

jealous of Ron when he thought of the Dursleys and

the sort of welcome he could expect next time he

turned up on Privet Drive.

On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a

sumptuous dinner that included all of Harry’s favorite

things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding.

Fred and George rounded off the evening with a

display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen

with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to

wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a

last mug of hot chocolate and bed.

It took a long while to get started next morning. They

were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to

have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in

a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people

kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of

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toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke

his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed

the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.

Harry couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks,

two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small

Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of course, without the

special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he

opened the trunk and showed him how it had been

magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley

glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred,

George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by

side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give

them credit for, don’t they?” She and Ginny got into

the front seat, which had been stretched so that it

resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it

was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled

out of the yard, Harry turning back for a last look at

the house. He barely had time to wonder when he’d

see it again when they were back — George had

forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes

after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that

Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had

almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked

that she’d left her diary. By the time she had

clambered back into the car, they were running very

late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his

wife.

“Molly, dear —”

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“No, Arthur —”

“No one would see — this little button here is an

Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in

the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there

in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser —”

“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight —”

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr.

Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for

their trunks and they all hurried into the station.

Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous

year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine

and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the

Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through

the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It

didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that

none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at

the clock overhead, which showed they had only five

minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr.

Weasley went next; Fred and George followed.

“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs.

Weasley told Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand

and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone.

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said

to Harry.

Harry made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely

wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley

around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident;

this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo

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powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of

their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the

barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they

broke into a run and —

CRASH.

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward;

Ron’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harry was

knocked off his feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto

the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking

indignantly; people all around them stared and a

guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think

you’re doing?”

“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry gasped, clutching

his ribs as he got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who

was causing such a scene that there was a lot of

muttering about cruelty to animals from the

surrounding crowd.

“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron.

“I dunno —”

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people

were still watching them.

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I

don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself —”

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening

feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds … nine

seconds …

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was

right against the barrier and pushed with all his

might. The metal remained solid.

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Three seconds … two seconds … one second …

“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “The train’s

left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to

us? Have you got any Muggle money?”

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t

given me pocket money for about six years.”

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we

going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and

Dad to get back to us.”

They looked around. People were still watching them,

mainly because of Hedwig’s continuing screeches.

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said

Harry. “We’re attracting too much atten —”

“Harry!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”

“What about it?”

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

“But I thought —”

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school,

haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to

use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or

something of the Restriction of Thingy —”

“But your mum and dad …” said Harry, pushing

against the barrier again in the vain hope that it

would give way. “How will they get home?”

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“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and

reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder

and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not

allowed to Apparate yet. …”

Harry’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to

excitement.

“Can you fly it?”

“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to

face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able

to follow the Hogwarts Express —”

And they marched off through the crowd of curious

Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side

road where the old Ford Anglia was parked.

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of

taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back

in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the

front.

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the

ignition with another tap of his wand. Harry stuck his

head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along

the main road ahead, but their street was empty.

“Okay,” he said.

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard.

The car around them vanished — and so did they.

Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear

the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his

glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had

become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the

ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

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“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from his right.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side

fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in

seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and

glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry,

and Ron reappeared.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster.

“It’s faulty —”

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it

flickered back again.

“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the

accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly

clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

“Now what?” said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of

cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go

in,” said Ron.

“Dip back down again — quickly —”

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted

around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

“I can see it!” Harry yelled. “Right ahead — there!”

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below

them like a scarlet snake.

“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the

dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every

half hour or so — hold on —”

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And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car

skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright,

endless blue under the blinding white sun.

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said

Ron.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a

long time, they couldn’t stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a

fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the

only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy

cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat

pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the

prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces

when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the

sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew

farther and farther north, each dip beneath the

clouds showing them a different view. London was

soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields

that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great

city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages

with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to

admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The

toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had

nothing to drink. He and Ron had pulled off their

sweaters, but Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the back

of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the

end of his sweaty nose. He had stopped noticing the

fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking

longingly of the train miles below, where you could

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buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto

platform nine and three-quarters?

“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours

later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of

cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another

check on the train?”

It was still right below them, winding its way past a

snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath

the canopy of clouds.

Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them

upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to

whine.

Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been

this far before. …”

And they both pretended not to notice the whining

growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily

darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness.

Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the

way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as

though in protest.

“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Harry,

“not far now,” and he patted the dashboard

nervously.

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while

later, they had to squint through the darkness for a

landmark they knew.

“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig

jump. “Straight ahead!”

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Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of

Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing

speed.

“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering

wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on —”

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were

issuing from under the hood. Harry found himself

gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew

toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his

window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface

of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were white

on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.

“Come on, ” Ron muttered.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead

— Ron put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine

died completely.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling,

gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle

wall.

“Noooooo!” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel

around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as

the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark

greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out

over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

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Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket —

“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard

and the windshield, but they were still plummeting,

the ground flying up toward them —

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed,

lunging for the steering wheel, but too late —

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit

the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a

heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the

crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a

golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry’s head

where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron

let out a low, despairing groan.

“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently.

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my

wand —”

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling

limply, held on by a few splinters.

Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be

able to mend it up at the school, but he never even

got started. At that very moment, something hit his

side of the car with the force of a charging bull,

sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an

equally heavy blow hit the roof.

“What’s happen — ?”

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and

Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as

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thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost

double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every

inch of the car it could reach.

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a

large dent into his door; the windshield was now

trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like

twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was

pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be

caving —

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight

against his door, but next second he had been

knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious

uppercut from another branch.

“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but

suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the

engine had restarted.

“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward;

the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear

its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing

out at them as they sped out of reach.

“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car —”

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether.

With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry

felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was

sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him

that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk;

Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open;

she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off

toward the castle without a backward look. Then,

dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off

into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

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“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his

broken wand. “Dad’ll kill me!”

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort

from its exhaust.

“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably,

bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees

we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree,

which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

“Come on,” said Harry wearily, “we’d better get up to

the school. …”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had

pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends

of their trunks and began dragging them up the

grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron,

dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and

crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window.

“Hey — Harry — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered

in at the Great Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over

four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates

and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling,

which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with

stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats,

Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years

filing into the Hall. Ginny was among them, easily

visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Meanwhile,

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Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts

Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and

dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts

houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and

Slytherin). Harry well remembered putting it on,

exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its

decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a few

horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going

to put him in Slytherin, the House that had turned

out more Dark witches and wizards than any other —

but he had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron,

Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys. Last term,

Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the House

Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in

seven years.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called

forward to place the hat on his head. Harry’s eyes

wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore,

the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the

staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon

glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several

seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in

robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was

Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his

goblet.

“Hang on …” Harry muttered to Ron. “There’s an

empty chair at the staff table. … Where’s Snape?”

Professor Severus Snape was Harry’s least favorite

teacher. Harry also happened to be Snape’s least

favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by

everybody except the students from his own House

(Slytherin), Snape taught Potions.

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“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully.

“Maybe he’s left, ” said Harry, “because he missed out

on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!”

“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron

enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him —”

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them,

“he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the

school train.”

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in

a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin

man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy,

shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he

was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were

in very deep trouble.

“Follow me,” said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron

followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing

entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A

delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great

Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and

light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the

dungeons.

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold

passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy

walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in

which floated all manner of revolting things Harry

didn’t really want to know the name of at the

moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape

closed the door and turned to look at them.

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“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick,

Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?”

“No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it —”

“Silence!” said Snape coldly. “What have you done

with the car?”

Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Snape had

given Harry the impression of being able to read

minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Snape

unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet.

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the

headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES

MUGGLES. He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in

London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the

Post Office tower … at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty

Bayliss, while hanging out her washing … Mr. Angus

Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police … Six or seven

Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the

Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking

up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear

… his own son …”

Harry felt as though he’d just been walloped in the

stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches. If

anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car

… he hadn’t thought of that. …

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable

damage seems to have been done to a very valuable

Whomping Willow,” Snape went on.

“That tree did more damage to us than we —” Ron

blurted out.

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“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel

you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the

people who do have that happy power. You will wait

here.”

Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced.

Harry didn’t feel hungry anymore. He now felt

extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy

something suspended in green liquid on a shelf

behind Snape’s desk. If Snape had gone to fetch

Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they

were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than

Snape, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough

it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him.

Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on

several occasions, but either he had forgotten just

how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen

her this angry before. She raised her wand the

moment she entered; Harry and Ron both flinched,

but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace,

where flames suddenly erupted.

“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by

the fire.

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier

at the station refusing to let them through.

“— so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on

the train.”

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you

have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to

Harry.

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Harry gaped at her. Now she’d said it, that seemed

the obvious thing to have done.

“I — I didn’t think —”

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.”

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now

looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood the

headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Harry’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was

looking unusually grave. He stared down his very

crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found

himself wishing he and Ron were still being beaten up

by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said,

“Please explain why you did this.”

It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry

hated the disappointment in his voice. For some

reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the

eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told

Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley

owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though

he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked

outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see

through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no

questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he

merely continued to peer at them through his

spectacles.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless

sort of voice.

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked

Professor McGonagall.

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“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I

must impress upon both of you the seriousness of

what you have done. I will be writing to both your

families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do

anything like this again, I will have no choice but to

expel you.”

Snape looked as though Christmas had been

canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “Professor

Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for

the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious

damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of

this nature —”

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these

boys’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore

calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore her

responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I

must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out

a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-

looking custard tart I want to sample —”

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as

he allowed himself to be swept out of his office,

leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who

was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley,

you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his

eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my

sister being Sorted —”

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“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor

McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, good,” said Ron.

“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall

said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we

took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor

shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should

it?” he finished, watching her anxiously.

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but

he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth

looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said,

and Harry’s heart lightened considerably. “But you

will both get a detention.”

It was better than Harry had expected. As for

Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was

nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be

disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t

squashed him flat.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and

pointed it at Snape’s desk. A large plate of

sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced

pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your

dormitory,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.”

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a

long, low whistle.

“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.

“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too.

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“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and

George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no

Muggle ever saw them. ” He swallowed and took

another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the

barrier?”

Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from

now on, though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of

pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the

feast. …”

“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely.

“Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by

flying car.”

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they

could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left

the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor

Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast

was over. They walked past muttering portraits and

creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of

stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage

where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was

hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in

a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said as they approached.

“Er —” said Harry.

They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having

met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost

immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them

and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them.

“There you are! Where have you been? The most

ridiculous rumors — someone said you’d been

expelled for crashing a flying car —”

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“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.

“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said

Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor

McGonagall.

“Skip the lecture,” said Ron impatiently, “and tell us

the new password.”

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’ ” said Hermione impatiently, “but

that’s not the point —”

Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of

the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden

storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of

Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the

circular common room, standing on the lopsided

tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to

arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull

Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble

in after them.

“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan. “Inspired! What an

entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping

Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years —

”

“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harry had never

spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as

though he’d just won a marathon; Fred and George

pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said

together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?”

Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly,

but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy

at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some

excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get

near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged

Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron

got the point at once.

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“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two of them started pushing their way toward the door on

the other side of the room, which led to a spiral

staircase and the dormitories.

“ ’Night,” Harry called back to Hermione, who was

wearing a scowl just like Percy’s.

They managed to get to the other side of the common

room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the

peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the

top, and at last reached the door of their old

dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying

SECOND YEARS. They entered the familiar, circular

room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet

and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been

brought up for them and stood at the ends of their

beds.

Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.

“I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that or anything, but —

”

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other

second year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean

Thomas, and Neville Longbottom.

“Unbelievable!” beamed Seamus.

“Cool,” said Dean.

“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck.

Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too.

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GILDEROY LOCKHART

The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once.

Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the

Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden

with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains

of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the

enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harry

and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to

Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with

Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was

a slight stiffness in the way she said “ ’Morning,”

which told Harry that she was still disapproving of the

way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the

other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a

round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst

memory of anyone Harry had ever met.

“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a

few things I forgot.”

Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure

enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a

hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and

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dropping letters and packages into the chattering

crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s

head and, a second later, something large and gray

fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk

and feathers.

“Errol!” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by

the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table,

his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his

beak.

“Oh, no —” Ron gasped.

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding

Errol gently with the tip of her finger.

“It’s not that — it’s that. ”

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite

ordinary to Harry, but Ron and Neville were both

looking at it as though they expected it to explode.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly.

“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid

whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me

one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was

horrible.”

Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red

envelope.

“What’s a Howler?” he said.

But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter,

which had begun to smoke at the corners.

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“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes —”

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope

from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his

fingers in his ears. A split second later, Harry knew

why. He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar

of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the

ceiling.

“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN

SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT

TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU

STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I

WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than

usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table,

and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People

throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who

had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his

chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.

“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I

THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME,

WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS,

YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —”

Harry had been wondering when his name was going

to crop up. He tried very hard to look as though he

couldn’t hear the voice that was making his eardrums

throb.

“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S

FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR

FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE

WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME. ”

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A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron’s hand, burst into flames and

curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as

though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few

people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke

out again.

Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked

down at the top of Ron’s head.

“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you

—”

“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron.

Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were

burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry

at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for

him over the summer …

But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor

McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table,

handing out course schedules. Harry took his and

saw that they had double Herbology with the

Hufflepuffs first.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together,

crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the

greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At

least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione

seemed to think they had now been punished enough

and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of

the class standing outside, waiting for Professor

Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just

joined them when she came striding into view across

the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and

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Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the

Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its

branches now in slings.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a

patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually

a large amount of earth on her clothes and her

fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint.

Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in

sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining

under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold

trimming.

“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the

assembled students. “Just been showing Professor

Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow!

But I don’t want you running away with the idea that

I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to

have met several of these exotic plants on my travels

…”

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor

Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at

all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever

worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three

housed far more interesting and dangerous plants.

Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and

unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp

earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume

of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from

the ceiling. He was about to follow Ron and Hermione

inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.

“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if

he’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor

Sprout?”

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Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the

greenhouse door in her face.

“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming

in the sunlight as he shook his head. “Harry, Harry,

Harry.”

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.

“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault.

Could have kicked myself.”

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was

about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know

when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to

Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d

done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry. ”

It was remarkable how he could show every one of

those brilliant teeth even when he wasn’t talking.

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said

Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front

page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do

it again.”

“Oh, no, Professor, see —”

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out

and grasping his shoulder. “I understand. Natural to

want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste —

and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was

bound to go to your head — but see here, young man,

you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself

noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for

all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what

you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an

internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I

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was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I

mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they?

All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”

He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead.

“I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning

Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five

times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s

a start. ”

He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry

stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering

he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened

the door and slid inside.

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench

in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of

different-colored ear-muffs were lying on the bench.

When Harry had taken his place between Ron and

Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes

today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the

Mandrake?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into

the air.

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,”

said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had

swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people

who have been transfigured or cursed to their original

state.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor

Sprout. “The Mandrake forms an essential part of

most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who

can tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as

it shot up again.

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“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said promptly.

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor

Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still

very young.”

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and

everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred

or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were

growing there in rows. They looked quite

unremarkable to Harry, who didn’t have the slightest

idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the

Mandrake.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor

Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair

that wasn’t pink and fluffy.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears

are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When

it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-

up. Right — earmuffs on. ”

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut

out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink,

fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of

her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and

pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could

hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly

baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were

growing right out of his head. He had pale green,

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mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under

the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying

him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted

leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her

hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed

her own earmuffs.

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries

won’t kill yet,” she said calmly as though she’d just

done nothing more exciting than water a begonia.

“However, they will knock you out for several hours,

and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first

day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in

place while you work. I will attract your attention

when it is time to pack up.

“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here

— compost in the sacks over there — and be careful

of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as

she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had

been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by

a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but

had never spoken to.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking

Harry by the hand. “Know who you are, of course, the

famous Harry Potter. … And you’re Hermione Granger

— always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she

had her hand shaken too) “— and Ron Weasley.

Wasn’t that your flying car?”

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Ron didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin

happily as they began filling their plant pots with

dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave chap. Have you

read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been

cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he

stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.

“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell

you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course,

Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made

her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see

how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the

family. …”

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their

earmuffs were back on and they needed to

concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had

made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The

Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but

didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They

squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and

gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes

trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was

sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone

traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then

the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard

work, but today was especially difficult. Everything

Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked

out of his head during the summer. He was supposed

to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he

managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as

it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand.

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Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched

up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it

seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept

crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every

time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed

him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs.

Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally

squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for

a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain

felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the

classroom except him and Ron, who was whacking

his wand furiously on the desk.

“Stupid — useless — thing —”

“Write home for another one,” Harry suggested as the

wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.

“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ron,

stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. “ ‘ It’s your

own fault your wand got snapped —’ ”

They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not

improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of

perfect coat buttons she had produced in

Transfiguration.

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harry, hastily

changing the subject.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at

once.

“Why, ” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have

you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”

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Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing

furiously.

They finished lunch and went outside into the

overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone

step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires

again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch

for several minutes before Harry became aware that

he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw the

very small, mousy-haired boy he’d seen trying on the

Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though

transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an

ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry

looked at him, he went bright red.

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said

breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in

Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if

— can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera

hopefully.

“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey

eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you.

Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when

You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he

disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a

lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked

Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I

develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll

move. ” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of

excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I

never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I

got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he

couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of

pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good

if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Harry

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— “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos,

Potter?”

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed

around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind

Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his

large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “Harry

Potter’s giving out signed photos!”

“No, I’m not,” said Harry angrily, his fists clenching.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire

body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck.

“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout

anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. “Of

what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head,

thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open

makes you that special, myself.”

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped

laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a

menacing way.

“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t

want to start any trouble or your mommy’ll have to

come and take you away from school.” He put on a

shrill, piercing voice. “If you put another toe out of line

—”

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A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this.

“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked

Malfoy. “It’d be worth more than his family’s whole

house —”

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione

shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and

whispered, “Look out!”

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart

was striding toward them, his turquoise robes

swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed

photos?”

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as

Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and

thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet

again, Harry!”

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with

humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy slide smirking back

into the crowd.

“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming

at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that,

and we’ll both sign it for you.”

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as

the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of

afternoon classes.

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the

crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry,

who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell,

still clasped to his side.

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“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I

covered up for you back there with young Creevey —

if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates

won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much. …”

Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down

a corridor lined with staring students and up a

staircase.

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at

this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad

bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a

time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy

wherever you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I

don’t think you’re quite there yet.”

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let

Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and

headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where

he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s

books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking

at the real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and

Hermione sat down on either side of Harry.

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron.

“You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or

they’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”

“Shut up,” snapped Harry. The last thing he needed

was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan

club.”

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared

his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward,

picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with

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Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well.

“Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class,

Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League,

and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-

Charming-Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that.

I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at

her!”

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled

weakly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books —

well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz.

Nothing to worry about — just to check how well

you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”

When he had handed out the test papers he returned

to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty

minutes — start — now!”

Harry looked down at his paper and read:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s

greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right

down to:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what

would his ideal gift be?

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Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my

favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti.

And a few of you need to read Wanderings with

Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in

chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be

harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples —

though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s

Old Firewhisky!”

He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now

staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on

his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who

were sitting in front, were shaking with silent

laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening

to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when

he mentioned her name.

“… but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret

ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my

own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” —

he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is

Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione raised a trembling hand.

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take

ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —”

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large,

covered cage onto it.

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against

the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may

find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room.

Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am

here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

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In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a

hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped

laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row

seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a

low voice. “It might provoke them.”

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped

off the cover.

“Yes,” he said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish

pixies. ”

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out

a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t

mistake for a scream of terror.

“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are

they?” Seamus choked.

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger

annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters

they can be!”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches

high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was

like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment

the cover had been removed, they had started

jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and

making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what

you make of them!” And he opened the cage.

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It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every

direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by

the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot

straight through the window, showering the back row

with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the

classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino.

They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with

them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from

the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags

and books and threw them out of the smashed

window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering

under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron

chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now — round them up, round them up,

they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and

bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!”

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his

wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart

gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly

avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second

later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the

exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart

straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and

Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said,

“Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them

back into their cage.” He swept past them and shut

the door quickly behind him.

“Can you believe him?” roared Ron as one of the

remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.

“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,”

said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a

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clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into

their cage.

“Hands on?” said Harry, who was trying to grab a

pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out.

“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing

—”

“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read his books —

look at all those amazing things he’s done —”

“He says he’s done,” Ron muttered.

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MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS

Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days

dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy

Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid

was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized

Harry’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a

bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harry?” six or

seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back,

however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.

Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the

disasterous car journey and Ron’s wand was still

malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning

by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting

tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes,

creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had

struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was

quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and

Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday

morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several

hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver

Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

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“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.

“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!”

Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist

hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he

was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could

have slept through the racket the birds were making.

“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.”

“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth

year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with

a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training

program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,”

said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have

started training yet; we’re going to be first off the

mark this year —”

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of

bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.

“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in

fifteen minutes.”

When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on

his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron

explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral

staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two

Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the

portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and

Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral

staircase, his camera swinging madly around his

neck and something clutched in his hand.

“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs,

Harry! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I

wanted to show you —”

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Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose.

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard

on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was

pleased to see that his photographic self was putting

up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view.

As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped,

panting, against the white edge of the picture.

“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.

“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that

the room was really deserted. “Sorry, Colin, I’m in a

hurry — Quidditch practice —”

He climbed through the portrait hole.

“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch

game before!”

Colin scrambled through the hole after him.

“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin

ignored him, his face shining with excitement.

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred

years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” said Colin,

trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve

never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is

that the best one there is?”

Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like

having an extremely talkative shadow.

“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin

breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two

of them fly around trying to knock people off their

brooms?”

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“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. “They’re called

Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who

carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side.

Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.”

“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked,

tripping down a couple of steps because he was

gazing open-mouthed at Harry.

“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is

the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each

team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get

it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch —

they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.”

“And the fourth ball —”

“— is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very

small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that’s what

the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch

doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And

whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his

team an extra hundred and fifty points.”

“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said

Colin in awe.

“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started

across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the

Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That’s it,

really.”

But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way

down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and

Harry only shook him off when he reached the

changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping

voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried

off to the stands.

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The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked

truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting,

puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year

Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against

the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell

and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side

opposite them.

“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood

briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all

before we actually get onto the field, because I spent

the summer devising a whole new training program,

which I really think will make all the difference. …”

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch

field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and

crosses in different-colored inks. He took out his

wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to

wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood

launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred

Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s

shoulder and he began to snore.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain,

but there was another board under that, and a third

under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood

droned on and on.

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a

wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for

breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is

that clear? Any questions?”

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had

woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all

this yesterday when we were awake?”

Wood wasn’t pleased.

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“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year.

We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately —

owing to circumstances beyond our control —”

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been

unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match

of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had

been a player short and had suffered their worst

defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself.

Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

“So this year, we train harder than ever before. …

Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!”

Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the

way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still

yawning, his team followed.

They had been in the locker room so long that the

sun was up completely now, although remnants of

mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry

walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione

sitting in the stands.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously

at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had

brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching

us new moves.”

He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the

ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air

whipped his face, waking him far more effectively

than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on

the Quidditch field. He soared right around the

stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.

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“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.

Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one

of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture

after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the

deserted stadium.

“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly.

“Who’s that?” said Fred.

“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that

took him as far away as possible from Colin.

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he

skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s that

first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a

Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new

training program.”

“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly.

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said

George.

“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily.

“Because they’re here in person,” said George,

pointing.

Several people in green robes were walking onto the

field, broomsticks in their hands.

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked

the field for today! We’ll see about this!”

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Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as

he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George followed.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This

is our practice time! We got up specially! You can

clear off now!”

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a

look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied,

“Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There

were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood

shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering

to a man.

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting

with rage. “I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note

here from Professor Snape. ‘ I, Professor S. Snape, give

the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the

Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new

Seeker. ’ ”

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted.

“Where?”

And from behind the six large figures before them

came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his

pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking

at Malfoy with dislike.

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint

as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly.

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“Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.”

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven

highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of

fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two

Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’

noses in the early morning sun.

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said

Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end

of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two

Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the

old Cleansweeps” — he smiled nastily at Fred and

George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives —

“sweeps the board with them.”

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything

to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly

his cold eyes were reduced to slits.

“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.”

Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see

what was going on.

“What’s happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren’t

you playing? And what’s he doing here?”

He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin

Quidditch robes.

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy,

smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms

my father’s bought our team.”

Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb

broomsticks in front of him.

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“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But

perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some

gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off

those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would

bid for them.”

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy

their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on

pure talent.”

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little

Mudblood,” he spat.

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something

really bad because there was an instant uproar at his

words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred

and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How

dare you!”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes,

pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one,

Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at

Malfoy’s face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of

green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’s wand,

hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling

backward onto the grass.

“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came

out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several

slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter.

Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new

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broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours,

banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were

gathered around Ron, who kept belching large,

glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch

him.

“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said

Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair

of them pulled Ron up by the arms.

“What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill?

But you can cure him, can’t you?” Colin had run

down from his seat and was now dancing alongside

them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and

more slugs dribbled down his front.

“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera.

“Can you hold him still, Harry?”

“Get out of the way, Colin!” said Harry angrily. He and

Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and

across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the

gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right

in a minute — almost there —”

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when

the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who

emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest

mauve today, came striding out.

“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron

behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed, somewhat

reluctantly.

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!”

Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need

help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of

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my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one —

I’ll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!”

And he strode away toward the castle.

Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then

pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front

door. They knocked urgently.

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but

his expression brightened when he saw who it was.

“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come

in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor

Lockhart back again —”

Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the

threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an

enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily

in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s

slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he

lowered Ron into a chair.

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a

large copper basin in front of him. “Get ’em all up,

Ron.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it

to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend

over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the

best of times, but with a broken wand —”

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His

boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry

asked, scratching Fang’s ears.

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,”

growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his

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scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he

banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts

teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise.

Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher

than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair.

Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the

best man for the job —”

“He was the on’y man for the job,” said Hagrid,

offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron

coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the

on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the

Dark Arts job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on,

see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No one’s

lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid,

jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter

curse?”

“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been

really bad, because everyone went wild.”

“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the

tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her

‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid —”

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs

made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.

“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.

“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I

could tell it was really rude, of course —”

“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,”

gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really

foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you

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know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards —

like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than

everyone else because they’re what people call pure-

blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell

into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin

and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t

make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom

— he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a

cauldron the right way up.”

“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’

do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a

brilliant shade of magenta.

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron,

wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty

blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most

wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we

hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,”

said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs

hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer

wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come

marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least

yer not in trouble.”

Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn’t

come much worse than having slugs pouring out of

your mouth, but he couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee

had cemented his jaws together.

“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a

sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve

heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I

haven’t got one?”

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Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said

hotly. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around —”

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.

“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Harry genially on the

back and sending him face first into the table. “I knew

yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh.

Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”

“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sitting up and

rubbing his chin.

“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling.

“An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’

he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as

Ron reappeared.

“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”

“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as

Harry and Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house

were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever

seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.

“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily.

“Fer the Halloween feast … should be big enough by

then.”

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they

were alone.

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“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help

—”

Harry noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning

against the back wall of the cabin. Harry had had

reason to believe before now that this umbrella was

not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression

that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it.

Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic. He had been

expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry

had never found out why — any mention of the

matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and

become mysteriously deaf until the subject was

changed.

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione,

halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well,

you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid,

nodding at Ron. “Met her jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid

looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. “Said

she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon

she was hopin’ she might run inter someone else at

my house.” He winked at Harry. “If yeh ask me, she

wouldn’ say no ter a signed —”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter

and the ground was sprayed with slugs.

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his

precious pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had

one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, he was keen to go

back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid

and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing

occasionally, but only bringing up two very small

slugs.

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They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter —

Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward

them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions

this evening.”

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously

suppressing a burp.

“You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room

with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no

magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed

by every student in the school.

“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart

answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room,

too?” said Harry desperately.

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising

her eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you

particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.”

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states

of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a

well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression.

Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie as much as he’d

thought. Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse

deal.

“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily.

“No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in

that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.”

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“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly. “I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering

Lockhart’s fan mail … he’ll be a nightmare. …”

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what

seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and

Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor

corridor to Lockhart’s office. He gritted his teeth and

knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at

him.

“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in, Harry,

come in —”

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many

candles were countless framed photographs of

Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another

large pile lay on his desk.

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry,

as though this was a huge treat. “This first one’s to

Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine —”

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart’s voice

wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and

“Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then he caught a phrase

like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as

celebrity does, remember that.”

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light

dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart

watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over

what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out

Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to

leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time. …

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And then he heard something — something quite

apart from the spitting of the dying candles and

Lockhart’s prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a

voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

“Come … come to me. … Let me rip you. … Let me tear you. … Let me kill you. …”

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot

appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street.

“What?” he said loudly.

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top

of the best-seller list! Broke all records!”

“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!”

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”

“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

“What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re

getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time!

“We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have

believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was straining his ears to hear

the voice again, but there was no sound now except

for Lockhart telling him he mustn’t expect a treat like

this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry

left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was

almost empty. Harry went straight up to the

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dormitory. Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later,

Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a

strong smell of polish into the darkened room.

“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking

on his bed. “Fourteen times he made me buff up that

Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I

had another slug attack all over a Special Award for

Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off.

… How was it with Lockhart?”

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean,

and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had

heard.

“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron.

Harry could see him frowning in the moonlight.

“D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it — even

someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”

“I know,” said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and

staring at the canopy above him. “I don’t get it either.”

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THE DEATHDAY PARTY

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the

grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the

nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds

among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion

worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking

at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny

Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into

taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under

her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole

head was on fire.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle

windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower

beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s

pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver

Wood’s enthusiasm for regular training sessions,

however, was not dampened, which was why Harry

was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon

a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor

Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.

Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a

happy practice session. Fred and George, who had

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been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for

themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two

Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin

team was no more than seven greenish blurs,

shooting through the air like missiles.

As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he

came across somebody who looked just as

preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the

ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of

a window, muttering under his breath, “… don’t fulfill

their requirements … half an inch, if that …”

“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and

looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his

long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which

concealed the fact that his neck was almost

completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry

could see right through him to the dark sky and

torrential rain outside.

“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a

transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside

his doublet.

“So do you,” said Harry.

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a

matter of no importance. … It’s not as though I really

wanted to join. … Thought I’d apply, but apparently I

‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —”

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great

bitterness on his face.

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted

suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket,

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“that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless

Hunt?”

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed

to agree.

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all

been quick and clean, and my head had come off

properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal

of pain and ridicule. However —” Nearly Headless

Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

“ ‘ We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have

parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate

that it would be impossible otherwise for members to

participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-

Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret,

therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill

our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick

Delaney-Podmore.’ ”

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.

“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on,

Harry! Most people would think that’s good and

beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly

Decapitated-Podmore.”

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and

then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s

bothering you? Anything I can do?”

“No,” said Harry. “Not unless you know where we can

get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for

our match against Sly —”

The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a

high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his

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ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the

skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker,

Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle

against students.

“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Nick

quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu

and some third years accidentally plastered frog

brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been

cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud

all over the place —”

“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing

stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn

to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to

connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst

suddenly through a tapestry to Harry’s right,

wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-

breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around

his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes

popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy

puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch

robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough

of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”

So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless

Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the

number of muddy footprints on the floor.

Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it

was a place most students avoided. The room was

dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp

dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried

fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets

stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could

see that they contained details of every pupil Filch

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had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an

entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished

collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall

behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that

he was always begging Dumbledore to let him

suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and

began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon

bogies … frog brains … rat intestines … I’ve had

enough of it … make an example … where’s the form

… yes …”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk

drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping

his long black quill into the ink pot.

“Name … Harry Potter. Crime …”

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry.

“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an

extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering

unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “Crime

… befouling the castle … suggested sentence …”

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted

unpleasantly at Harry, who waited with bated breath

for his sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great

BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil

lamp rattle.

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a

transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have

you!”

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And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran

flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking

alongside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne

menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry

didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling

grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves

had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked

something very big this time) would distract Filch

from Harry.

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to

come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next

to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from

his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple

envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a

quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on

his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:

KWIKSPELL

A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic

Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled

out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver

writing on the front page said:

Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find

yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells?

Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?

There is an answer!

Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-

learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have

benefited from the Kwikspell method!

Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:

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“I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am

the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the

recipe of my Scintillation Solution!”

Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:

“My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one

month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I

succeeded in turning her into a yak!

Thank you, Kwikspell!”

Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the

envelope’s contents. Why on earth did Filch want a

Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a proper

wizard? Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding

Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling

footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back.

Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry

threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he

was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves

out this time, my sweet —”

His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the

Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late,

was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Harry braced

himself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across

to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it

into a drawer.

“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.

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“No,” Harry lied quickly.

Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together.

“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s

mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however —

”

Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never

looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was

going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan

scarf didn’t help.

“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word — not

that — however, if you didn’t read — go now, I have to

write up Peeves’ report — go —”

Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up

the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from

Filch’s office without punishment was probably some

kind of school record.

“Harry! Harry! Did it work?”

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom.

Behind him, Harry could see the wreckage of a large

black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been

dropped from a great height.

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s

office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract

him —”

“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully. “Yeah, it

worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!”

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless

Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s

rejection letter.

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“I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry

walked right through him. He wished he hadn’t; it

was like stepping through an icy shower.

“But there is something you could do for me,” said

Nick excitedly. “Harry — would I be asking too much

— but no, you wouldn’t want —”

“What is it?” said Harry.

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth

deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing

himself up and looking dignified.

“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look

sorry or happy about this. “Right.”

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier

dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the

country. It would be such an honor if you would

attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most

welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you’d rather

go to the school feast?” He watched Harry on

tenterhooks.

“No,” said Harry quickly, “I’ll come —”

“My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party!

And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think

you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very

frightening and impressive you find me?”

“Of — of course,” said Harry.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.

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“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when

Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in

the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living

people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll

be fascinating!”

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they

died?” said Ron, who was halfway through his Potions

homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead depressing to

me. …”

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now

inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful.

The firelight glowed over the countless squashy

armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing

homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley,

trying to find out what would happen if you fed a

Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had

“rescued” the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard

from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was

now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a

knot of curious people.

Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione

about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the

salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting

loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the

room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at

Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine

stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its

escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions,

drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from

Harry’s mind.

By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting

his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest

of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween

feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the

usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been

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carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had

booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the

entertainment.

“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry

bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.”

So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked

straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall,

which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and

candles, and directed their steps instead toward the

dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s

party had been lined with candles, too, though the

effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin,

jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a

dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The

temperature dropped with every step they took. As

Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around

him, he heard what sounded like a thousand

fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered. They

turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick

standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome,

welcome … so pleased you could come. …”

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of

hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly

drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the

dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws,

played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped

platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue

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with a thousand more black candles. Their breath

rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a

freezer.

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested,

wanting to warm up his feet.

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron

nervously, and they set off around the edge of the

dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a

ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a

cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight

with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry

wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a

gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver

bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the

other ghosts.

“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly. “Turn

back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning

Myrtle —”

“Who?” said Harry as they backtracked quickly.

“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom

on the first floor,” said Hermione.

“She haunts a toilet?”

“Yes. It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps

having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went

in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to

have a pee with her wailing at you —”

“Look, food!” said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table,

also covered in black velvet. They approached it

eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks,

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horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large,

rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters;

cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on

salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of

cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of

place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a

tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached

the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his

mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the

stinking salmon.

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked

him.

“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,”

said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and

leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.

They had barely turned around, however, when a

little man swooped suddenly from under the table and

came to a halt in midair before them.

“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist

was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was

wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie,

and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

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“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

“No thanks,” said Hermione.

“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves,

his eyes dancing. “Rude you was about poor Myrtle.”

He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OY! MYRTLE!”

“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be

really upset,” Hermione whispered frantically. “I didn’t

mean it, I don’t mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.”

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the

glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden

behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

“What?” she said sulkily.

“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely

bright voice. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.”

Myrtle sniffed.

“Miss Granger was just talking about you —” said

Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.

“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,”

said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.

Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re making fun of me,” she said, silver tears

welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.

“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s

looking?” said Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron

painfully in the ribs.

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“Oh, yeah —”

“She did —”

“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding

down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her

shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what people call

me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle!

Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!”

“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled

from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her

with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply! Pimply!”

“Oh, dear,” said Hermione sadly.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them

through the crowd.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

“Oh, yes,” they lied.

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick

proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up

from Kent. … It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better

go and warn the orchestra. …”

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very

moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell

silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting

horn sounded.

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost

horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The

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assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor

and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the

pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head

under his arm, from which position he was blowing

the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high

in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone

laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick,

squashing his head back onto his neck.

“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in

there?”

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless

Nick on the shoulder.

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.

“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and

Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of

astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the

crowd howled with laughter).

“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.

“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from

the floor. “Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt!

But I mean to say — look at the fellow —”

“I think,” said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look

from Nick, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er —”

“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to

say that!”

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my

speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding

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toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue

spotlight.

“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is

my great sorrow …”

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the

rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of

Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch.

Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his

audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went

sailing past him to loud cheers.

Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his

teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into

action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance

floor.

“Let’s go,” Harry agreed.

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming

at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later

were hurrying back up the passageway full of black

candles.

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron

hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the

entrance hall.

And then Harry heard it.

“… rip … tear … kill …”

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous

voice he had heard in Lockhart’s office.

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He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting

up and down the dimly lit passageway.

“Harry, what’re you — ?”

“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”

“… soo hungry … for so long …”

“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione

froze, watching him.

“… kill … time to kill …”

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was

moving away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and

excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark

ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a

phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?

“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the

stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to

hear anything here, the babble of talk from the

Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall.

Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first

floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.

“Harry, what’re we —”

“SHH!”

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor

above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice:

“… I smell blood. … I SMELL BLOOD!”

His stomach lurched —

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“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring Ron’s and Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the

next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen

over his own pounding footsteps —

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor,

Ron and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping

until they turned a corner into the last, deserted

passage.

“Harry, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping

sweat off his face. “I couldn’t hear anything. …”

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the

corridor.

“Look!”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They

approached slowly, squinting through the darkness.

Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall

between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by

the flaming torches.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron,

a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there

was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and

Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the

message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All

three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt

backward with a splash.

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Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board,

her eyes wide and staring.

For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said,

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Harry began

awkwardly.

“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found

here.”

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant

thunder, told them that the feast had just ended.

From either end of the corridor where they stood

came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the

stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people;

next moment, students were crashing into the

passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as

the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the

corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students

pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next,

Mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of

the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless

face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the

hanging, immobile cat.

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THE WRITING ON THE WALL

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch

came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then

he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in

horror.

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he

shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry.

“You!” he screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat!

You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll —”

“Argus!”

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a

number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept

past Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs.

Norris from the torch bracket.

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“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs —

please feel free —”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart,

looking excited and important, hurried after

Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and

Snape.

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was

a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw

several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of

sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the

candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid

Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to

examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged

tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of

candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was

barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking

at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his

long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor

McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes

narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in

shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was

as though he was trying hard not to smile. And

Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making

suggestions.

“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably

the Trans-mogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many

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times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very

countercurse that would have saved her. …”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry,

racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk,

unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands.

Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling

a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he

felt for himself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, he

would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under

his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but

nothing happened: She continued to look as though

she had been recently stuffed.

“… I remember something very similar happening in

Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks,

the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to

provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which

cleared the matter up at once. …”

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all

nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had

forgotten to remove his hair net.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting

the number of murders he had prevented.

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers

at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all stiff and

frozen?”

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“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I

thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say.

…”

“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and

tearstained face to Harry.

“No second year could have done this,” said

Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the

most advanced —”

“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face

purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He

found — in my office — he knows I’m a — I’m a —”

Filch’s face worked horribly. “He knows I’m a Squib!”

he finished.

“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly,

uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him,

including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t

even know what a Squib is.”

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell

letter!”

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the

shadows, and Harry’s sense of foreboding increased;

he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to

do him any good.

“Potter and his friends may have simply been in the

wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer

curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we

do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why

was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he

at the Halloween feast?”

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Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an

explanation about the deathday party. “… there were

hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there —”

“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape,

his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go

up to that corridor?”

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.

“Because — because —” Harry said, his heart

thumping very fast; something told him it would

sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led

there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear,

“because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” he

said.

“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant

smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think

ghosts provided food fit for living people at their

parties.”

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach

gave a huge rumble.

Snape’s nasty smile widened.

“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being

entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if

he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready

to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should

be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is

ready to be honest.”

“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply,

“I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch.

This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick.

There is no evidence at all that Potter has done

anything wrong.”

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Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His

twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though

he were being X-rayed.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said

firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes

popping. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore

patiently. “Professer Sprout recently managed to

procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have

reached their full size, I will have a potion made that

will revive Mrs. Norris.”

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it

a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake

Restorative Draught in my sleep —”

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the

Potions master at this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and

Hermione.

They went, as quickly as they could without actually

running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart’s

office, they turned into an empty classroom and

closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted

at his friends’ darkened faces.

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice

I heard?”

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“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the

wizarding world.”

Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do

believe me, don’t you?”

“ ’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must

admit it’s weird. …”

“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s

weird. What was that writing on the wall about? ‘The

Chamber Has Been Opened’. … What’s that supposed

to mean?”

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I

think someone told me a story about a secret

chamber at Hogwarts once … might’ve been Bill. …”

“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry.

To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.

“Well — it’s not funny really — but as it’s Filch,” he

said. “A Squib is someone who was born into a

wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers.

Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but

Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch’s trying to learn

magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a

Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates

students so much.” Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s

bitter.”

A clock chimed somewhere.

“Midnight,” said Harry. “We’d better get to bed before

Snape comes along and tries to frame us for

something else.”

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* * *

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but

the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in

everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had

been attacked, as though he thought the attacker

might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the

message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose

Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words

still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When

Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was

skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out

at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in

detention for things like “breathing loudly” and

“looking happy.”

Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs.

Norris’s fate. According to Ron, she was a great cat

lover.

“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron

told her bracingly. “Honestly, we’re much better off

without her.” Ginny’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this

doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her.

“They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out

of here in no time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify

Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking —” Ron

added hastily as Ginny blanched.

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was

quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of time

reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else.

Nor could Harry and Ron get much response from her

when they asked what she was up to, and not until

the following Wednesday did they find out.

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape

had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off

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the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming

toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say

hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned

abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction.

Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring

his History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had

asked for a three-foot-long composition on “The

Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”

“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short. …” said

Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, which

sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s done four

feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny. ”

“Where is she?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape

measure and unrolling his own homework.

“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the

shelves. “Looking for another book. I think she’s

trying to read the whole library before Christmas.”

Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running

away from him.

“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an

idiot,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing

as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart

being so great —”

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves.

She looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk

to them.

“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,” she said, sitting down next to Harry and Ron.

“And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t

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left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.”

“Why do you want it?” said Harry.

“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said

Hermione, “to read up on the legend of the Chamber

of Secrets.”

“What’s that?” said Harry quickly.

“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione,

biting her lip. “And I can’t find the story anywhere

else —”

“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron

desperately, checking his watch.

“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve

had ten days to finish it —”

“I only need another two inches, come on —”

The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to

History of Magic, bickering.

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their

schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their

only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that

ever happened in his classes was his entering the

room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled,

many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He

had simply got up to teach one day and left his body

behind him in an armchair in front of the staffroom

fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened

his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old

vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was

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in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep

again. He had been speaking for half an hour when

something happened that had never happened before.

Hermione put up her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly

dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention

of 1289, looked amazed.

“Miss — er — ?”

“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell

us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said

Hermione in a clear voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth

hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of

his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her

arms and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his

desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry,

wheezy voice. “I deal with, facts, Miss Granger, not

myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a

small noise like chalk snapping and continued, “In

September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian

sorcerers —”

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving

in the air again.

“Miss Grant?”

“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in

fact?”

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Professor Binns was looking at her in such

amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever

interrupted him before, alive or dead.

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could

argue that, I suppose.” He peered at Hermione as

though he had never seen a student properly before.

“However, the legend of which you speak is such a

very sensational, even ludicrous tale —”

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor

Binns’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every

face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely

thrown by such an unusual show of interest.

“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see … the

Chamber of Secrets …

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded

over a thousand years ago — the precise date is

uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards

of the age. The four school Houses are named after

them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena

Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this

castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was

an age when magic was feared by common people,

and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and

continued.

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony

together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of

magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated.

But then disagreements sprang up between them. A

rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others.

Slytherin wished to be more selective about the

students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that

magical learning should be kept within all-magic

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families. He disliked taking students of Muggle

parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After

a while, there was a serious argument on the subject

between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left

the school.”

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips,

looking like a wrinkled old tortoise.

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he

said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by

the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The

story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber

in the castle, of which the other founders knew

nothing.

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the

Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to

open it until his own true heir arrived at the school.

The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber

of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to

purge the school of all who were unworthy to study

magic.”

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but

it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor

Binns’s classes. There was unease in the air as

everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more.

Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he

said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for

evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most

learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale

told to frighten the gullible.”

Hermione’s hand was back in the air.

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“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror

within’ the Chamber?”

“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which

the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor

Binns in his dry, reedy voice.

The class exchanged nervous looks.

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor

Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and

no monster.”

“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can

only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else

would be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an

aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts

headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the

thing —”

“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d

probably have to use Dark Magic to open it —”

“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic

doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped

Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore

—”

“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so

Dumbledore couldn’t —” began Dean Thomas, but

Professor Binns had had enough.

“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does

not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that

Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom

cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We

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will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!”

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into

its usual torpor.

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old

loony,” Ron told Harry and Hermione as they fought

their way through the teeming corridors at the end of

the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I

never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I

wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, if

the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve

got the train straight back home. …”

Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say

anything. His stomach had just dropped

unpleasantly.

Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the

Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in

Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were

yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear

when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before:

You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your

head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to

greatness, no doubt about that. …

But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin

House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had

thought desperately, Not Slytherin! and the hat had

said, Oh, well, if you’re sure … better be Gryffindor. …

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin

Creevey went past.

“Hiya, Harry!”

“Hullo, Colin,” said Harry automatically.

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“Harry — Harry — a boy in my class has been saying you’re —”

But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the

tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they

heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he was

gone.

“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?”

Hermione wondered.

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, his

stomach dropping another inch or so as he suddenly

remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run

away from him at lunchtime.

“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust.

The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the

next staircase without difficulty.

“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?”

Ron asked Hermione.

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore

couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think

that whatever attacked her might not be — well —

human.”

As she spoke, they turned a corner and found

themselves at the end of the very corridor where the

attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The

scene was just as it had been that night, except that

there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket,

and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the

message “The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.”

“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron

muttered.

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They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.

“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry,

dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees

so that he could crawl along, searching for clues.

“Scorch marks!” he said. “Here — and here —”

“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is

funny. …”

Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the

message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the

topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were

scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small

crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope,

as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get

outside.

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said

Hermione wonderingly.

“No,” said Harry, “have you, Ron? Ron?”

He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well

back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.

“What’s up?” said Harry.

“I — don’t — like — spiders,” said Ron tensely.

“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in

surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of

times. …”

“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully

looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like

the way they move. …”

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Hermione giggled.

“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know,

when I was three, Fred turned my — my teddy bear

into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy

broomstick. … You wouldn’t like them either if you’d

been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many

legs and …”

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously

still trying not to laugh. Feeling they had better get off

the subject, Harry said, “Remember all that water on

the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s

mopped it up.”

“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to

walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing.

“Level with this door.”

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly

withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’

toilet.”

“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said

Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s

Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”

And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she

opened the door.

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry

had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and

spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor

was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the

stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders;

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the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and

scratched and one of them was dangling off its

hinges.

Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off

toward the end stall. When she reached it she said,

“Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”

Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was

floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on

her chin.

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and

Harry suspiciously. “They’re not girls.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them

how — er — nice it is in here.”

She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the

damp floor.

“Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at

Hermione.

“What are you whispering?” said Myrtle, staring at

him.

“Nothing,” said Harry quickly. “We wanted to ask —”

“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!”

said Myrtle, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have

feelings, you know, even if I am dead —”

“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione.

“Harry only —”

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!”

howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this

place and now people come along ruining my death!”

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“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny lately,” said Hermione quickly. “Because a cat was

attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.”

“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said

Harry.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically.

“Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to

kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m —

that I’m —”

“Already dead,” said Ron helpfully.

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned

over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing

water all over them and vanishing from sight,

although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she

had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but

Hermione shrugged wearily and said, “Honestly, that

was almost cheerful for Myrtle. … Come on, let’s go.”

Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle’s gurgling

sobs when a loud voice made all three of them jump.

“RON!”

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the

stairs, prefect badge agleam, an expression of

complete shock on his face.

“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you

— ?”

“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues,

you know —”

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Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry

forcefully of Mrs. Weasley.

“Get — away — from — there —” Percy said, striding

toward them and starting to bustle them along,

flapping his arms. “Don’t you care what this looks

like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner —”

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping

short and glaring at Percy. “Listen, we never laid a

finger on that cat!”

“That’s what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but

she still seems to think you’re going to be expelled,

I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you

might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly

overexcited by this business —”

“You don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears

were now reddening. “You’re just worried I’m going to

mess up your chances of being Head Boy —”

“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely,

fingering his prefect badge. “And I hope it teaches you

a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll write to

Mum!”

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as

Ron’s ears.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as

possible from Percy in the common room that night.

Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting

his Charms homework. When he reached absently for

his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the

parchment. Fuming almost as much as his

homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book of

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Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione followed suit.

“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as

though continuing a conversation they had just been

having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and

Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”

“Let’s think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do

we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?”

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back,

unconvinced.

“If you’re talking about Malfoy —”

“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him — ‘ You’ll

be next, Mudbloods!’ — come on, you’ve only got to

look at his foul rat face to know it’s him —”

“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione

skeptically.

“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books,

too. “The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin;

he’s always boasting about it. They could easily be

Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil

enough.”

“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets

for centuries!” said Ron. “Handing it down, father to

son. …”

“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s

possible. …”

“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly.

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“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly,

dropping her voice still further with a quick glance

across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be

difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be

breaking about fifty school rules, I expect —”

“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will

let us know, won’t you?” said Ron irritably.

“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we’d need to

do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and

ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it’s

us.”

“But that’s impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed.

“No, it’s not,” said Hermione. “All we’d need would be

some Polyjuice Potion.”

“What’s that?” said Ron and Harry together.

“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago —”

“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions

than listen to Snape?” muttered Ron.

“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it!

We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one

would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us

anything. He’s probably boasting about it in the

Slytherin common room right now, if only we could

hear him.”

“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said

Ron, frowning. “What if we were stuck looking like

three of the Slytherins forever?”

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her

hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will

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be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions and it’s bound to be in the

Restricted Section of the library.”

There was only one way to get out a book from the

Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of

permission from a teacher.

“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said

Ron, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the

potions.”

“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as

though we were just interested in the theory, we

might stand a chance. …”

“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said

Ron. “They’d have to be really thick. …”

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THE ROGUE BLUDGER

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor

Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class.

Instead, he read passages from his books to them,

and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic

bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with these

reconstructions; so far, Harry had been forced to play

a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had

cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold,

and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything

except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.

Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their

very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this

time acting a werewolf. If he hadn’t had a very good

reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would

have refused to do it.

“Nice loud howl, Harry — exactly — and then, if you’ll

believe it, I pounced — like this — slammed him to

the floor — thus — with one hand, I managed to hold

him down — with my other, I put my wand to his

throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength

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and performed the immensely complex Homorphus

Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry —

higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the

fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man.

Simple, yet effective — and another village will

remember me forever as the hero who delivered them

from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.”

The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.

“Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of

the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical

Me to the author of the best one!”

The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back

of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

“Ready?” Harry muttered.

“Wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermione nervously.

“All right …”

She approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper

clutched tightly in her hand, Harry and Ron right

behind her.

“Er — Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I

wanted to — to get this book out of the library. Just

for background reading.” She held out the piece of

paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is,

it’s in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a

teacher to sign for it — I’m sure it would help me

understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls

about slow-acting venoms —”

“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the

note from Hermione and smiling widely at her.

“Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”

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“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer —”

“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best

student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart

warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock

quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the

revolted look on Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book

signings.”

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note

and handed it back to Hermione.

“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the

note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag.

“Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of the season, I

believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear

you’re a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was

asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to

dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces.

Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private

training, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass

on my expertise to less able players. …”

Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then

hurried off after Ron and Hermione.

“I don’t believe it,” he said as the three of them

examined the signature on the note. “He didn’t even

look at the book we wanted.”

“That’s because he’s a brainless git, ” said Ron. “But

who cares, we’ve got what we needed —”

“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly as

they half ran toward the library.

“Just because he said you were the best student of

the year —”

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They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian,

was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an

underfed vulture.

“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously,

trying to take the note from Hermione; but Hermione

wouldn’t let go.

“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said

breathlessly.

“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp

and thrusting it at Madam Pince. “We’ll get you

another autograph. Lockhart’ll sign anything if it

stands still long enough.”

Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though

determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test.

She stalked away between the lofty shelves and

returned several minutes later carrying a large and

moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into

her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or

look too guilty.

Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning

Myrtle’s out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione

had overridden Ron’s objections by pointing out that

it was the last place anyone in their right minds

would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy.

Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but

they were ignoring her, and she them.

Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and

the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages.

It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the

Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects

almost too gruesome to think about, and there were

some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a

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man who seemed to have been turned inside out and

a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of

her head.

“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the

page headed The Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated

with drawings of people halfway through transforming

into other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist

had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces.

“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,”

said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing

flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she

murmured, running her finger down the list of

ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the

student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves. …

Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know

where we’re going to get that — shredded skin of a

boomslang — that’ll be tricky, too — and of course a

bit of whoever we want to change into.”

“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d’you mean, a

bit of whoever we’re changing into? I’m drinking

nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it —”

Hermione continued as though she hadn’t heard him.

“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though,

because we add those bits last. …”

Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another

worry.

“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal,

Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s

definitely not in the students’ cupboard. What’re we

going to do, break into Snape’s private stores? I don’t

know if this is a good idea. …”

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Hermione shut the book with a snap.

“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she

said. There were bright pink patches on her cheeks

and her eyes were brighter than usual. “I don’t want

to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-

borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion.

But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Malfoy, I’ll go

straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back

in —”

“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be

persuading us to break rules,” said Ron. “All right,

we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?”

“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry

as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book again.

“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the

full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for

twenty-one days … I’d say it’d be ready in about a

month, if we can get all the ingredients.”

“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked

half the Muggle-borns in the school by then!” But

Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he

added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full

steam ahead, I say.”

However, while Hermione was checking that the coast

was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron

muttered to Harry, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can

just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.”

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a

while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He

was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood

would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of

facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms

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gold could buy. He had never wanted to beat

Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there

with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and

went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest

of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty

table, all looking uptight and not speaking much.

As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school

started to make its way down to the Quidditch

stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of

thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying

over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the locker

rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor

robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre-

match pep talk.

“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No

point denying it. But we’ve got better people on our

brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve

been flying in all weathers —” (“Too true,” muttered

George Weasley. “I haven’t been properly dry since

August”) “— and we’re going to make them rue the

day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his

way onto their team.”

Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry.

“It’ll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a

Seeker has to have something more than a rich

father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying,

Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”

“So no pressure, Harry,” said Fred, winking at him.

As they walked out onto the field, a roar of noise

greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and

Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but

the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and

hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch

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teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and

gripping rather harder than was necessary.

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three … two …

one …”

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward,

the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky.

Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around

for the Snitch.

“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting

underneath him as though to show off the speed of

his broom.

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a

heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he

avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as

it passed.

“Close one, Harry!” said George, streaking past him

with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger

back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw George give the

Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian

Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair

and shot straight for Harry again.

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George

managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the

Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry’s

head.

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the

other end of the field. He could hear the Bludger

whistling along behind him. What was going on?

Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it

was their job to try and unseat as many people as

possible. …

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Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with

all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course.

“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as

though it was magnetically attracted to Harry, the

Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was

forced to fly off at full speed.

It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto

his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn’t have a

clue what was going on in the rest of the game until

he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say,

“Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero —”

The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing

their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing

all it could to knock Harry out of the air. Fred and

George were now flying so close to him on either side

that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing

arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let

alone catch it.

“Someone’s — tampered — with — this — Bludger —”

Fred grunted, swinging his bat with all his might at it

as it launched a new attack on Harry.

“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to

Wood and stop the Bludger breaking Harry’s nose at

the same time.

Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch’s

whistle rang out and Harry, Fred, and George dived

for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger.

“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team

huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd

jeered. “We’re being flattened. Fred, George, where

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were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina

scoring?”

“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other

Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver,” said George

angrily. “Someone’s fixed it — it won’t leave Harry

alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The

Slytherins must have done something to it.”

“But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam

Hooch’s office since our last practice, and there was

nothing wrong with them then. …” said Wood,

anxiously.

Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her

shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team jeering

and pointing in his direction.

“Listen,” said Harry as she came nearer and nearer,

“with you two flying around me all the time the only

way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my

sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal

with the rogue one.”

“Don’t be thick,” said Fred. “It’ll take your head off.”

Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.

“Oliver, this is insane,” said Alicia Spinnet angrily.

“You can’t let Harry deal with that thing on his own.

Let’s ask for an inquiry —”

“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said

Harry. “And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because

of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave

me alone!”

P a g e | 189 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

“This is all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “

‘Get the Snitch or die trying,’ what a stupid thing to

tell him —”

Madam Hooch had joined them.

“Ready to resume play?” she asked Wood.

Wood looked at the determined look on Harry’s face.

“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Harry —

leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on

his own.”

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam

Hooch’s whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and

heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him.

Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and

swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly

dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain

was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as

he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive

from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the

crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the

rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change

direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind

of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium,

squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the

Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying

to get past Wood —

A whistling in Harry’s ear told him the Bludger had

just missed him again; he turned right over and sped

in the opposite direction.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled Malfoy as

Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair

to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing

a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at

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Malfoy in hatred, he saw it — the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear — and

Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn’t seen it.

For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not

daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up

and saw the Snitch.

WHAM.

He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger

had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and

Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing

pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-

drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his

right arm dangling useless at his side — the Bludger

came pelting back for a second attack, this time

aiming at his face — Harry swerved out of the way,

one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to

Malfoy.

Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the

shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes

widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking

him.

“What the —” he gasped, careening out of Harry’s

way.

Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and

made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the

cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with

his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as

he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to

pass out.

With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off

his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange

angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a

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distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.

“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We’ve won.”

And he fainted.

He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on

the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a

glitter of teeth.

“Oh, no, not you,” he moaned.

“Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly

to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around

them. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m about to fix your

arm.”

“No!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks. …”

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard

a familiar clicking noise nearby.

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly.

“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a

simple charm I’ve used countless times —”

“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry

through clenched teeth.

“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood,

who couldn’t help grinning even though his Seeker

was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really

spectacular, your best yet, I’d say —”

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry

spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue

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Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his

jade-green sleeves.

“No — don’t —” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was

twirling his wand and a second later had directed it

straight at Harry’s arm.

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s

shoulder and spread all the way down to his

fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being

deflated. He didn’t dare look at what was happening.

He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his

arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people

above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking

away madly. His arm didn’t hurt anymore — nor did

it feel remotely like an arm.

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes

happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer

broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry,

just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Mr.

Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him? — and

Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a

bit.”

As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided.

Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right

side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again.

Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked

like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to

move his fingers. Nothing happened.

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had

removed them.

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Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased.

“You should have come straight to me!” she raged,

holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an

hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend

bones in a second — but growing them back —”

“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harry

desperately.

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said

Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of

pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night. …”

Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around

Harry’s bed while Ron helped him into his pajamas. It

took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a

sleeve.

“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione,

eh?” Ron called through the curtain as he pulled

Harry’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harry had

wanted deboning he would have asked.”

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it

doesn’t hurt anymore, does it, Harry?”

“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do

anything else either.”

As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped

pointlessly.

Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the

curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of

something labeled Skele- Gro.

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“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to him. “Regrowing

bones is a nasty business.”

So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry’s mouth

and throat as it went down, making him cough and

splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and

inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron

and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.

“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across

his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s

face … he looked ready to kill. …”

“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said

Hermione darkly.

“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him

when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” said Harry,

sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it tastes better

than this stuff. …”

“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be

joking,” said Ron.

The door of the hospital wing burst open at that

moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the

Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry.

“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just

seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about

having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing.

Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.”

They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of

pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry’s bed and

were just getting started on what promised to be a

good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over,

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shouting, “This boy needs rest, he’s got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him

from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.

Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in

the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His

arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he

thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a

thrill of horror, he realized that someone was

sponging his forehead in the dark.

“Get off!” he said loudly, and then, “Dobby!”

The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering

at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was

running down his long, pointed nose.

“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered

miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter.

Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Harry

Potter go back home when he missed the train?”

Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed

Dobby’s sponge away.

“What’re you doing here?” he said. “And how did you

know I missed the train?”

Dobby’s lip trembled and Harry was seized by a

sudden suspicion.

“It was you!” he said slowly. “You stopped the barrier from letting us through!”

“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head

vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for

Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had

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to iron his hands afterward” — he showed Harry ten long, bandaged fingers — “but Dobby didn’t care, sir,

for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did

Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school

another way!”

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his

ugly head.

“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter

was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner

burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir. …”

Harry slumped back onto his pillows.

“You nearly got Ron and me expelled,” he said

fiercely. “You’d better get lost before my bones come

back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.”

Dobby smiled weakly.

“Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them

five times a day at home.”

He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase

he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt his anger

ebb away in spite of himself.

“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” he asked

curiously.

“This, sir?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “

’Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. Dobby

can only be freed if his masters present him with

clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby

even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave

their house forever.”

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Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly,

“Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his

Bludger would be enough to make —”

“Your Bludger?” said Harry, anger rising once more.

“What d’you mean, your Bludger? You made that

Bludger try and kill me?”

“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said Dobby,

shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life!

Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain

here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt

enough to be sent home!”

“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don’t suppose

you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home

in pieces?”

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more

tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew

what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we

dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it

was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the

height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated

like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like

that, sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the

pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has improved for my

kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord’s

power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and

Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of

us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir.

… And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to

happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby

cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is

to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is

open once more —”

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Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry’s

water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over

his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he

crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering,

“Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby …”

“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered.

“And — did you say it’s been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!”

He seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched

toward the water jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born —

how can I be in danger from the Chamber?”

“Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,”

stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark

deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter

must not be here when they happen — go home,

Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle

in this, sir, ’tis too dangerous —”

“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold on

Dobby’s wrist to stop him from hitting himself with

the water jug again. “Who’s opened it? Who opened it

last time?”

“Dobby can’t, sir, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!”

squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “One of

my best friends is Muggle-born; she’ll be first in line if

the Chamber really has been opened —”

“Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!”

moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So

noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must,

Harry Potter must not —”

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Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the

passageway outside.

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There

was a loud crack, and Harry’s fist was suddenly

clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his

eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the

footsteps drew nearer.

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the

dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a

nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like

a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second

later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a

bed.

“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and

Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry’s

bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be

asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor

McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by

Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over

her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to

Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found

him on the stairs.”

“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said

Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to

sneak up here to visit Potter.”

Harry’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and

carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could

look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay

across its staring face.

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It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his

hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his

camera.

“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey.

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to

think … If Albus hadn’t been on the way downstairs

for hot chocolate — who knows what might have —”

The three of them stared down at Colin. Then

Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the

camera out of Colin’s rigid grip.

“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his

attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly.

Dumbledore didn’t answer. He opened the back of the

camera.

“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey.

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry,

three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt

plastic.

“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All

melted …”

“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall

asked urgently.

“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of

Secrets is indeed open again.”

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth.

Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

“But, Albus … surely … who?”

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“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. “The question is, how. …”

And from what Harry could see of Professor

McGonagall’s shadowy face, she didn’t understand

this any better than he did.

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THE DUELING CLUB

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the

dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and his arm

reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly and looked

over at Colin’s bed, but it had been blocked from view

by the high curtains Harry had changed behind

yesterday. Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey

came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then

began bending and stretching his arm and fingers.

“All in order,” she said as he clumsily fed himself

porridge left-handed. “When you’ve finished eating,

you may leave.”

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off

to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ron and

Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren’t

there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where

they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that

they weren’t interested in whether he had his bones

back or not.

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As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time

they’d met.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said. “Excellent flying

yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken

the lead for the House Cup — you earned fifty points!”

“You haven’t seen Ron or Hermione, have you?” said

Harry.

“No, I haven’t,” said Percy, his smile fading. “I hope

Ron’s not in another girls’ toilet. …”

Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight,

and then headed straight for Moaning Myrtle’s

bathroom. He couldn’t see why Ron and Hermione

would be in there again, but after making sure that

neither Filch nor any prefects were around, he opened

the door and heard their voices coming from a locked

stall.

“It’s me,” he said, closing the door behind him. There

was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the

stall and he saw Hermione’s eye peering through the

keyhole.

“Harry!” she said. “You gave us such a fright — come

in — how’s your arm?”

“Fine,” said Harry, squeezing into the stall. An old

cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling

from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire

beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires

was a speciality of Hermione’s.

“We’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get

started on the Polyjuice Potion,” Ron explained as

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Harry, with difficulty, locked the stall again. “We’ve decided this is the safest place to hide it.”

Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione

interrupted.

“We already know — we heard Professor McGonagall

telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That’s why we

decided we’d better get going —”

“The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the

better,” snarled Ron. “D’you know what I think? He

was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match,

he took it out on Colin.”

“There’s something else,” said Harry, watching

Hermione tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing

them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in the

middle of the night.”

Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told

them everything Dobby had told him — or hadn’t told

him. Hermione and Ron listened with their mouths

open.

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?”

Hermione said.

“This settles it,” said Ron in a triumphant voice.

“Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he

was at school here and now he’s told dear old Draco

how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby’d told you what

kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know

how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the

school.”

“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermione,

prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or

maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of

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armor or something — I’ve read about Chameleon

Ghouls —”

“You read too much, Hermione,” said Ron, pouring

dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up

the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harry.

“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and

broke your arm. …” He shook his head. “You know

what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life

he’s going to kill you.”

* * *

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and

was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing

had spread through the entire school by Monday

morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and

suspicion. The first years were now moving around

the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they

would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.

Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in

Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and

George were going the wrong way about cheering her

up. They were taking turns covering themselves with

fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind

statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic

with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs.

Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade

in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices

was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought

a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple

crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other

Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger;

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he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be

attacked.

“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face

fearful. “And everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.”

In the second week of December Professor

McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names

of those who would be staying at school for

Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed her list;

they had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck

them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the

perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to

worm a confession out of him.

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They

still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin,

and the only place they were going to get them was

from Snape’s private stores. Harry privately felt he’d

rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let

Snape catch him robbing his office.

“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday

afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a

diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape’s

office and take what we need.”

Harry and Ron looked at her nervously.

“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione

continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “You two will be

expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got

a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough

mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.”

Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in

Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a

sleeping dragon in the eye.

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Potions lessons took place in one of the large

dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in

the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming

between the wooden desks, on which stood brass

scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through

the fumes, making waspish remarks about the

Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered

appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape’s

favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron

and Harry, who knew that if they retaliated they

would get detention faster than you could say

“Unfair.”

Harry’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he

had his mind on more important things. He was

waiting for Hermione’s signal, and he hardly listened

as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. When

Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville,

Hermione caught Harry’s eye and nodded.

Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron,

pulled one of Fred’s Filibuster fireworks out of his

pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. The

firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had

only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and

lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in

Goyle’s cauldron.

Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class.

People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution

hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to

swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his

hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size

of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to restore calm

and find out what had happened. Through the

confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into

Snape’s office.

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“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has

been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught —

when I find out who did this —”

Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry

forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose

like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to

Snape’s desk, some weighted down with arms like

clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-

up lips, Harry saw Hermione slide back into the

dungeon, the front of her robes bulging.

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the

various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to

Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black

remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I

shall make sure that person is expelled.”

Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a

puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at him,

and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not

have been more welcome.

“He knew it was me,” Harry told Ron and Hermione as

they hurried back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “I

could tell.”

Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron

and began to stir feverishly.

“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily.

“Snape can’t prove it was you,” said Ron reassuringly

to Harry. “What can he do?”

“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Harry as the

potion frothed and bubbled.

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A week later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot

of people gathered around the notice board, reading a

piece of parchment that had just been pinned up.

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them

over, looking excited.

“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First

meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons;

they might come in handy one of these days. …”

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?”

said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest.

“Could be useful,” he said to Harry and Hermione as

they went into dinner. “Shall we go?”

Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o’clock

that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The

long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage

had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of

candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety

black once more and most of the school seemed to be

packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and

looking excited.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as

they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told

me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was

young — maybe it’ll be him.”

“As long as it’s not —” Harry began, but he ended on

a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the

stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and

accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his

usual black.

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Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called,

“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me?

Can you all hear me? Excellent!

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me

permission to start this little dueling club, to train

you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I

myself have done on countless occasions — for full

details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,”

said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he

knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has

sportingly agreed to help me with a short

demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any

of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your

Potions master when I’m through with him, never

fear!”

“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?”

Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.

Snape’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why

Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking

at him like that he’d have been running as fast as he

could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and

bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of

his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably.

Then they raised their wands like swords in front of

them.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the

accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent

crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first

spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

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“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.

“One — two — three —”

Both of them swung their wands above their heads

and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried:

“Expelliarmus!” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet

light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew

backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and

slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered.

Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s

all right?” she squealed through her fingers.

“Who cares?” said Harry and Ron together.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat

had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto

the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm — as you

see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown

— yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor

Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very

obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to

stop you it would have been only too easy — however,

I felt it would be instructive to let them see …”

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had

noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m

going to come amongst you now and put you all into

pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me —”

They moved through the crowd, matching up

partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-

Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.

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“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he

sneered. “Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter

—”

Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.

“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr.

Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of

the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger — you can

partner Miss Bulstrode.”

Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a

Slytherin girl who reminded Harry of a picture he’d

seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large and square

and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave

her a weak smile that she did not return.

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the

platform. “And bow!”

Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not

taking their eyes off each other.

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I

count to three, cast your charms to disarm your

opponents — only to disarm them — we don’t want

any accidents — one … two … three —”

Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already

started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as

though he’d been hit over the head with a saucepan.

He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be

working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his

wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “Rictusempra!”

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he

doubled up, wheezing.

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“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his

knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and

he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back,

with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch

Malfoy while he was on the floor, but this was a

mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand

at Harry’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegra!” and the

next second Harry’s legs began to jerk around out of

his control in a kind of quickstep.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took

charge.

“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted; Harry’s feet stopped

dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able

to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the

scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor,

panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus,

apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done;

but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still

moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and

Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands

lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and

pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot

bigger than he was.

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the

crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you

go, Macmillan. … Careful there, Miss Fawcett. …

Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly

spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst

of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes

glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a

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volunteer pair — Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley,

how about you —”

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding

over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom

causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be

sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the

hospital wing in a matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink

face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and Potter?”

said Snape with a twisted smile.

“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and

Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed

away to give them room.

“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his

wand at you, you do this. ”

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated

sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked

as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops —

my wand is a little overexcited —”

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and

whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too.

Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said,

“Professor, could you show me that blocking thing

again?”

“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t

hear him.

“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just

do what I did, Harry!”

“What, drop my wand?”

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But Lockhart wasn’t listening.

“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted.

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed,

“Serpensortia!”

The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast,

as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto

the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to

strike. There were screams as the crowd backed

swiftly away, clearing the floor.

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly

enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye

to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it. …”

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his

wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the

snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air

and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged,

hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin

Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed,

poised to strike.

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t

even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that

his legs were carrying him forward as though he was

on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the

snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously —

inexplicably — the snake slumped to the floor, docile

as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry.

Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the

snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he

knew it, he couldn’t have explained.

He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see

Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful —

but certainly not angry and scared.

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“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had

turned and stormed out of the hall.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the

snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke.

Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected

way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry

didn’t like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous

muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging

on the back of his robes.

“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move — come

on —”

Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying

alongside them. As they went through the doors, the

people on either side drew away as though they were

frightened of catching something. Harry didn’t have a

clue what was going on, and neither Ron nor

Hermione explained anything until they had dragged

him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common

room. Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair and

said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’m a what?” said Harry.

“A Parselmouth!” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”

“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second

time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa

constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once —

long story — but it was telling me it had never seen

Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to —

that was before I knew I was a wizard —”

“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?”

Ron repeated faintly.

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“So?” said Harry. “I bet loads of people here can do it.”

“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common

gift. Harry, this is bad.”

“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to feel quite angry.

“What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told

that snake not to attack Justin —”

“Oh, that’s what you said to it?”

“What d’you mean? You were there — you heard me

—”

“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron.

“Snake language. You could have been saying

anything — no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded

like you were egging the snake on or something — it

was creepy, you know —”

Harry gaped at him.

“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize —

how can I speak a language without knowing I can

speak it?”

Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were

looking as though someone had died. Harry couldn’t

see what was so terrible.

“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a

massive snake biting off Justin’s head?” he said.

“What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin

doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”

“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a

hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes

was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s

why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”

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Harry’s mouth fell open.

“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s

going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-

grandson or something —”

“But I’m not,” said Harry, with a panic he couldn’t

quite explain.

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He

lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know,

you could be.”

* * *

Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap

in the curtains around his four-poster he watched

snow starting to drift past the tower window and

wondered …

Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He

didn’t know anything about his father’s family, after

all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions

about his wizarding relatives.

Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue.

The words wouldn’t come. It seemed he had to be

face-to-face with a snake to do it.

But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn’t have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood.

…

Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the

Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you

remember?

Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in

Herbology and he’d explain that he’d been calling the

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snake off, not egging it on, which (he thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized.

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun

in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that

the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled:

Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on

the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust

to no one else, now that it was so important for the

Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and

Colin Creevey.

Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the

Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Hermione

used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.

“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione,

exasperated, as one of Ron’s bishops wrestled her

knight off his horse and dragged him off the board.

“Go and find Justin if it’s so important to you.”

So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole,

wondering where Justin might be.

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime

because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every

window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms

where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of

what was happening within. Professor McGonagall

was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had

turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to

take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin

might be using his free time to catch up on some

work, and deciding to check the library first.

A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in

Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the

library, but they didn’t seem to be working. Between

the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see

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that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation.

He couldn’t see whether Justin was among them. He

was walking toward them when something of what

they were saying met his ears, and he paused to

listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.

“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to

hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s

marked him down as his next victim, it’s best if he

keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s

been waiting for something like this to happen ever

since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin

actually told him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not

the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s

heir on the loose, is it?”

“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a

girl with blonde pigtails anxiously.

“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a

Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a

Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one

who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin

himself Serpent-tongue.”

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie

went on, “Remember what was written on the wall?

Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some sort of

run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch’s cat’s

attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying

Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him

while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know —

Creevey’s been attacked.”

“He always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah

uncertainly, “and, well, he’s the one who made You-

Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can he?”

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Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could

catch Ernie’s words.

“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-

Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it

happened. He should have been blasted into

smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard

could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his

voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and

said, “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to

kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark

Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers

Potter’s been hiding?”

Harry couldn’t take anymore. Clearing his throat

loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves.

If he hadn’t been feeling so angry, he would have

found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of

the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been

Petrified by the sight of him, and the color was

draining out of Ernie’s face.

“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-

Fletchley.”

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been

confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie.

“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a

quavering voice.

“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that

snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry.

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep

breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what

happened.”

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“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said Harry.

“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was

trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking

Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.”

“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry said, his voice

shaking with anger. “It didn’t even touch him!”

“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case

you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell

you that you can trace my family back through nine

generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s

as pure as anyone’s, so —”

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harry

fiercely. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”

“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said

Ernie swiftly.

“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not

hate them,” said Harry. “I’d like to see you try it.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library,

earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince,

who was polishing the gilded cover of a large

spellbook.

Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing

where he was going, he was in such a fury. The result

was that he walked into something very large and

solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor.

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up.

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-

covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone

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else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his

massive, gloved hands.

“All righ’, Harry?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so

he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”

“Canceled,” said Harry, getting up. “What’re you doing

in here?”

Hagrid held up the limp rooster.

“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s

either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need

the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around

the hen coop.”

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick,

snow-flecked eyebrows.

“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’

bothered —”

Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what Ernie and

the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s

Transfiguration next and I’ve got to pick up my

books.”

He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had

said about him.

“Justin’s been waiting for something like this to

happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-

born. …”

Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along

another corridor, which was particularly dark; the

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torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He

was halfway down the passage when he tripped

headlong over something lying on the floor.

He turned to squint at what he’d fallen over and felt

as though his stomach had dissolved.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid

and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes

staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all.

Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight

Harry had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white

and transparent, but black and smoky, floating

immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His

head was half off and his face wore an expression of

shock identical to Justin’s.

Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow,

his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He

looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and

saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could

away from the bodies. The only sounds were the

muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either

side.

He could run, and no one would ever know he had

been there. But he couldn’t just leave them lying

here. … He had to get help. … Would anyone believe

he hadn’t had anything to do with this?

As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him

opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came

shooting out.

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“Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past him.

“What’s Potter up to? Why’s Potter lurking —”

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault.

Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless

Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and,

before Harry could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK!

ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR

GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

ATTAAAACK!”

Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open

along the corridor and people flooded out. For several

long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion

that Justin was in danger of being squashed and

people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry

found himself pinned against the wall as the teachers

shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came

running, followed by her own class, one of whom still

had black-and-white-striped hair. She used her wand

to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and

ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner

had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the

Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

“Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white,

pointing his finger dramatically at Harry.

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall

sharply.

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly,

surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As

the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless

Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

“Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,

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You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun —”

“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor

McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with

his tongue out at Harry.

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by

Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the

Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know

what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end,

Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin

air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft

Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did,

fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This

left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together.

“This way, Potter,” she said.

“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t —”

“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor

McGonagall curtly.

They marched in silence around a corner and she

stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone

gargoyle.

“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a

password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to

life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in

two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry

couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a

spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward,

like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall

stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed

behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and

higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a

gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the

shape of a griffin.

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He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.

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THE POLYJUICE POTION

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and

Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened

silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told

Harry to wait and left him there, alone.

Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the

teachers’ offices Harry had visited so far this year,

Dumbledore’s was by far the most interesting. If he

hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he was about

to be thrown out of school, he would have been very

pleased to have a chance to look around it.

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of

funny little noises. A number of curious silver

instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring

and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were

covered with portraits of old headmasters and

headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in

their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-

footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a

shabby, tattered wizard’s hat — the Sorting Hat.

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Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the

sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it

couldn’t hurt if he took the hat down and tried it on

again? Just to see … just to make sure it had put him

in the right House —

He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from

its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was

much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just

as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry

stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a

small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry

Potter?”

“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er — sorry to bother you

— I wanted to ask —”

“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right

House,” said the hat smartly. “Yes … you were

particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I

said before” — Harry’s heart leapt — “you would have

done well in Slytherin —”

Harry’s stomach plummeted. He grabbed the point of

the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand,

grubby and faded. Harry pushed it back onto its

shelf, feeling sick.

“You’re wrong,” he said aloud to the still and silent

hat. It didn’t move. Harry backed away, watching it.

Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him

wheel around.

He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch

behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that

resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it

and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging

noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes

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were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.

Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for

Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while he was alone in

the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.

Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk.

He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass

of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird,

meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud

shriek and next second there was nothing but a

smoldering pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking

very somber.

“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird — I couldn’t do

anything — he just caught fire —”

To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.

“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful

for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.”

He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face.

“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into

flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn

from the ashes. Watch him …”

Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled,

newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was

quite as ugly as the old one.

“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,”

said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk.

“He’s really very handsome most of the time,

wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating

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creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely

heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and

they make highly faithful pets.”

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had

forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back

to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high

chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his

penetrating, light-blue stare.

Before Dumbledore could speak another word,

however, the door of the office flew open with an

almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his

eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black

head and the dead rooster still swinging from his

hand.

“It wasn’ Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid

urgently. “I was talkin’ ter him seconds before that

kid was found, he never had time, sir —”

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went

ranting on, waving the rooster around in his

agitation, sending feathers everywhere.

“— it can’t’ve bin him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the

Ministry o’ Magic if I have to —”

“Hagrid, I —”

“— yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never

—”

“Hagrid!” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that Harry attacked those people.”

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his

side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.”

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And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry

repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster

feathers off his desk.

“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face

was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.”

Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered

him, the tips of his long fingers together.

“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything

you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of Malfoy

shouting, “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and of the

Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle’s

bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied voice

he had heard twice and remembered what Ron had

said: “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good

sign, even in the wizarding world. ” He thought, too,

about what everyone was saying about him, and his

growing dread that he was somehow connected with

Salazar Slytherin. …

“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor. …”

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless

Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into

real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s

fate that seemed to worry people most. What could

possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other;

what terrible power could harm someone who was

already dead? There was almost a stampede to book

seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could

go home for Christmas.

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“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left,” Ron told Harry and Hermione. “Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.”

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy

did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But

Harry was glad that most people were leaving. He was

tired of people skirting around him in the corridors,

as though he were about to sprout fangs or spit

poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and

hissing as he passed.

Fred and George, however, found all this very funny.

They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry

down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir

of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through. …”

Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.

“It is not a laughing matter,” he said coldly.

“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in

a hurry.”

“Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of

tea with his fanged servant,” said George, chortling.

Ginny didn’t find it amusing either.

“Oh, don’t, ” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry

loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when

George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove

of garlic when they met.

Harry didn’t mind; it made him feel better that Fred

and George, at least, thought the idea of his being

Slytherin’s heir was quite ludicrous. But their antics

seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked

increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.

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“It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s really him,” said Ron knowingly. “You know how he hates anyone

beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the

credit for his dirty work.”

“Not for long,” said Hermione in a satisfied tone. “The

Polyjuice Potion’s nearly ready. We’ll be getting the

truth out of him any day now.”

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the

snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry

found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed

the fact that he, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the

run of Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play

Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and

practice dueling in private. Fred, George, and Ginny

had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Bill in

Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Percy, who

disapproved of what he termed their childish

behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor

common room. He had already told them pompously

that he was only staying over Christmas because it

was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers

during this troubled time.

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry

and Ron, the only ones left in their dormitory, were

woken very early by Hermione, who burst in, fully

dressed and carrying presents for them both.

“Wake up,” she said loudly, pulling back the curtains

at the window.

“Hermione — you’re not supposed to be in here —”

said Ron, shielding his eyes against the light.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione,

throwing him his present. “I’ve been up for nearly an

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hour, adding more lace-wings to the potion. It’s

ready.”

Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said Hermione, shirting Scabbers the rat so

that she could sit down on the end of Ron’s four-

poster. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should be

tonight.”

At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room,

carrying a very small package in her beak.

“Hello,” said Harry happily as she landed on his bed.

“Are you speaking to me again?”

She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way,

which was a far better present than the one that she

had brought him, which turned out to be from the

Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note

telling him to find out whether he’d be able to stay at

Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too.

The rest of Harry’s Christmas presents were far more

satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle

toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before

eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with

the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his

favorite Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought

him a luxury eagle-feather quill. Harry opened the

last present to find a new, hand-knitted sweater from

Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card

with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr.

Weasley’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash

with the Whomping Willow), and the bout of rule-

breaking he and Ron were planning next.

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No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at

Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were

there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick

streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the

ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and

dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of

his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more

loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed.

Percy, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched

his prefect badge so that it now read “Pin-head,” kept

asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harry

didn’t even care that Draco Malfoy was making loud,

snide remarks about his new sweater from the

Slytherin table. With a bit of luck, Malfoy would be

getting his comeuppance in a few hours’ time.

Harry and Ron had barely finished their third

helpings of Christmas pudding when Hermione

ushered them out of the hall to finalize their plans for

the evening.

“We still need a bit of the people you’re changing

into,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, as though she

were sending them to the supermarket for laundry

detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get

something of Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s

best friends, he’ll tell them anything. And we also

need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t

burst in on us while we’re interrogating him.

“I’ve got it all worked out,” she went on smoothly,

ignoring Harry’s and Ron’s stupefied faces. She held

up two plump chocolate cakes. “I’ve filled these with a

simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is make

sure Crabbe and Goyle find them. You know how

greedy they are, they’re bound to eat them. Once

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they’re asleep, pull out a few of their hairs and hide them in a broom closet.”

Harry and Ron looked incredulously at each other.

“Hermione, I don’t think —”

“That could go seriously wrong —”

But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike

the one Professor McGonagall sometimes had.

“The potion will be useless without Crabbe’s and

Goyle’s hair,” she said sternly. “You do want to

investigate Malfoy, don’t you?”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Harry. “But what about

you? Whose hair are you ripping out?”

“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermione brightly,

pulling a tiny bottle out of her pocket and showing

them the single hair inside it. “Remember Millicent

Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? She

left this on my robes when she was trying to strangle

me! And she’s gone home for Christmas — so I’ll just

have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.”

When Hermione had bustled off to check on the

Polyjuice Potion again, Ron turned to Harry with a

doom-laden expression.

“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things

could go wrong?”

But to Harry’s and Ron’s utter amazement, stage one

of the operation went just as smoothly as Hermione

had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance hall

after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle

who had remained alone at the Slytherin table,

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shoveling down fourth helpings of trifle. Harry had perched the chocolate cakes on the end of the

banisters. When they spotted Crabbe and Goyle

coming out of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron hid

quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door.

“How thick can you get?” Ron whispered ecstatically

as Crabbe gleefully pointed out the cakes to Goyle

and grabbed them. Grinning stupidly, they stuffed the

cakes whole into their large mouths. For a moment,

both of them chewed greedily, looks of triumph on

their faces. Then, without the smallest change of

expression, they both keeled over backward onto the

floor.

By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet

across the hall. Once they were safely stowed among

the buckets and mops, Harry yanked out a couple of

the bristles that covered Goyle’s forehead and Ron

pulled out several of Crabbe’s hairs. They also stole

their shoes, because their own were far too small for

Crabbe- and Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at

what they had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning

Myrtle’s bathroom.

They could hardly see for the thick black smoke

issuing from the stall in which Hermione was stirring

the cauldron. Pulling their robes up over their faces,

Harry and Ron knocked softly on the door.

“Hermione?”

They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermione

emerged, shiny-faced and looking anxious. Behind

her they heard the gloop gloop of the bubbling,

glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on

the toilet seat.

“Did you get them?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

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Harry showed her Goyle’s hair.

“Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the

laundry,” Hermione said, holding up a small sack.

“You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe and

Goyle.”

The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up,

the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling

sluggishly.

“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” said Hermione,

nervously rereading the splotched page of Moste

Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it should

… once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour

before we change back into ourselves.”

“Now what?” Ron whispered.

“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.”

Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each

of the glasses. Then, her hand trembling, she shook

Millicent Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle into the first

glass.

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and

frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick

sort of yellow.

“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron,

eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”

“Add yours, then,” said Hermione.

Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and

Ron put Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses

hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color of

a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.

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“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached

for their glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in

here. … Once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t

fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no pixie.”

“Good thinking,” said Ron, unlocking the door. “We’ll

take separate stalls.”

Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion,

Harry slipped into the middle stall.

“Ready?” he called.

“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices.

“One — two — three —”

Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in

two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage.

Immediately, his insides started writhing as though

he’d just swallowed live snakes — doubled up, he

wondered whether he was going to be sick — then a

burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to

the very ends of his fingers and toes — next, bringing

him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting

feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot

wax — and before his eyes, his hands began to grow,

the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the

knuckles were bulging like bolts — his shoulders

stretched painfully and a prickling on his forehead

told him that hair was creeping down toward his

eyebrows — his robes ripped as his chest expanded

like a barrel bursting its hoops — his feet were agony

in shoes four sizes too small —

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped.

Harry lay facedown on the stone-cold floor, listening

to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With

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difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand

trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which were

hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare

ones, and laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes. He reached

up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the

short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead.

Then he realized that his glasses were clouding his

eyes because Goyle obviously didn’t need them — he

took them off and called, “Are you two okay?” Goyle’s

low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.

“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right.

Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the

cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at him out of dull,

deepset eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did Goyle.

Ron’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except

that he looked pale and shocked, Ron was

indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding-

bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.

“This is unbelievable,” said Ron, approaching the

mirror and prodding Crabbe’s flat nose.

“Unbelievable. ”

“We’d better get going,” said Harry, loosening the

watch that was cutting into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’ve

still got to find out where the Slytherin common room

is. I only hope we can find someone to follow …”

Ron, who had been gazing at Harry, said, “You don’t

know how bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking. ” He

banged on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to go —”

A high-pitched voice answered him.

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“I — I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go on without me.”

“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly, no

one’s going to know it’s you —”

“No — really — I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry

up, you’re wasting time —”

Harry looked at Ron, bewildered.

“That looks more like Goyle,” said Ron. “That’s how he

looks every time a teacher asks him a question.”

“Hermione, are you okay?” said Harry through the

door.

“Fine — I’m fine — go on —”

Harry looked at his watch. Five of their precious sixty

minutes had already passed.

“We’ll meet you back here, all right?” he said.

Harry and Ron opened the door of the bathroom

carefully, checked that the coast was clear, and set

off.

“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to

Ron.

“Eh?”

“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff. …”

“How’s this?”

“Yeah, that’s better. …”

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They went down the marble staircase. All they needed now was a Slytherin that they could follow to the

Slytherin common room, but there was nobody

around.

“Any ideas?” muttered Harry.

“The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from

over there,” said Ron, nodding at the entrance to the

dungeons. The words had barely left his mouth when

a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the entrance.

“Excuse me,” said Ron, hurrying up to her. “We’ve

forgotten the way to our common room.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the girl stiffly. “Our common

room? I’m a Ravenclaw.”

She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them.

Harry and Ron hurried down the stone steps into the

darkness, their footsteps echoing particularly loudly

as Crabbe’s and Goyle’s huge feet hit the floor, feeling

that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had

hoped.

The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked

deeper and deeper under the school, constantly

checking their watches to see how much time they

had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when they

were getting desperate, they heard a sudden

movement ahead.

“Ha!” said Ron excitedly. “There’s one of them now!”

The figure was emerging from a side room. As they

hurried nearer, however, their hearts sank. It wasn’t a

Slytherin, it was Percy.

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“What’re you doing down here?” said Ron in surprise.

Percy looked affronted.

“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s

Crabbe, isn’t it?”

“Wh — oh, yeah,” said Ron.

“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Percy sternly.

“It’s not safe to go wandering around dark corridors

these days.”

“You are,” Ron pointed out.

“I,” said Percy, drawing himself up, “am a prefect.

Nothing’s about to attack me. ”

A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron.

Draco Malfoy was strolling toward them, and for the

first time in his life, Harry was pleased to see him.

“There you are,” he drawled, looking at them. “Have

you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this

time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you

something really funny.”

Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy.

“And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?” he

sneered.

Percy looked outraged.

“You want to show a bit more respect to a school

prefect!” he said. “I don’t like your attitude!”

Malfoy sneered and motioned for Harry and Ron to

follow him. Harry almost said something apologetic to

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Percy but caught himself just in time. He and Ron

hurried after Malfoy, who said as they turned into the

next passage, “That Peter Weasley —”

“Percy,” Ron corrected him automatically.

“Whatever,” said Malfoy. “I’ve noticed him sneaking

around a lot lately. And I bet I know what he’s up to.

He thinks he’s going to catch Slytherin’s heir single-

handed.”

He gave a short, derisive laugh. Harry and Ron

exchanged excited looks.

Malfoy paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.

“What’s the new password again?” he said to Harry.

“Er —” said Harry.

“Oh, yeah — pure-blood!” said Malfoy, not listening,

and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open.

Malfoy marched through it, and Harry and Ron

followed him.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low

underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling

from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on

chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately

carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several

Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high-backed

chairs.

“Wait here,” said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning

them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire.

“I’ll go and get it — my father’s just sent it to me —”

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Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them,

Harry and Ron sat down, doing their best to look at

home.

Malfoy came back a minute later, holding what looked

like a newspaper clipping. He thrust it under Ron’s

nose.

“That’ll give you a laugh,” he said.

Harry saw Ron's eyes widen in shock. He read the

clipping quickly, gave a very forced laugh, and

handed it to Harry.

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it

said:

INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle

Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for

bewitching a Muggle car.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car

crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr.

Weasley’s resignation.

“Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,”

Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to

draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle

Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.”

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although

his wife told reporters to clear off or she’d set the

family ghoul on them.

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“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the clipping back to him. “Don’t you think it’s funny?”

“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly.

“Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should

snap his wand in half and go and join them,” said

Malfoy scornfully. “You’d never know the Weasleys

were purebloods, the way they behave.”

Ron’s — or rather, Crabbe’s — face was contorted

with fury.

“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Malfoy.

“Stomachache,” Ron grunted.

“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those

Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Malfoy, snickering.

“You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t

reported all these attacks yet,” he went on

thoughtfully. “I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush

it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon.

Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing

that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-

borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let slime

like that Creevey in.”

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary

camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of

Colin: “ ‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I

have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please,

Potter?’ ”

He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.

“What’s the matter with you two?”

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Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to

laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe

and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.

“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy

slowly. “He’s another one with no proper wizard

feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped-up

Granger Mudblood. And people think he’s Slytherin’s

heir!”

Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was

surely seconds away from telling them it was him —

but then —

“I wish I knew who it is,” said Malfoy petulantly. “I could help them.”

Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more

clueless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice,

and Harry, thinking fast, said, “You must have some

idea who’s behind it all. …”

“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have

to tell you?” snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell

me anything about the last time the Chamber was

opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it

was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he

says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious

if I know too much about it. But I know one thing —

last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a

Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before

one of them’s killed this time. … I hope it’s Granger,”

he said with relish.

Ron was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling

that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ron punched

Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said,

“D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber

last time was caught?”

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“Oh, yeah … whoever it was was expelled,” said

Malfoy. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.”

“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled.

“Azkaban — the wizard prison, Goyle,” said Malfoy,

looking at him in disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any

slower, you’d be going backward.”

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father

says to keep my head down and let the Heir of

Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs

ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed

up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the

moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our

manor last week?”

Harry tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of

concern.

“Yeah …” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much.

Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But

luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the

drawing-room floor —”

“Ho!” said Ron.

Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed.

Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also

slowly lengthening — their hour was up, Ron was

turning back into himself, and from the look of horror

he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too.

They both jumped to their feet.

“Medicine for my stomach,” Ron grunted, and without

further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin

common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall,

and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that

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Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to

hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the

steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a

muffled pounding coming from the closet where

they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes

outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks

up the marble staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s

bathroom.

“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron

panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. “I

know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the

attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and

tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.”

Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was

back to normal. He put his glasses on as Ron

hammered on the door of Hermione’s stall.

“Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you —”

“Go away!” Hermione squeaked.

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

“What’s the matter?” said Ron. “You must be back to

normal by now, we are —”

But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall

door. Harry had never seen her looking so happy.

“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” she said. “It’s awful —”

They heard the lock slide back and Hermione

emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head.

“What’s up?” said Ron uncertainly. “Have you still got

Millicent’s nose or something?”

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Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the sink.

Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had

turned yellow and there were long, pointed ears

poking through her hair.

“It was a c-cat hair!” she howled. “M-Millicent

Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn’t

supposed to be used for animal transformations!”

“Uh-oh,” said Ron.

“You’ll be teased something dreadful, ” said Myrtle

happily.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry quickly. “We’ll take

you up to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never

asks too many questions. …”

It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the

bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way

with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds out

you’ve got a tail!”

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THE VERY SECRET DIARY

Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several

weeks. There was a flurry of rumor about her

disappearance when the rest of the school arrived

back from their Christmas holidays, because of

course everyone thought that she had been attacked.

So many students filed past the hospital wing trying

to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took

out her curtains again and placed them around

Hermione’s bed, to spare her the shame of being seen

with a furry face.

Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When

the new term started, they brought her each day’s

homework.

“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,”

said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione’s

bedside table one evening.

“Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up,” said

Hermione briskly. Her spirits were greatly improved

by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face

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and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?” she added

in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear

her.

“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.

“I was so sure it was Malfoy,” said Ron, for about the

hundredth time.

“What’s that?” asked Harry, pointing to something

gold sticking out from under Hermione’s pillow.

“Just a get well card,” said Hermione hastily, trying to

poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He

pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud:

“To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from

your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart,

Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the

Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of

Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award. ”

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.

“You sleep with this under your pillow?”

But Hermione was spared answering by Madam

Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of

medicine.

“Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or

what?” Ron said to Harry as they left the infirmary

and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower.

Snape had given them so much homework, Harry

thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before he

finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had

asked Hermione how many rat tails you were

supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion when an

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angry outburst from the floor above reached their

ears.

“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered as they hurried up the

stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said

Ron tensely.

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch’s

voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

“— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I

haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m

going to Dumbledore —”

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor

and they heard a distant door slam.

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had

clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They

were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had

been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had

been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched

over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was

still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s

bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they

could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom

walls.

“Now what’s up with her?” said Ron.

“Let’s go and see,” said Harry, and holding their robes

over their ankles they stepped through the great wash

of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign,

ignored it as always, and entered.

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and

harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding

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down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the

great rush of water that had left both walls and floor

soaking wet.

“What’s up, Myrtle?” said Harry.

“Who’s that?” glugged Myrtle miserably. “Come to

throw something else at me?”

Harry waded across to her stall and said, “Why would

I throw something at you?”

“Don’t ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave

of yet more water, which splashed onto the already

sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business,

and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me.

…”

“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at

you,” said Harry, reasonably. “I mean, it’d just go

right through you, wouldn’t it?”

He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up

and shrieked, “Let’s all throw books at Myrtle,

because she can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get it

through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through

her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don’t

think!”

“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know. … I was just sitting in the U-bend,

thinking about death, and it fell right through the top

of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them. “It’s over

there, it got washed out. …”

Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle

was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a

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shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up,

but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.

“What?” said Harry.

“Are you crazy?” said Ron. “It could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” said Harry, laughing. “Come off it, how

could it be dangerous?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Ron, who was looking

apprehensively at the book. “Some of the books the

Ministry’s confiscated — Dad’s told me — there was

one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who

read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the

rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a

book that you could never stop reading! You just had

to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do

everything one-handed. And —”

“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harry.

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and

soggy.

“Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,” he said,

and he ducked around Ron and picked it up off the

floor.

Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded

year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He

opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just

make out the name “T. M. Riddle” in smudged ink.

“Hang on,” said Ron, who had approached cautiously

and was looking over Harry’s shoulder. “I know that

name. … T. M. Riddle got an award for special

services to the school fifty years ago.”

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“How on earth d’you know that?” said Harry in

amazement.

“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty

times in detention,” said Ron resentfully. “That was

the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime

off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.”

Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were

completely blank. There wasn’t the faintest trace of

writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s

birthday, or dentist, half-past three.

“He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed.

“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said

Ron curiously.

Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw

the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road,

London.

“He must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harry

thoughtfully. “To have bought a diary from Vauxhall

Road. …”

“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ron. He

dropped his voice. “Fifty points if you can get it

through Myrtle’s nose.”

Harry, however, pocketed it.

Hermione left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail-

less, and fur-free, at the beginning of February. On

her first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry

showed her T. M. Riddle’s diary and told her the story

of how they had found it.

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“Oooh, it might have hidden powers,” said Hermione enthusiastically, taking the diary and looking at it

closely.

“If it has, it’s hiding them very well,” said Ron. “Maybe

it’s shy. I don’t know why you don’t chuck it, Harry.”

“I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it,” said

Harry. “I wouldn’t mind knowing how Riddle got an

award for special services to Hogwarts either.”

“Could’ve been anything,” said Ron. “Maybe he got

thirty O.W.L.s or saved a teacher from the giant

squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done

everyone a favor. …”

But Harry could tell from the arrested look on

Hermione’s face that she was thinking what he was

thinking.

“What?” said Ron, looking from one to the other.

“Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years

ago, wasn’t it?” he said. “That’s what Malfoy said.”

“Yeah …” said Ron slowly.

“And this diary is fifty years old,” said Hermione,

tapping it excitedly.

“So?”

“Oh, Ron, wake up,” snapped Hermione. “We know

the person who opened the Chamber last time was

expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M. Riddle got an

award for special services to the school fifty years

ago. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for

catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would

probably tell us everything — where the Chamber is,

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and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in it — the person who’s behind the attacks this time

wouldn’t want that lying around, would they?”

“That’s a brilliant theory, Hermione,” said Ron, “with

just one tiny little flaw. There’s nothing written in his

diary. ”

But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag.

“It might be invisible ink!” she whispered.

She tapped the diary three times and said,

“Aparecium!”

Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her

hand back into her bag and pulled out what appeared

to be a bright red eraser.

“It’s a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” she said.

She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” said

Ron. “Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and

couldn’t be bothered filling it in.”

Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t

just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even

though he knew the diary was blank, he kept

absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages,

as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And

while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T.

M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to

him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had

when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But

this was absurd. He’d never had friends before

Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that.

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Nevertheless, Harry was determined to find out more about Riddle, so next day at break, he headed for the

trophy room to examine Riddle’s special award,

accompanied by an interested Hermione and a

thoroughly unconvinced Ron, who told them he’d

seen enough of the trophy room to last him a lifetime.

Riddle’s burnished gold shield was tucked away in a

corner cabinet. It didn’t carry details of why it had

been given to him (“Good thing, too, or it’d be even

bigger and I’d still be polishing it,” said Ron).

However, they did find Riddle’s name on an old Medal

for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys.

“He sounds like Percy,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose

in disgust. “Prefect, Head Boy … probably top of every

class —”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione in a

slightly hurt voice.

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts

again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more

hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those

on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam

Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes

were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that

they were fast leaving childhood.

“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for

repotting again,” Harry heard her telling Filch kindly

one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be long until

we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have

Mrs. Norris back in no time.”

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her

nerve, thought Harry. It must be getting riskier and

riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the

school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster,

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whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years. …

Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful

view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty

one, that he had “given himself away” at the Dueling

Club. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping

up in the crowded corridors singing “Oh, Potter, you

rotter …” now with a dance routine to match.

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had

made the attacks stop. Harry overheard him telling

Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were

lining up for Transfiguration.

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,”

he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I

think the Chamber has been locked for good this

time. The culprit must have known it was only a

matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to

stop now, before I came down hard on him.

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-

booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t

say any more just now, but I think I know just the

thing. …”

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at

breakfast time on February fourteenth. Harry hadn’t

had much sleep because of a late-running Quidditch

practice the night before, and he hurried down to the

Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment,

that he’d walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink

flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling

from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the

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Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking

sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been

overcome with giggles.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down

and wiping confetti off his bacon.

Ron pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too

disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink

robes to match the decorations, was waving for

silence. The teachers on either side of him were

looking stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could

see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek.

Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a

large beaker of Skele-Gro.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may

I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me

cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this

little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to

the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking

dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had

them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart.

“They will be roving around the school today

delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop

here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into

the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor

Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And

while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more

about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve

ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape

was looking as though the first person to ask him for

a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

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“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the

forty-six,” said Ron as they left the Great Hall for their

first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very

interested in searching her bag for her schedule and

didn’t answer.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their

classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the

teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors

were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs

caught up with Harry.

“Oy, you! ’Arry Potter!” shouted a particularly grim-

looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to

Harry.

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine

in front of a line of first years, which happened to

include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. The

dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by

kicking people’s shins, and reached him before he’d

gone two paces.

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter in

person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening

sort of way.

“Not here, ” Harry hissed, trying to escape.

“Stay still!” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of

Harry’s bag and pulling him back.

“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging.

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His

books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the

floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything.

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Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up

before the dwarf started singing, causing something of

a holdup in the corridor.

“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice

of Draco Malfoy. Harry started stuffing everything

feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away

before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine.

“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar

voice as Percy Weasley arrived.

Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but

the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought

him crashing to the floor.

“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is

your singing valentine:

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,

His hair is as dark as a blackboard.

I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord. ”

Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to

evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along

with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the

weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to

disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with

mirth.

“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago,

off to class, now,” he said, shooing some of the

younger students away. “And you, Malfoy —”

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Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and

Goyle, and Harry realized that he’d got Riddle’s diary.

“Give that back,” said Harry quietly.

“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy,

who obviously hadn’t noticed the year on the cover

and thought he had Harry’s own diary. A hush fell

over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary

to Harry, looking terrified.

“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly.

“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary

tauntingly at Harry.

Percy said, “As a school prefect —” but Harry had lost

his temper. He pulled out his wand and shouted,

“Expelliarmus!” and just as Snape had disarmed

Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting out of

his hand into the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught

it.

“Harry!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors.

I’ll have to report this, you know!”

But Harry didn’t care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and

that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day.

Malfoy was looking furious, and as Ginny passed him

to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after her,

“I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!”

Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into

class. Snarling, Ron pulled out his wand, too, but

Harry pulled him away. Ron didn’t need to spend the

whole of Charms belching slugs.

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It wasn’t until they had reached Professor Flitwick’s class that Harry noticed something rather odd about

Riddle’s diary. All his other books were drenched in

scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had

been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. He

tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having

trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles

were blossoming out of the end, and he wasn’t much

interested in anything else.

* * *

Harry went to bed before anyone else in his

dormitory that night. This was partly because he

didn’t think he could stand Fred and George singing,

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad” one

more time, and partly because he wanted to examine

Riddle’s diary again, and knew that Ron thought he

was wasting his time.

Harry sat on his four-poster and flicked through the

blank pages, not one of which had a trace of scarlet

ink on it. Then he pulled a new bottle out of his

bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped

a blot onto the first page of the diary.

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and

then, as though it was being sucked into the page,

vanished. Excited, Harry loaded up his quill a second

time and wrote, “My name is Harry Potter.”

The words shone momentarily on the page and they,

too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something

happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink,

came words Harry had never written.

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“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?”

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry

had started to scribble back.

“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.”

He waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply.

“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more

lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there

would be those who would not want this diary read. ”

“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled, blotting the

page in his excitement.

“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible

things. Things that were covered up. Things that

happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry. ”

“That’s where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I’m at

Hogwarts, and horrible stuff’s been happening. Do

you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

His heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came

quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he

was hurrying to tell all he knew.

“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my

day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist.

But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was

opened and the monster attacked several students,

finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened

the Chamber and he was expelled. But the

headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a

thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell

the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died

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in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep

my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The

monster lived on, and the one who had the power to

release it was not imprisoned. ”

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write

back.

“It’s happening again now. There have been three

attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind

them. Who was it last time?”

“I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You

don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside

my memory of the night when I caught him. ”

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary.

What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside

somebody else’s memory? He glanced nervously at the

door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When

he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words

forming.

“Let me show you. ”

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then

wrote two letters.

“OK.”

The pages of the diary began to blow as though

caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the

month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that

the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have

turned into a minuscule television screen. His hands

trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye

against the little window, and before he knew what

was happening, he was tilting forward; the window

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was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the

page, into a whirl of color and shadow.

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking,

as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly

into focus.

He knew immediately where he was. This circular

room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s

office — but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was sitting

behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald

except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a

letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man

before.

“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in

—”

But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read,

frowning slightly. Harry drew nearer to his desk and

stammered, “Er — I’ll just go, shall I?”

Still the wizard ignored him. He didn’t seem even to

have heard him. Thinking that the wizard might be

deaf, Harry raised his voice.

“Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go now,” he half-shouted.

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up,

walked past Harry without glancing at him, and went

to draw the curtains at his window.

The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed

to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat

down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door.

Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the

phoenix — no whirring silver contraptions. This was

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Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this unknown wizard was headmaster, not Dumbledore,

and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom,

completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago.

There was a knock on the office door.

“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice.

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed

hat. A silver prefect’s badge was glinting on his chest.

He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet-

black hair.

“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said

Riddle. He looked nervous.

“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the

letter you sent me.”

“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands

together very tightly.

“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly

let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you

want to go home for the holidays?”

“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at

Hogwarts than go back to that — to that —”

“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I

believe?” said Dippet curiously.

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.

“You are Muggle-born?”

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“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.”

“And are both your parents — ?”

“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told

me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to

name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my

grandfather.”

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically.

“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “special arrangements

might have been made for you, but in the current

circumstances. …”

“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and

Harry’s heart leapt, and he moved closer, scared of

missing anything.

“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you

must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to

remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in

light of the recent tragedy … the death of that poor

little girl. … You will be safer by far at your

orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic

is even now talking about closing the school. We are

no nearer locating the — er — source of all this

unpleasantness. …”

Riddle’s eyes had widened.

“Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped —”

“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in

his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean

you know something about these attacks?”

“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly.

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But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that he himself had given Dumbledore.

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.

“You may go, Tom. …”

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room.

Harry followed him.

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging

next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle

stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could

tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He

was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision,

he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him.

They didn’t see another person until they reached the

entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping

auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the

marble staircase.

“What are you doing, wandering around this late,

Tom?”

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a

fifty-year-younger Dumbledore.

“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle.

“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving

Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry

knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these

days. Not since …”

He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode

off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then,

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moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.

But to Harry’s disappointment, Riddle led him not

into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to

the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with

Snape. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle

pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just

see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching

the passage outside.

It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an

hour. All he could see was the figure of Riddle at the

door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue.

And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant

and tense and started wishing he could return to the

present, he heard something move beyond the door.

Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard

whoever it was pass the dungeon where he and Riddle

were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged

through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind

him, forgetting that he couldn’t be heard.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps,

until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in

the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak

open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse

whisper.

“C’mon … gotta get yeh outta here. … C’mon now …

in the box …”

There was something familiar about that voice. …

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry

stepped out behind him. He could see the dark

outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of

an open door, a very large box next to it.

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“ ’Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.

“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?”

Riddle stepped closer.

“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you

in, Rubeus. They’re talking about closing Hogwarts if

the attacks don’t stop.”

“What d’yeh —”

“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters

don’t make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for

exercise and —”

“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing

against the closed door. From behind him, Harry

could hear a funny rustling and clicking.

“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer.

“The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The

least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing

that killed their daughter is slaughtered. …”

“It wasn’t him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in

the dark passage. “He wouldn’! He never!”

“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light.

The door behind the large boy flew open with such

force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of

it came something that made Harry let out a long,

piercing scream unheard by anyone —

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A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp

pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he was

too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled

away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle

scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his

wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his

wand, and threw him back down, yelling,

“NOOOOOOO!”

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete;

Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed

spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor

dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach.

Before he had had time to regain his breath, the

dormitory door opened and Ron came in.

“There you are,” he said.

Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.

“What’s up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern.

“It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of

Secrets fifty years ago.”

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CORNELIUS FUDGE

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that

Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and

monstrous creatures. During their first year at

Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little

wooden house, and it would be a long time before

they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he’d

christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard

that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle,

Harry was sure he’d have gone to any lengths for a

glimpse of it. He’d probably thought it was a shame

that the monster had been cooped up so long, and

thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many

legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old

Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But he

was equally certain that Hagrid would never have

meant to kill anybody.

Harry half wished he hadn’t found out how to work

Riddle’s diary. Again and again Ron and Hermione

made him recount what he’d seen, until he was

heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long,

circular conversations that followed.

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“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said Hermione. “Maybe it was some other monster that

was attacking people. …”

“How many monsters d’you think this place can

hold?” Ron asked dully.

“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said

Harry miserably. “And the attacks must’ve stopped

after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle

wouldn’t have got his award.”

Ron tried a different tack.

“Riddle does sound like Percy — who asked him to

squeal on Hagrid, anyway?”

“But the monster had killed someone, Ron,” said

Hermione.

“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle

orphanage if they closed Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I

don’t blame him for wanting to stay here. …”

“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn’t you,

Harry?”

“He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” said

Harry quickly.

The three of them fell silent. After a long pause,

Hermione voiced the knottiest question of all in a

hesitant voice.

“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it

all?”

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“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron. “ ‘Hello, Hagrid.

Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and

hairy loose in the castle lately?’ ”

In the end, they decided that they would not say

anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack,

and as more and more days went by with no whisper

from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that

they would never need to talk to him about why he

had been expelled. It was now nearly four months

since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been

Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that

the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good.

Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter, you

rotter” song, Ernie Macmillan asked Harry quite

politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in

Herbology one day, and in March several of the

Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in

greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very

happy.

“The moment they start trying to move into each

other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature,” she told

Harry. “Then we’ll be able to revive those poor people

in the hospital wing.”

The second years were given something new to think

about during their Easter holidays. The time had

come to choose their subjects for the third year, a

matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.

“It could affect our whole future,” she told Harry and

Ron as they pored over lists of new subjects, marking

them with checks.

“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry.

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“We can’t,” said Ron gloomily. “We keep all our old subjects, or I’d’ve ditched Defense Against the Dark

Arts.”

“But that’s very important!” said Hermione, shocked.

“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ron. “I haven’t

learned anything from him except not to set pixies

loose.”

Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the

witches and wizards in his family, all giving him

different advice on what to choose. Confused and

worried, he sat reading the subject lists with his

tongue poking out, asking people whether they

thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the

study of Ancient Runes. Dean Thomas, who, like

Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing

his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking

the subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody’s

advice but signed up for everything.

Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried

to discuss his career in wizardry with them. Not that

he didn’t get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager

to share his experience.

“Depends where you want to go, Harry,” he said. “It’s

never too early to think about the future, so I’d

recommend Divination. People say Muggle Studies is

a soft option, but I personally think wizards should

have a thorough understanding of the non-magical

community, particularly if they’re thinking of working

in close contact with them — look at my father, he

has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My

brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type,

so he went for Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your

strengths, Harry.”

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But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at was Quidditch. In the end, he chose the same new

subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was lousy at them,

at least he’d have someone friendly to help him.

Gryffindor’s next Quidditch match would be against

Hufflepuff. Wood was insisting on team practices

every night after dinner, so that Harry barely had

time for anything but Quidditch and homework.

However, the training sessions were getting better, or

at least drier, and the evening before Saturday’s

match he went up to his dormitory to drop off his

broomstick feeling Gryffindor’s chances for the

Quidditch Cup had never been better.

But his cheerful mood didn’t last long. At the top of

the stairs to the dormitory, he met Neville

Longbottom, who was looking frantic.

“Harry — I don’t know who did it — I just found —”

Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the

door.

The contents of Harry’s trunk had been thrown

everywhere. His cloak lay ripped on the floor. The

bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the

drawer had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet,

the contents strewn over the mattress.

Harry walked over to the bed, openmouthed, treading

on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As he and

Neville pulled the blankets back onto his bed, Ron,

Dean, and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly.

“What happened, Harry?”

“No idea,” said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry’s

robes. All the pockets were hanging out.

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“Someone’s been looking for something,” said Ron. “Is there anything missing?”

Harry started to pick up all his things and throw

them into his trunk. It was only as he threw the last

of the Lockhart books back into it that he realized

what wasn’t there.

“Riddle’s diary’s gone,” he said in an undertone to

Ron.

“What?”

Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and

Ron followed him out. They hurried down to the

Gryffindor common room, which was half-empty, and

joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a

book called Ancient Runes Made Easy.

Hermione looked aghast at the news.

“But — only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody

else knows our password —”

“Exactly,” said Harry.

They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a

light, refreshing breeze.

“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Wood

enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the

team’s plates with scrambled eggs. “Harry, buck up

there, you need a decent breakfast.”

Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor

table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle’s diary

was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had been

urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn’t like

the idea. He’d have to tell a teacher all about the

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diary, and how many people knew why Hagrid had

been expelled fifty years ago? He didn’t want to be the

one who brought it all up again.

As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go

and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious

worry was added to Harry’s growing list. He had just

set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet

again —

“Kill this time … let me rip … tear …”

He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both

jumped away from him in alarm.

“The voice!” said Harry, looking over his shoulder. “I

just heard it again — didn’t you?”

Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however,

clapped a hand to her forehead.

“Harry — I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve

got to go to the library!”

And she sprinted away, up the stairs.

“What does she understand?” said Harry distractedly,

still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had

come from.

“Loads more than I do,” said Ron, shaking his head.

“But why’s she got to go to the library?”

“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron,

shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.”

Harry stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice

again, but people were now emerging from the Great

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Hall behind him, talking loudly, exiting through the front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.

“You’d better get moving,” said Ron. “It’s nearly eleven

— the match —”

Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his

Nimbus Two Thousand, and joined the large crowd

swarming across the grounds, but his mind was still

in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as he

pulled on his scarlet robes in the locker room, his

only comfort was that everyone was now outside to

watch the game.

The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous

applause. Oliver Wood took off for a warm-up flight

around the goal posts; Madam Hooch released the

balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow,

were standing in a huddle, having a last-minute

discussion of tactics.

Harry was just mounting his broom when Professor

McGonagall came half marching, half running across

the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone.

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone.

“This match has been canceled,” Professor

McGonagall called through the megaphone,

addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and

shouts. Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and

ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off

his broomstick.

“But, Professor!” he shouted. “We’ve got to play — the

Cup — Gryffindor —”

Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to

shout through her megaphone:

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“All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give

them further information. As quickly as you can,

please!”

Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned

Harry over to her.

“Potter, I think you’d better come with me. …”

Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this

time, Harry saw Ron detach himself from the

complaining crowd; he came running up to them as

they set off toward the castle. To Harry’s surprise,

Professor McGonagall didn’t object.

“Yes, perhaps you’d better come, too, Weasley. …”

Some of the students swarming around them were

grumbling about the match being canceled; others

looked worried. Harry and Ron followed Professor

McGonagall back into the school and up the marble

staircase. But they weren’t taken to anybody’s office

this time.

“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor

McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they

approached the infirmary. “There has been another

attack … another double attack.”

Harry’s insides did a horrible somersault. Professor

McGonagall pushed the door open and he and Ron

entered.

Madam Pomfrey was bending over a sixth-year girl

with long, curly hair. Harry recognized her as the

Ravenclaw they’d accidentally asked for directions to

the Slytherin common room. And on the bed next to

her was —

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“Hermione!” Ron groaned.

Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.

“They were found near the library,” said Professor

McGonagall. “I don’t suppose either of you can

explain this? It was on the floor next to them. …”

She was holding up a small, circular mirror.

Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at

Hermione.

“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said

Professor McGonagall heavily. “I need to address the

students in any case.”

“All students will return to their House common

rooms by six o’clock in the evening. No student is to

leave the dormitories after that time. You will be

escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to

use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All

further Quidditch training and matches are to be

postponed. There will be no more evening activities.”

The Gryffindors packed inside the common room

listened to Professor McGonagall in silence. She rolled

up the parchment from which she had been reading

and said in a somewhat choked voice, “I need hardly

add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely

that the school will be closed unless the culprit

behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone

who thinks they might know anything about them to

come forward.”

She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait

hole, and the Gryffindors began talking immediately.

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“That’s two Gryffindors down, not counting a

Gryffindor ghost, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff,”

said the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan, counting

on his fingers. “Haven’t any of the teachers noticed

that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn’t it obvious all this stuff’s coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin,

the monster of Slytherin — why don’t they just chuck

all the Slytherins out?” he roared, to nods and

scattered applause.

Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but

for once he didn’t seem keen to make his views heard.

He was looking pale and stunned.

“Percy’s in shock,” George told Harry quietly. “That

Ravenclaw girl — Penelope Clearwater — she’s a

prefect. I don’t think he thought the monster would

dare attack a prefect. ”

But Harry was only half-listening. He didn’t seem to

be able to get rid of the picture of Hermione, lying on

the hospital bed as though carved out of stone. And if

the culprit wasn’t caught soon, he was looking at a

lifetime back with the Dursleys. Tom Riddle had

turned Hagrid in because he was faced with the

prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the school closed.

Harry now knew exactly how he had felt.

“What’re we going to do?” said Ron quietly in Harry’s

ear. “D’you think they suspect Hagrid?”

“We’ve got to go and talk to him,” said Harry, making

up his mind. “I can’t believe it’s him this time, but if

he set the monster loose last time he’ll know how to

get inside the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s a start.”

“But McGonagall said we’ve got to stay in our tower

unless we’re in class —”

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“I think,” said Harry, more quietly still, “it’s time to get my dad’s old cloak out again.”

Harry had inherited just one thing from his father: a

long and silvery Invisibility Cloak. It was their only

chance of sneaking out of the school to visit Hagrid

without anyone knowing about it. They went to bed at

the usual time, waited until Neville, Dean, and

Seamus had stopped discussing the Chamber of

Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed

again, and threw the cloak over themselves.

The journey through the dark and deserted castle

corridors wasn’t enjoyable. Harry, who had wandered

the castle at night several times before, had never

seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects,

and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs,

staring around for any unusual activity. Their

Invisibility Cloak didn’t stop them making any noise,

and there was a particularly tense moment when Ron

stubbed his toe only yards from the spot where Snape

stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at

almost exactly the moment Ron swore. It was with

relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased

them open.

It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the

lit windows of Hagrid’s house and pulled off the cloak

only when they were right outside his front door.

Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open.

They found themselves face-to-face with him aiming a

crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly

behind him.

“Oh,” he said, lowering the weapon and staring at

them. “What’re you two doin’ here?”

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“What’s that for?” said Harry, pointing at the

crossbow as they stepped inside.

“Nothin’ — nothin’ — “ Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin

expectin’ — doesn’ matter — Sit down — I’ll make tea

—”

He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He

nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the

kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a

nervous jerk of his massive hand.

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear

about Hermione?”

“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in

his voice.

He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He

poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had

forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab

of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock

on the door.

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Ron

exchanged panic-stricken looks, then threw the

Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated

into a corner. Hagrid checked that they were hidden,

seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once

more.

“Good evening, Hagrid.”

It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly

serious, and was followed by a second, very odd-

looking man.

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious

expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of

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clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he

carried a lime-green bowler.

“That’s Dad’s boss!” Ron breathed. “Cornelius Fudge,

the Minister of Magic!”

Harry elbowed Ron hard to make him shut up.

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into

one of his chairs and looked from Dumbledore to

Cornelius Fudge.

“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped

tones. “Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks

on Muggle-borns. Things’ve gone far enough.

Ministry’s got to act.”

“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at

Dumbledore. “You know I never, Professor

Dumbledore, sir —”

“I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my

full confidence,” said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge.

“Look, Albus,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid’s

record’s against him. Ministry’s got to do something

— the school governors have been in touch —”

“Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid

away will not help in the slightest,” said Dumbledore.

His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had never seen

before.

“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge,

fidgeting with his bowler. “I’m under a lot of pressure.

Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns out it

wasn’t Hagrid, he’ll be back and no more said. But

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I’ve got to take him. Got to. Wouldn’t be doing my duty —”

“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me

where?”

“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting

Hagrid’s eyes. “Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a

precaution. If someone else is caught, you’ll be let out

with a full apology —”

“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid.

Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud

rap on the door.

Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry’s turn for an

elbow in the ribs; he’d let out an audible gasp.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed

in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and

satisfied smile. Fang started to growl.

“Already here, Fudge,” he said approvingly. “Good,

good …”

“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get

outta my house!”

“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure

at all in being inside your — er — d’you call this a

house?” said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he looked

around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school

and was told that the headmaster was here.”

“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?”

said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was

still blazing in his blue eyes.

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“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll of parchment, “but the

governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is

an Order of Suspension — you’ll find all twelve

signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your

touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two

more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be

no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know

what an awful loss that would be to the school.”

“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking

alarmed, “Dumbledore suspended — no, no — last

thing we want just now —”

“The appointment — or suspension — of the

headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge,”

said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has

failed to stop these attacks —”

“See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can’t stop them,”

said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, “I

mean to say, who can?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Malfoy with a

nasty smile. “But as all twelve of us have voted —”

Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing

the ceiling.

“An’ how many did yeh have ter threaten an’

blackmail before they agreed, Malfoy, eh?” he roared.

“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead

you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid,” said Mr.

Malfoy. “I would advise you not to shout at the

Azkaban guards like that. They won’t like it at all.”

“Yeh can’ take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making

Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his

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basket. “Take him away, an’ the Muggle-borns won’

stand a chance! There’ll be killin’ next!”

“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. He

looked at Lucius Malfoy.

“If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of

course step aside —”

“But —” stuttered Fudge.

“No!” growled Hagrid.

Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off

Lucius Malfoy’s cold gray ones.

“However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly

and clearly so that none of them could miss a word,

“you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find

that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those

who ask for it.”

For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore’s

eyes flickered toward the corner where he and Ron

stood hidden.

“Admirable sentiments,” said Malfoy, bowing. “We

shall all miss your — er — highly individual way of

running things, Albus, and only hope that your

successor will manage to prevent any — ah — killins. ”

He strode to the cabin door, opened it, and bowed

Dumbledore out. Fudge, fiddling with his bowler,

waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid

stood his ground, took a deep breath, and said

carefully, “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff,

all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders.

That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.”

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Fudge stared at him in amazement.

“All right, I’m comin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on his

moleskin overcoat. But as he was about to follow

Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said

loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m

away.”

The door banged shut and Ron pulled off the

Invisibility Cloak.

“We’re in trouble now,” he said hoarsely. “No

Dumbledore. They might as well close the school

tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with him gone.”

Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door.

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ARAGOG

Summer was creeping over the grounds around the

castle; sky and lake alike turned periwinkle blue and

flowers large as cabbages burst into bloom in the

greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the

castle windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his

heels, the scene didn’t look right to Harry; no better,

in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things

were so horribly wrong.

Harry and Ron had tried to visit Hermione, but

visitors were now barred from the hospital wing.

“We’re taking no more chances,” Madam Pomfrey told

them severely through a crack in the infirmary door.

“No, I’m sorry, there’s every chance the attacker might

come back to finish these people off. …”

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never

before, so that the sun warming the castle walls

outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows.

There was barely a face to be seen in the school that

didn’t look worried and tense, and any laughter that

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rang through the corridors sounded shrill and

unnatural and was quickly stifled.

Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore’s final words

to himself. “I will only truly have left this school when

none here are loyal to me. … Help will always be given

at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. ” But what good

were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to

ask for help, when everyone was just as confused and

scared as they were?

Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to

understand — the trouble was, there didn’t seem to

be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harry

looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly)

by Ron. They were hampered, of course, by the fact

that they weren’t allowed to wander off on their own

but had to move around the castle in a pack with the

other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students

seemed glad that they were being shepherded from

class to class by teachers, but Harry found it very

irksome.

One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly

enjoying the atmosphere of terror and suspicion.

Draco Malfoy was strutting around the school as

though he had just been appointed Head Boy. Harry

didn’t realize what he was so pleased about until the

Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and

Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Malfoy,

Harry overheard him gloating to Crabbe and Goyle.

“I always thought Father might be the one who got rid

of Dumbledore,” he said, not troubling to keep his

voice down. “I told you he thinks Dumbledore’s the

worst headmaster the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll

get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t

want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall

won’t last long, she’s only filling in. …”

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Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about

Hermione’s empty seat and cauldron.

“Sir,” said Malfoy loudly. “Sir, why don’t you apply for

the headmaster’s job?”

“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn’t

suppress a thin-lipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore

has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay

he’ll be back with us soon enough.”

“Yeah, right,” said Malfoy, smirking. “I expect you’d

have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the

job — I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir

—”

Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon,

fortunately not spotting Seamus Finnigan, who was

pretending to vomit into his cauldron.

“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed

their bags by now,” Malfoy went on. “Bet you five

Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger —”

The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at

Malfoy’s last words, Ron had leapt off his stool, and in

the scramble to collect bags and books, his attempts

to reach Malfoy went unnoticed.

“Let me at him,” Ron growled as Harry and Dean

hung onto his arms. “I don’t care, I don’t need my

wand, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands —”

“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to Herbology,”

barked Snape over the class’s heads, and off they

marched, with Harry, Ron, and Dean bringing up the

rear, Ron still trying to get loose. It was only safe to

let go of him when Snape had seen them out of the

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castle and they were making their way across the

vegetable patch toward the greenhouses.

The Herbology class was very subdued; there were

now two missing from their number, Justin and

Hermione.

Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the

Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. Harry went to tip an armful of

withered stalks onto the compost heap and found

himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan. Ernie took

a deep breath and said, very formally, “I just want to

say, Harry, that I’m sorry I ever suspected you. I

know you’d never attack Hermione Granger, and I

apologize for all the stuff I said. We’re all in the same

boat now, and, well —”

He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it.

Ernie and his friend Hannah came to work at the

same Shrivelfig as Harry and Ron.

“That Draco Malfoy character,” said Ernie, breaking

off dead twigs, “he seems very pleased about all this,

doesn’t he? D’you know, I think he might be

Slytherin’s heir.”

“That’s clever of you,” said Ron, who didn’t seem to

have forgiven Ernie as readily as Harry.

“Do you think it’s Malfoy, Harry?” Ernie asked.

“No,” said Harry, so firmly that Ernie and Hannah

stared.

A second later, Harry spotted something.

Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground

on the other side of the glass, moving in an

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unnaturally straight line as though taking the

shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit

Ron over the hand with his pruning shears.

“Ouch! What’re you —”

Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress

with his eyes screwed up against the sun.

“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, trying, and failing, to look

pleased. “But we can’t follow them now —”

Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If

they pursued their fixed course, there could be no

doubt about where they would end up.

“Looks like they’re heading for the Forbidden Forest.

…”

And Ron looked even unhappier about that.

At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the

class to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.

Harry and Ron lagged behind the others so they could

talk out of earshot.

“We’ll have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harry

told Ron. “We can take Fang with us. He’s used to

going into the forest with Hagrid, he might be some

help.”

“Right,” said Ron, who was twirling his wand

nervously in his fingers. “Er — aren’t there — aren’t

there supposed to be werewolves in the forest?” he

added as they took their usual places at the back of

Lockhart’s classroom.

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Preferring not to answer that question, Harry said,

“There are good things in there, too. The centaurs are

all right, and the unicorns …”

Ron had never been into the Forbidden Forest before.

Harry had entered it only once and had hoped never

to do so again.

Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared

at him. Every other teacher in the place was looking

grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared nothing

short of buoyant.

“Come now,” he cried, beaming around him. “Why all

these long faces?”

People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody

answered.

“Don’t you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking

slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, “the danger

has passed! The culprit has been taken away —”

“Says who?” said Dean Thomas loudly.

“My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t

have taken Hagrid if he hadn’t been one hundred

percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the

tone of someone explaining that one and one made

two.

“Oh, yes he would,” said Ron, even more loudly than

Dean.

“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid’s

arrest than you do, Mr. Weasley,” said Lockhart in a

self-satisfied tone.

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Ron started to say that he didn’t think so, somehow, but stopped in midsentence when Harry kicked him

hard under the desk.

“We weren’t there, remember?” Harry muttered.

But Lockhart’s disgusting cheeriness, his hints that

he had always thought Hagrid was no good, his

confidence that the whole business was now at an

end, irritated Harry so much that he yearned to throw

Gadding with Ghouls right in Lockhart’s stupid face.

Instead he contented himself with scrawling a note to

Ron: Let’s do it tonight.

Ron read the message, swallowed hard, and looked

sideways at the empty seat usually filled by

Hermione. The sight seemed to stiffen his resolve, and

he nodded.

The Gryffindor common room was always very

crowded these days, because from six o’clock onward

the Gryffindors had nowhere else to go. They also had

plenty to talk about, with the result that the common

room often didn’t empty until past midnight.

Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his

trunk right after dinner, and spent the evening sitting

on it, waiting for the room to clear. Fred and George

challenged Harry and Ron to a few games of

Exploding Snap, and Ginny sat watching them, very

subdued in Hermione’s usual chair. Harry and Ron

kept losing on purpose, trying to finish the games

quickly, but even so, it was well past midnight when

Fred, George, and Ginny finally went to bed.

Harry and Ron waited for the distant sounds of two

dormitory doors closing before seizing the cloak,

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throwing it over themselves, and climbing through the portrait hole.

It was another difficult journey through the castle,

dodging all the teachers. At last they reached the

entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front

doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any

creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds.

“ ’Course,” said Ron abruptly as they strode across

the black grass, “we might get to the forest and find

there’s nothing to follow. Those spiders might not’ve

been going there at all. I know it looked like they were

moving in that sort of general direction, but …”

His voice trailed away hopefully.

They reached Hagrid’s house, sad and sorry-looking

with its blank windows. When Harry pushed the door

open, Fang went mad with joy at the sight of them.

Worried he might wake everyone at the castle with his

deep, booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle

toffee from a tin on the mantelpiece, which glued his

teeth together.

Harry left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid’s table.

There would be no need for it in the pitch-dark forest.

“C’mon, Fang, we’re going for a walk,” said Harry,

patting his leg, and Fang bounded happily out of the

house behind them, dashed to the edge of the forest,

and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree.

Harry took out his wand, murmured, “Lumos!” and a

tiny light appeared at the end of it, just enough to let

them watch the path for signs of spiders.

“Good thinking,” said Ron. “I’d light mine, too, but

you know — it’d probably blow up or something. …”

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Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing at the

grass. Two solitary spiders were hurrying away from

the wandlight into the shade of the trees.

“Okay,” Ron sighed as though resigned to the worst,

“I’m ready. Let’s go.”

So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree

roots and leaves, they entered the forest. By the glow

of Harry’s wand, they followed the steady trickle of

spiders moving along the path. They walked behind

them for about twenty minutes, not speaking,

listening hard for noises other than breaking twigs

and rustling leaves. Then, when the trees had become

thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were no

longer visible, and Harry’s wand shone alone in the

sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the

path.

Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were

going, but everything outside his little sphere of light

was pitch-black. He had never been this deep into the

forest before. He could vividly remember Hagrid

advising him not to leave the forest path last time

he’d been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now,

probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and he had also

said to follow the spiders.

Something wet touched Harry’s hand and he jumped

backward, crushing Ron’s foot, but it was only Fang’s

nose.

“What d’you reckon?” Harry said to Ron, whose eyes

he could just make out, reflecting the light from his

wand.

“We’ve come this far,” said Ron.

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So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders into the trees. They couldn’t move very quickly now;

there were tree roots and stumps in their way, barely

visible in the near blackness. Harry could feel Fang’s

hot breath on his hand. More than once, they had to

stop, so that Harry could crouch down and find the

spiders in the wandlight.

They walked for what seemed like at least half an

hour, their robes snagging on low-slung branches and

brambles. After a while, they noticed that the ground

seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees

were as thick as ever.

Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark,

making both Harry and Ron jump out of their skins.

“What?” said Ron loudly, looking around into the

pitch-dark, and gripping Harry’s elbow very hard.

“There’s something moving over there,” Harry

breathed. “Listen … sounds like something big. …”

They listened. Some distance to their right, the

something big was snapping branches as it carved a

path through the trees.

“Oh, no,” said Ron. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh —”

“Shut up,” said Harry frantically. “It’ll hear you.”

“Hear me?” said Ron in an unnaturally high voice.

“It’s already heard Fang!”

The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs

as they stood, terrified, waiting. There was a strange

rumbling noise and then silence.

“What d’you think it’s doing?” said Harry.

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“Probably getting ready to pounce,” said Ron.

They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move.

“D’you think it’s gone?” Harry whispered.

“Dunno —”

Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so

bright in the darkness that both of them flung up

their hands to shield their eyes. Fang yelped and tried

to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped

even louder.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, his voice breaking with relief.

“Harry, it’s our car!”

“What?”

“Come on!”

Harry blundered after Ron toward the light, stumbling

and tripping, and a moment later they had emerged

into a clearing.

Mr. Weasley’s car was standing, empty, in the middle

of a circle of thick trees under a roof of dense

branches, its headlights ablaze. As Ron walked,

openmouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward him,

exactly like a large, turquoise dog greeting its owner.

“It’s been here all the time!” said Ron delightedly,

walking around the car. “Look at it. The forest’s

turned it wild. …”

The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with

mud. Apparently it had taken to trundling around the

forest on its own. Fang didn’t seem at all keen on it;

he kept close to Harry, who could feel him quivering.

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His breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed his wand back into his robes.

“And we thought it was going to attack us!” said Ron,

leaning against the car and patting it. “I wondered

where it had gone!”

Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for

signs of more spiders, but they had all scuttled away

from the glare of the headlights.

“We’ve lost the trail,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go and find

them.”

Ron didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed

on a point some ten feet above the forest floor, right

behind Harry. His face was livid with terror.

Harry didn’t even have time to turn around. There

was a loud clicking noise and suddenly he felt

something long and hairy seize him around the

middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was

hanging facedown. Struggling, terrified, he heard

more clicking, and saw Ron’s legs leave the ground,

too, heard Fang whimpering and howling — next

moment, he was being swept away into the dark

trees.

Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him

was marching on six immensely long, hairy legs, the

front two clutching him tightly below a pair of shining

black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of

the creatures, no doubt carrying Ron. They were

moving into the very heart of the forest. Harry could

hear Fang fighting to free himself from a third

monster, whining loudly, but Harry couldn’t have

yelled even if he had wanted to; he seemed to have left

his voice back with the car in the clearing.

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He never knew how long he was in the creature’s

clutches; he only knew that the darkness suddenly

lifted enough for him to see that the leaf-strewn

ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning his

neck sideways, he realized that they had reached the

ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared

of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the

worst scene he had ever laid eyes on.

Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the

leaves below. Spiders the size of carthorses, eight-

eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy, gigantic. The massive

specimen that was carrying Harry made its way down

the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very

center of the hollow, while its fellows closed in all

around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight

of its load.

Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider

released him. Ron and Fang thudded down next to

him. Fang wasn’t howling anymore, but cowering

silently on the spot. Ron looked exactly like Harry felt.

His mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent

scream and his eyes were popping.

Harry suddenly realized that the spider that had

dropped him was saying something. It had been hard

to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every word

he spoke.

“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!”

And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a

spider the size of a small elephant emerged, very

slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and

legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head

was milky white. He was blind.

“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly.

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“Men,” clicked the spider who had caught Harry.

“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight

milky eyes wandering vaguely.

“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Ron.

“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping.

…”

“We’re friends of Hagrid’s,” Harry shouted. His heart

seemed to have left his chest to pound in his throat.

Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all

around the hollow.

Aragog paused.

“Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before,”

he said slowly.

“Hagrid’s in trouble,” said Harry, breathing very fast.

“That’s why we’ve come.”

“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harry thought

he heard concern beneath the clicking pincers. “But

why has he sent you?”

Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided

against it; he didn’t think his legs would support him.

So he spoke from the ground, as calmly as he could.

“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid’s been

setting a — a — something on students. They’ve

taken him to Azkaban.”

Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around

the hollow the sound was echoed by the crowd of

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spiders; it was like applause, except applause didn’t usually make Harry feel sick with fear.

“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years

and years ago. I remember it well. That’s why they

made him leave the school. They believed that I was

the monster that dwells in what they call the

Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had

opened the Chamber and set me free.”

“And you … you didn’t come from the Chamber of

Secrets?” said Harry, who could feel cold sweat on his

forehead.

“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in

the castle. I come from a distant land. A traveler gave

me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid was only a

boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the

castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is

my good friend, and a good man. When I was

discovered, and blamed for the death of a girl, he

protected me. I have lived here in the forest ever

since, where Hagrid still visits me. He even found me

a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown,

all through Hagrid’s goodness. …”

Harry summoned what remained of his courage.

“So you never — never attacked anyone?”

“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been

my instinct, but out of respect for Hagrid, I never

harmed a human. The body of the girl who was killed

was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of

the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our

kind like the dark and the quiet. …”

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“But then … Do you know what did kill that girl?”

said Harry. “Because whatever it is, it’s back and

attacking people again —”

His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of

clicking and the rustling of many long legs shifting

angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him.

“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an

ancient creature we spiders fear above all others. Well

do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid to let me go,

when I sensed the beast moving about the school.”

“What is it?” said Harry urgently.

More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed

to be closing in.

“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do

not name it! I never even told Hagrid the name of that

dread creature, though he asked me, many times.”

Harry didn’t want to press the subject, not with the

spiders pressing closer on all sides. Aragog seemed to

be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into his

domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch

slowly toward Harry and Ron.

“We’ll just go, then,” Harry called desperately to

Aragog, hearing leaves rustling behind him.

“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not. …”

“But — but —”

“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my

command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat, when

it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good-bye,

friend of Hagrid.”

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Harry spun around. Feet away, towering above him,

was a solid wall of spiders, clicking, their many eyes

gleaming in their ugly black heads.

Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was

no good, there were too many of them, but as he tried

to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long note

sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the

hollow.

Mr. Weasley’s car was thundering down the slope,

headlights glaring, its horn screeching, knocking

spiders aside; several were thrown onto their backs,

their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched

to a halt in front of Harry and Ron and the doors flew

open.

“Get Fang!” Harry yelled, diving into the front seat;

Ron seized the boarhound around the middle and

threw him, yelping, into the back of the car — the

doors slammed shut — Ron didn’t touch the

accelerator but the car didn’t need him; the engine

roared and they were off, hitting more spiders. They

sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and they were

soon crashing through the forest, branches whipping

the windows as the car wound its way cleverly

through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously

knew.

Harry looked sideways at Ron. His mouth was still

open in the silent scream, but his eyes weren’t

popping anymore.

“Are you okay?”

Ron stared straight ahead, unable to speak.

They smashed their way through the undergrowth,

Fang howling loudly in the back seat, and Harry saw

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the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a large oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned,

and Harry could again see patches of sky.

The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly

thrown into the windshield. They had reached the

edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the window in

his anxiety to get out, and when Harry opened the

door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid’s house,

tail between his legs. Harry got out too, and after a

minute or so, Ron seemed to regain the feeling in his

limbs and followed, still stiff-necked and staring.

Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back

into the forest and disappeared from view.

Harry went back into Hagrid’s cabin to get the

Invisibility Cloak. Fang was trembling under a

blanket in his basket. When Harry got outside again,

he found Ron being violently sick in the pumpkin

patch.

“Follow the spiders,” said Ron weakly, wiping his

mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll never forgive Hagrid. We’re

lucky to be alive.”

“I bet he thought Aragog wouldn’t hurt friends of his,”

said Harry.

“That’s exactly Hagrid’s problem!” said Ron, thumping

the wall of the cabin. “He always thinks monsters

aren’t as bad as they’re made out, and look where it’s

got him! A cell in Azkaban!” He was shivering

uncontrollably now. “What was the point of sending

us in there? What have we found out, I’d like to

know?”

“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,”

said Harry, throwing the cloak over Ron and prodding

him in the arm to make him walk. “He was innocent.”

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Ron gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in a cupboard wasn’t his idea of being innocent.

As the castle loomed nearer Harry twitched the cloak

to make sure their feet were hidden, then pushed the

creaking front doors ajar. They walked carefully back

across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase,

holding their breath as they passed corridors where

watchful sentries were walking. At last they reached

the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where the

fire had burned itself into glowing ash. They took off

the cloak and climbed the winding stair to their

dormitory.

Ron fell onto his bed without bothering to get

undressed. Harry, however, didn’t feel very sleepy. He

sat on the edge of his fourposter, thinking hard about

everything Aragog had said.

The creature that was lurking somewhere in the

castle, he thought, sounded like a sort of monster

Voldemort — even other monsters didn’t want to

name it. But he and Ron were no closer to finding out

what it was, or how it Petrified its victims. Even

Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber of

Secrets.

Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned

back against his pillows, watching the moon glinting

at him through the tower window.

He couldn’t see what else they could do. They had hit

dead ends everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong

person, the Heir of Slytherin had got off, and no one

could tell whether it was the same person, or a

different one, who had opened the Chamber this time.

There was nobody else to ask. Harry lay down, still

thinking about what Aragog had said.

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He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like

their very last hope occurred to him, and he suddenly

sat bolt upright.

“Ron,” he hissed through the dark, “Ron —”

Ron woke with a yelp like Fang’s, stared wildly

around, and saw Harry.

“Ron — that girl who died. Aragog said she was found

in a bathroom,” said Harry, ignoring Neville’s

snuffling snores from the corner. “What if she never

left the bathroom? What if she’s still there?”

Ron rubbed his eyes, frowning through the moonlight.

And then he understood, too.

“You don’t think — not Moaning Myrtle?”

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THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS

All those times we were in that bathroom, and she

was just three toilets away,” said Ron bitterly at

breakfast next day, “and we could’ve asked her, and

now …”

It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders.

Escaping their teachers long enough to sneak into a

girls’ bathroom, the girls’ bathroom, moreover, right

next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be

almost impossible.

But something happened in their first lesson,

Transfiguration, that drove the Chamber of Secrets

out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten

minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told

them that their exams would start on the first of

June, one week from today.

“Exams?” howled Seamus Finnigan. “We’re still

getting exams?”

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There was a loud bang behind Harry as Neville

Longbottom’s wand slipped, vanishing one of the legs

on his desk. Professor McGonagall restored it with a

wave of her own wand, and turned, frowning, to

Seamus.

“The whole point of keeping the school open at this

time is for you to receive your education,” she said

sternly. “The exams will therefore take place as usual,

and I trust you are all studying hard.”

Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that

there would be exams with the castle in this state.

There was a great deal of mutinous muttering around

the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl

even more darkly.

“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to keep the

school running as normally as possible,” she said.

“And that, I need hardly point out, means finding out

how much you have learned this year.”

Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was

supposed to be turning into slippers. What had he

learned so far this year? He couldn’t seem to think of

anything that would be useful in an exam.

Ron looked as though he’d just been told he had to go

and live in the Forbidden Forest.

“Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” he

asked Harry, holding up his wand, which had just

started whistling loudly.

Three days before their first exam, Professor

McGonagall made another announcement at

breakfast.

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“I have good news,” she said, and the Great Hall,

instead of falling silent, erupted.

“Dumbledore’s coming back!” several people yelled

joyfully.

“You’ve caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl

at the Ravenclaw table.

“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood

excitedly.

When the hubbub had subsided, Professor

McGonagall said, “Professor Sprout has informed me

that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last.

Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who

have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that

one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what,

attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year

will end with our catching the culprit.”

There was an explosion of cheering. Harry looked over

at the Slytherin table and wasn’t at all surprised to

see that Draco Malfoy hadn’t joined in. Ron, however,

was looking happier than he’d looked in days.

“It won’t matter that we never asked Myrtle, then!” he

said to Harry. “Hermione’ll probably have all the

answers when they wake her up! Mind you, she’ll go

crazy when she finds out we’ve got exams in three

days’ time. She hasn’t studied. It might be kinder to

leave her where she is till they’re over.”

Just then, Ginny Weasley came over and sat down

next to Ron. She looked tense and nervous, and Harry

noticed that her hands were twisting in her lap.

“What’s up?” said Ron, helping himself to more

porridge.

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Ginny didn’t say anything, but glanced up and down the Gryffindor table with a scared look on her face

that reminded Harry of someone, though he couldn’t

think who.

“Spit it out,” said Ron, watching her.

Harry suddenly realized who Ginny looked like. She

was rocking backward and forward slightly in her

chair, exactly like Dobby did when he was teetering

on the edge of revealing forbidden information.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Ginny mumbled,

carefully not looking at Harry.

“What is it?” said Harry.

Ginny looked as though she couldn’t find the right

words.

“What?” said Ron.

Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Harry leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that only

Ginny and Ron could hear him.

“Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have

you seen something? Someone acting oddly?”

Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise

moment, Percy Weasley appeared, looking tired and

wan.

“If you’ve finished eating, I’ll take that seat, Ginny. I’m

starving, I’ve only just come off patrol duty.”

Ginny jumped up as though her chair had just been

electrified, gave Percy a fleeting, frightened look, and

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scampered away. Percy sat down and grabbed a mug

from the center of the table.

“Percy!” said Ron angrily. “She was just about to tell

us something important!”

Halfway through a gulp of tea, Percy choked.

“What sort of thing?” he said, coughing.

“I just asked her if she’d seen anything odd, and she

started to say —”

“Oh — that — that’s nothing to do with the Chamber

of Secrets,” said Percy at once.

“How do you know?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised.

“Well, er, if you must know, Ginny, er, walked in on

me the other day when I was — well, never mind —

the point is, she spotted me doing something and I,

um, I asked her not to mention it to anybody. I must

say, I did think she’d keep her word. It’s nothing,

really, I’d just rather —”

Harry had never seen Percy look so uncomfortable.

“What were you doing, Percy?” said Ron, grinning.

“Go on, tell us, we won’t laugh.”

Percy didn’t smile back.

“Pass me those rolls, Harry, I’m starving.”

Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved

tomorrow without their help, but he wasn’t about to

pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle if it turned up —

and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were

being led to History of Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart.

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Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all

danger had passed, only to be proved wrong right

away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was

hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the

corridors. His hair wasn’t as sleek as usual; it seemed

he had been up most of the night, patrolling the

fourth floor.

“Mark my words,” he said, ushering them around a

corner. “The first words out of those poor Petrified

people’s mouths will be ‘ It was Hagrid. ’ Frankly, I’m

astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these

security measures are necessary.”

“I agree, sir,” said Harry, making Ron drop his books

in surprise.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Lockhart graciously while

they waited for a long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I

mean, we teachers have quite enough to be getting on

with, without walking students to classes and

standing guard all night. …”

“That’s right,” said Ron, catching on. “Why don’t you

leave us here, sir, we’ve only got one more corridor to

go —”

“You know, Weasley, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I

really should go and prepare my next class —”

And he hurried off.

“Prepare his class,” Ron sneered after him. “Gone to

curl his hair, more like.”

They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of

them, then darted down a side passage and hurried

off toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. But just as

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they were congratulating each other on their brilliant scheme —

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”

It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the

thinnest of thin lines.

“We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were

going to — to go and see —”

“Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor

McGonagall both looked at him.

“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went

on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought

we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell

her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to

worry —”

Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for

a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode,

but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky

voice.

“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear

glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this

has all been hardest on the friends of those who have

been … I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you

may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns

where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given

my permission.”

Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe

that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the

corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall

blow her nose.

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“That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve ever come up with.”

They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing

and tell Madam Pomfrey that they had Professor

McGonagall’s permission to visit Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly.

“There’s just no point talking to a Petrified person,”

she said, and they had to admit she had a point when

they’d taken their seats next to Hermione. It was

plain that Hermione didn’t have the faintest inkling

that she had visitors, and that they might just as well

tell her bedside cabinet not to worry for all the good it

would do.

“Wonder if she did see the attacker, though?” said

Ron, looking sadly at Hermione’s rigid face. “Because

if he sneaked up on them all, no one’ll ever know. …”

But Harry wasn’t looking at Hermione’s face. He was

more interested in her right hand. It lay clenched on

top of her blankets, and bending closer, he saw that a

piece of paper was scrunched inside her fist.

Making sure that Madam Pomfrey was nowhere near,

he pointed this out to Ron.

“Try and get it out,” Ron whispered, shifting his chair

so that he blocked Harry from Madam Pomfrey’s view.

It was no easy task. Hermione’s hand was clamped so

tightly around the paper that Harry was sure he was

going to tear it. While Ron kept watch he tugged and

twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes, the

paper came free.

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It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry smoothed it out eagerly and Ron leaned close to read

it, too.

Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam

our land, there is none more curious or more deadly

than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents.

This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live

many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg,

hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are

most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and

venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare,

and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall

suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk,

for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only

from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.

And beneath this, a single word had been written, in

a hand Harry recognized as Hermione’s. Pipes.

It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on

in his brain.

“Ron,” he breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The

monster in the Chamber’s a basilisk — a giant

serpent! That’s why I’ve been hearing that voice all

over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It’s

because I understand Parseltongue. …”

Harry looked up at the beds around him.

“The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no

one’s died — because no one looked it straight in the

eye. Colin saw it through his camera. The basilisk

burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got

Petrified. Justin … Justin must’ve seen the basilisk

through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast

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of it, but he couldn’t die again … and Hermione and that Ravenclaw prefect were found with a mirror next

to them. Hermione had just realized the monster was

a basilisk. I bet you anything she warned the first

person she met to look around corners with a mirror

first! And that girl pulled out her mirror — and —”

Ron’s jaw had dropped.

“And Mrs. Norris?” he whispered eagerly.

Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night

of Halloween.

“The water …” he said slowly. “The flood from

Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris

only saw the reflection. …”

He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more

he looked at it, the more it made sense.

“… The crowing of the rooster … is fatal to it!” he read aloud. “Hagrid’s roosters were killed! The Heir of

Slytherin didn’t want one anywhere near the castle

once the Chamber was opened! Spiders flee before it!

It all fits!”

“But how’s the basilisk been getting around the

place?” said Ron. “A giant snake … Someone would’ve

seen …”

Harry, however, pointed at the word Hermione had

scribbled at the foot of the page.

“Pipes,” he said. “Pipes … Ron, it’s been using the

plumbing. I’ve been hearing that voice inside the

walls. …”

Ron suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm.

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“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” he said

hoarsely. “What if it’s a bathroom? What if it’s in —”

“— Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, ” said Harry.

They sat there, excitement coursing through them,

hardly able to believe it.

“This means,” said Harry, “I can’t be the only

Parselmouth in the school. The Heir of Slytherin’s

one, too. That’s how he’s been controlling the

basilisk.”

“What’re we going to do?” said Ron, whose eyes were

flashing. “Should we go straight to McGonagall?”

“Let’s go to the staffroom,” said Harry, jumping up.

“She’ll be there in ten minutes. It’s nearly break.”

They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered

hanging around in another corridor, they went

straight into the deserted staffroom. It was a large,

paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harry and

Ron paced around it, too excited to sit down.

But the bell to signal break never came.

Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor

McGonagall’s voice, magically magnified.

“All students to return to their House dormitories at

once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately,

please. ”

Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron.

“Not another attack? Not now?”

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“What’ll we do?” said Ron, aghast. “Go back to the dormitory?”

“No,” said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly

sort of wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers’

cloaks. “In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about. Then

we can tell them what we’ve found out.”

They hid themselves inside it, listening to the

rumbling of hundreds of people moving overhead, and

the staffroom door banging open. From between the

musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers

filtering into the room. Some of them were looking

puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor

McGonagall arrived.

“It has happened,” she told the silent staffroom. “A

student has been taken by the monster. Right into

the Chamber itself.”

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout

clapped her hands over her mouth. Snape gripped the

back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be

sure?”

“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall,

who was very white, “left another message. Right

underneath the first one. ‘ Her skeleton will lie in the

Chamber forever. ’ ”

Professor Flitwick burst into tears.

“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-

kneed, into a chair. “Which student?”

“Ginny Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall.

Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe

floor beside him.

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“We shall have to send all the students home

tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the

end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said …”

The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild

moment, Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore.

But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming.

“So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?”

He didn’t seem to notice that the other teachers were

looking at him with something remarkably like

hatred. Snape stepped forward.

“Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has

been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into

the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come

at last.”

Lockhart blanched.

“That’s right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Professor Sprout.

“Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known

all along where the entrance to the Chamber of

Secrets is?”

“I — well, I —” sputtered Lockhart.

“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what

was inside it?” piped up Professor Flitwick.

“D-did I? I don’t recall —”

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you

hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was

arrested,” said Snape. “Didn’t you say that the whole

affair had been bungled, and that you should have

been given a free rein from the first?”

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Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues.

“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood —”

“We’ll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor

McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do

it. We’ll make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll

be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free

rein at last.”

Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody

came to the rescue. He didn’t look remotely handsome

anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the absence of

his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and

feeble.

“V-very well,” he said. “I’ll — I’ll be in my office,

getting — getting ready.”

And he left the room.

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils

were flared, “that’s got him out from under our feet.

The Heads of Houses should go and inform their

students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts

Express will take them home first thing tomorrow.

Will the rest of you please make sure no students

have been left outside their dormitories.”

The teachers rose and left, one by one.

It was probably the worst day of Harry’s entire life.

He, Ron, Fred, and George sat together in a corner of

the Gryffindor common room, unable to say anything

to each other. Percy wasn’t there. He had gone to

send an owl to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, then shut

himself up in his dormitory.

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No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had Gryffindor Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet.

Near sunset, Fred and George went up to bed, unable

to sit there any longer.

“She knew something, Harry,” said Ron, speaking for

the first time since they had entered the wardrobe in

the staffroom. “That’s why she was taken. It wasn’t

some stupid thing about Percy at all. She’d found out

something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must

be why she was —” Ron rubbed his eyes frantically. “I

mean, she was a pureblood. There can’t be any other

reason.”

Harry could see the sun sinking, blood-red, below the

skyline. This was the worst he had ever felt. If only

there was something they could do. Anything.

“Harry,” said Ron. “D’you think there’s any chance at

all she’s not — you know —”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see how

Ginny could still be alive.

“D’you know what?” said Ron. “I think we should go

and see Lockhart. Tell him what we know. He’s going

to try and get into the Chamber. We can tell him

where we think it is, and tell him it’s a basilisk in

there.”

Because Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do,

and because he wanted to be doing something, he

agreed. The Gryffindors around them were so

miserable, and felt so sorry for the Weasleys, that

nobody tried to stop them as they got up, crossed the

room, and left through the portrait hole.

Darkness was falling as they walked down to

Lockhart’s office. There seemed to be a lot of activity

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going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps, and hurried footsteps.

Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from

inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and

they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through it.

“Oh — Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley —” he said, opening

the door a bit wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment

— if you would be quick —”

“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said

Harry. “We think it’ll help you.”

“Er — well — it’s not terribly —” The side of

Lockhart’s face that they could see looked very

uncomfortable. “I mean — well — all right —”

He opened the door and they entered.

His office had been almost completely stripped. Two

large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade-

green, lilac, midnight-blue, had been hastily folded

into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into

the other. The photographs that had covered the walls

were now crammed into boxes on the desk.

“Are you going somewhere?” said Harry.

“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster

of himself from the back of the door as he spoke and

starting to roll it up. “Urgent call — unavoidable —

got to go —”

“What about my sister?” said Ron jerkily.

“Well, as to that — most unfortunate —” said

Lockhart, avoiding their eyes as he wrenched open a

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drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag.

“No one regrets more than I —”

“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!”

said Harry. “You can’t go now! Not with all the Dark

stuff going on here!”

“Well — I must say — when I took the job —”

Lockhart muttered, now piling socks on top of his

robes. “nothing in the job description — didn’t expect

—”

“You mean you’re running away? said Harry

disbelievingly. “After all that stuff you did in your

books —”

“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately.

“You wrote them!” Harry shouted.

“My dear boy,” said Lockhart, straightening up and

frowning at Harry. “Do use your common sense. My

books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people didn’t

think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read

about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did

save a village from werewolves. He’d look dreadful on

the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch

who banished the Bandon Banshee had a hairy chin.

I mean, come on —”

“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of

other people have done?” said Harry incredulously.

“Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, shaking his head

impatiently, “it’s not nearly as simple as that. There

was work involved. I had to track these people down.

Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they

did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so

they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one thing I

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pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been a lot of work, Harry. It’s not all book signings and

publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have

to be prepared for a long hard slog.”

He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked

them.

“Let’s see,” he said. “I think that’s everything. Yes.

Only one thing left.”

He pulled out his wand and turned to them.

“Awfully sorry, boys, but I’ll have to put a Memory

Charm on you now. Can’t have you blabbing my

secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another book

—”

Harry reached his wand just in time. Lockhart had

barely raised his, when Harry bellowed,

“Expelliarmus!”

Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his

trunk; his wand flew high into the air; Ron caught it,

and flung it out of the open window.

“Shouldn’t have let Professor Snape teach us that

one,” said Harry furiously, kicking Lockhart’s trunk

aside. Lockhart was looking up at him, feeble once

more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him.

“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I

don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s

nothing I can do.”

“You’re in luck,” said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his

feet at wandpoint. “We think we know where it is.

And what’s inside it. Let’s go.”

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They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the nearest stairs, along the dark corridor where the

messages shone on the wall, to the door of Moaning

Myrtle’s bathroom.

They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see

that he was shaking.

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end

toilet.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do

you want this time?”

“To ask you how you died,” said Harry.

Myrtle’s whole aspect changed at once. She looked as

though she had never been asked such a flattering

question.

“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It

happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I

remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby

was teasing me about my glasses. The door was

locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody

come in. They said something funny. A different

language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what

really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I

unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own

toilet, and then —” Myrtle swelled importantly, her

face shining. “I died. ”

“How?” said Harry.

“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just

remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My

whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating

away. …” She looked dreamily at Harry. “And then I

came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive

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Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she’d ever

laughed at my glasses.”

“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry.

“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely

toward the sink in front of her toilet.

Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was

standing well back, a look of utter terror on his face.

It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every

inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below.

And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of

the copper taps was a tiny snake.

“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he

tried to turn it.

“Harry,” said Ron. “Say something. Something in

Parseltongue.”

“But —” Harry thought hard. The only times he’d ever

managed to speak Parseltongue were when he’d been

faced with a real snake. He stared hard at the tiny

engraving, trying to imagine it was real.

“Open up,” he said.

He looked at Ron, who shook his head.

“English,” he said.

Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to

believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the

candlelight made it look as though it were moving.

“Open up,” he said.

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Except that the words weren’t what he heard; a

strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap

glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin.

Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact,

sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed,

a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had

made up his mind what he was going to do.

“I’m going down there,” he said.

He couldn’t not go, not now they had found the

entrance to the Chamber, not if there was even the

faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Ginny might

be alive.

“Me too,” said Ron.

There was a pause.

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart,

with a shadow of his old smile. “I’ll just —”

He put his hand on the door knob, but Ron and Harry

both pointed their wands at him.

“You can go first,” Ron snarled.

White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the

opening.

“Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will

it do?”

Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand.

Lockhart slid his legs into the pipe.

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“I really don’t think —” he started to say, but Ron gave him a push, and he slid out of sight. Harry

followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the

pipe, then let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark

slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all

directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted

and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew

that he was falling deeper below the school than even

the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Ron,

thudding slightly at the curves.

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what

would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe

leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet

thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone

tunnel large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting

to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and

white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came

whizzing out of the pipe, too.

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his

voice echoing in the black tunnel.

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting

around at the dark, slimy walls.

All three of them turned to stare into the darkness

ahead.

“Lumos!” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again.

“C’mon,” he said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they

went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor.

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a

little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls

looked monstrous in the wandlight.

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“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked

cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your

eyes right away. …”

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first

unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as

Ron stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull.

Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw

that it was littered with small animal bones. Trying

very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look like if

they found her, Harry led the way forward, around a

dark bend in the tunnel.

“Harry — there’s something up there —” said Ron

hoarsely, grabbing Harry’s shoulder.

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline

of something huge and curved, lying right across the

tunnel. It wasn’t moving.

“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the

other two. Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his

eyes. Harry turned back to look at the thing, his heart

beating so fast it hurt.

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make

them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand

held high.

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid,

poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the

tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have

been twenty feet long at least.

“Blimey,” said Ron weakly.

There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy

Lockhart’s knees had given way.

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“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at

Lockhart.

Lockhart got to his feet — then he dived at Ron,

knocking him to the ground.

Harry jumped forward, but too late — Lockhart was

straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand

and a gleaming smile back on his face.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take

a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I

was too late to save the girl, and that you two

tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled

body — say good-bye to your memories!”

He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head

and yelled, “Obliviate!”

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb.

Harry flung his arms over his head and ran, slipping

over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of great

chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the

floor. Next moment, he was standing alone, gazing at

a solid wall of broken rock.

“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!”

“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the

rock-fall. “I’m okay — this git’s not, though — he got

blasted by the wand —”

There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as

though Ron had just kicked Lockhart in the shins.

“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate.

“We can’t get through — it’ll take ages. …”

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Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it. He had never tried to break apart

anything as large as these rocks by magic, and now

didn’t seem a good moment to try — what if the whole

tunnel caved in?

There was another thud and another “ow!” from

behind the rocks. They were wasting time. Ginny had

already been in the Chamber of Secrets for hours. …

Harry knew there was only one thing to do.

“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll

go on. … If I’m not back in an hour …”

There was a very pregnant pause.

“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who

seemed to be trying to keep his voice steady. “So you

can — can get back through. And, Harry —”

“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some

confidence into his shaking voice.

And he set off alone past the giant snake skin.

Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the

rocks was gone. The tunnel turned and turned again.

Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling

unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet

dreaded what he’d find when it did. And then, at last,

as he crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid

wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were

carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no

need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their

eyes looked strangely alive.

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He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his

throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the

halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry, shaking

from head to foot, walked inside.

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THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN

He was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit

chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more

carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in

darkness, casting long, black shadows through the

odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.

His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to

the chill silence. Could the basilisk be lurking in a

shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was

Ginny?

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between

the serpentine columns. Every careful footstep echoed

loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes

narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest

sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone

snakes seemed to be following him. More than once,

with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a

statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view,

standing against the back wall.

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Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a

long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the

wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous

gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And

between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed

figure with flaming-red hair.

“Ginny!” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and

dropping to his knees. “Ginny — don’t be dead —

please don’t be dead —” He flung his wand aside,

grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her

face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes

were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she

must be —

“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately,

shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side

to side.

“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.

A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the

nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred

around the edges, as though Harry were looking at

him through a misted window. But there was no

mistaking him —

“Tom — Tom Riddle?”

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.

“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said

desperately. “She’s not — she’s not — ?”

“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”

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Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at

Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird,

misty light shining about him, not a day older than

sixteen.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.

“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary

for fifty years.”

He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant

toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry

had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a

second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but

there were more pressing matters to deal with.

“You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising

Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here.

There’s a basilisk … I don’t know where it is, but it

could be along any moment. … Please, help me —”

Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist

Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand

again.

But his wand had gone.

“Did you see — ?”

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him —

twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers.

“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.

A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He

continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly.

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“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk

comes —”

“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.

Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to

hold her up any longer.

“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand,

I might need it —”

Riddle’s smile broadened.

“You won’t be needing it,” he said.

Harry stared at him.

“What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?”

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said

Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”

“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you

get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk

later —”

“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling

broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand.

Harry stared at him. There was something very funny

going on here. …

“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle

pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real

reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she

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opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry.

“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been

writing in it for months and months, telling me all her

pitiful worries and woes — how her brothers tease

her, how she had to come to school with secondhand

robes and books, how” — Riddle’s eyes glinted —

“how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry

Potter would ever like her. …”

All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s

face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little

troubles of an eleven-year-old girl,” he went on. “But I

was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was

kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever

understood me like you, Tom. … I’m so glad I’ve got

this diary to confide in. … It’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket. …”

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit

him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of

Harry’s neck.

“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to

charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her

soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what

I wanted. … I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of

her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew

powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley.

Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few

of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her …”

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“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had

gone very dry.

“Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle

softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of

Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and

daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set

the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the

Squib’s cat.”

“No,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know

what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I

wish you could have seen her new diary entries … far

more interesting, they became. … Dear Tom, ” he

recited, watching Harry’s horrified face, “I think I’m

losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over

my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear

Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of

Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint

all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me

I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me. …

There was another attack today and I don’t know

where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m

going mad. … I think I’m the one attacking everyone,

Tom!”

Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep

into his palms.

“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop

trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But she finally

became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And

that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I

couldn’t have been more delighted. Of all the people

who could have picked it up, it was you, the very

person I was most anxious to meet. …”

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“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry.

Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort

to keep his voice steady.

“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,”

said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes

roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and

their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find

out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could.

So I decided to show you my famous capture of that

great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust —”

“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now

shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought

you made a mistake, but —”

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you

can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On

the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant,

parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student

… on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in

trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf

cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden

Forest to wrestle trolls … but I admit, even I was

surprised how well the plan worked. I thought

someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be

the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years

to find out everything I could about the Chamber of

Secrets and discover the secret entrance … as though

Hagrid had the brains, or the power!

“Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore,

seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded

Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper.

Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. …

Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the

other teachers did. …”

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“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said

Harry, his teeth gritted.

“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on

me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly.

“I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again

while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste

those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to

leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old

self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would

be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish

Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”

“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry

triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the

cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be

ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right

again —”

“Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that

killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For

many months now, my new target has been — you. ”

Harry stared at him.

“Imagine how angry I was when the next time my

diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to

me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and

panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I

repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I

told you who’d been strangling roosters? So the

foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was

deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must

do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of

Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me

about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to

solve the mystery — particularly if one of your best

friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the

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whole school was buzzing because you could speak

Parseltongue. …

“So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall

and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried

and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left

in her. … She put too much into the diary, into me.

Enough to let me leave its pages at last. … I have

been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I

knew you’d come. I have many questions for you,

Harry Potter.”

“Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched.

“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that

you — a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical

talent — managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all

time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar,

while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly.

“Voldemort was after your time. …”

“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present,

and future, Harry Potter. …”

He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to

trace it through the air, writing three shimmering

words:

tom marvolo riddle

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his

name rearranged themselves:

i am lord voldemort

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“You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only,

of course. You think I was going to use my filthy

Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs

the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my

mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common

Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born,

just because he found out his wife was a witch? No,

Harry — I fashioned myself a new name, a name I

knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to

speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the

world!”

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared

numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had

grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so

many others. … At last he forced himself to speak.

“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.

“Not what?” snapped Riddle.

“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry,

breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that,

but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus

Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were

strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore saw through you when you were at

school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re

hiding these days —”

The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced

by a very ugly look.

“Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the

mere memory of me!” he hissed.

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“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted.

He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle,

wishing rather than believing it to be true —

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled

around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music

was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling,

unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made

his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its

normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch

that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames

erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared,

piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a

glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and

gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged

bundle.

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It

dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet,

then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its

great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long,

sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to

Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

“That’s a phoenix. …” said Riddle, staring shrewdly

back at it.

“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s

golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.

“And that —” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing

that Fawkes had dropped, “that’s the old school

Sorting Hat —”

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So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harry’s feet.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that

the dark Chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles

were laughing at once —

“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A

songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry

Potter? Do you feel safe now?”

Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use

Fawkes or the Sorting Hat were, but he was no longer

alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing with

his courage mounting.

“To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling

broadly. “Twice — in your past, in my future — we

have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you

survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he

added softly, “the longer you stay alive.”

Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle

had the wand. He, Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting

Hat, neither of which would be much good in a duel.

It looked bad, all right … but the longer Riddle stood

there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny … and

in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s

outline was becoming clearer, more solid. … If it had

to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner

than later.

“No one knows why you lost your powers when you

attacked me,” said Harry abruptly. “I don’t know

myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me. Because

my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born

mother,” he added, shaking with suppressed rage.

“She stopped you killing me. And I’ve seen the real

you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely

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alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul —”

Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an

awful smile.

“So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a

powerful counter-charm. I can see now … there is

nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you

see. There are strange likenesses between us, after

all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods,

orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two

Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great

Slytherin himself. We even look something alike …

but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved

you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.”

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his

wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again.

“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson.

Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of

Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and

the best weapons Dumbledore can give him. …”

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting

Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his

numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high

pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin,

high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened

his mouth wide and hissed — but Harry understood

what he was saying. …

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts

Four. ”

Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue,

Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.

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Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving.

Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider

and wider, to make a huge black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth.

Something was slithering up from its depths.

Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber

wall, and as he shut his eyes tight he felt Fawkes’

wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry wanted

to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a

phoenix have against the king of serpents?

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber.

Harry felt it shudder — he knew what was happening,

he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent

uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard

Riddle’s hissing voice:

“Kill him. ”

The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear

its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty

floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to run

blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his

way — Voldemort was laughing —

Harry tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted

blood — the serpent was barely feet from him, he

could hear it coming —

There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above

him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard

that he was smashed into the wall. Waiting for fangs

to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing,

something thrashing wildly off the pillars —

He couldn’t help it — he opened his eyes wide enough

to squint at what was going on.

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The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and

its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between

the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes

if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake.

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk

was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and

thin as sabers —

Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight

and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the

floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing

Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned

— Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its

eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been

punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the

floor, and the snake was spitting in agony.

“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE

BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU!

YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM! KILL HIM!”

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly.

Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song,

jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood

poured from its ruined eyes.

“Help me, help me,” Harry muttered wildly, “someone

— anyone —”

The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry

ducked. Something soft hit his face.

The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry’s

arms. Harry seized it. It was all he had left, his only

chance — he rammed it onto his head and threw

himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk’s tail swung

over him again.

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Help me — help me — Harry thought, his eyes screwed tight under the hat. Please help me —

There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat

contracted, as though an invisible hand was

squeezing it very tightly.

Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top

of Harry’s head, almost knocking him out. Stars

winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed the top of the

hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard

beneath it.

A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat,

its handle glittering with rubies the size of eggs.

“KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS

BEHIND YOU! SNIFF — SMELL HIM!”

Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk’s head was

falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it

twisted to face him. He could see the vast, bloody eye

sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough

to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his

sword, thin, glittering, venomous —

It lunged blindly — Harry dodged and it hit the

Chamber wall. It lunged again, and its forked tongue

lashed Harry’s side. He raised the sword in both his

hands —

The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was

true — Harry threw his whole weight behind the

sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the

serpent’s mouth —

But as warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a

searing pain just above his elbow. One long,

poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into

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his arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor.

Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that

was spreading poison through his body and wrenched

it out of his arm. But he knew it was too late. White-

hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the

wound. Even as he dropped the fang and watched his

own blood soaking his robes, his vision went foggy.

The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull color.

A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft

clatter of claws beside him.

“Fawkes,” said Harry thickly. “You were fantastic,

Fawkes. …” He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on

the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced him.

He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark

shadow moved in front of him.

“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above

him. “Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you

see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying.”

Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus.

Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy

feathers.

“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter.

Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to

be spinning.

“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s

distant voice. “Alone in the Chamber of Secrets,

forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark

Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back with

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your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry. … She

bought you twelve years of borrowed time … but Lord

Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must.

…”

If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad.

Even the pain was leaving him. …

But was this dying? Instead of going black, the

Chamber seemed to be coming back into focus. Harry

gave his head a little shake and there was Fawkes,

still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch

of tears was shining all around the wound — except

that there was no wound —

“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get

away from him — I said, get away —”

Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s

wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and

Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet.

“Phoenix tears …” said Riddle quietly, staring at

Harry’s arm. “Of course … healing powers … I forgot

…”

He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no

difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and

me, Harry Potter … you and me. …”

He raised the wand —

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back

overhead and something fell into Harry’s lap — the

diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still

raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without

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considering, as though he had meant to do it all

along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next

to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the

book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink

spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over

Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing

and twisting, screaming and flailing and then —

He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a

clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the

steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The

basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right

through it.

Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head

was spinning as though he’d just traveled miles by

Floo powder. Slowly, he gathered together his wand

and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved

the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk’s

mouth.

Then came a faint moan from the end of the

Chamber. Ginny was stirring. As Harry hurried

toward her, she sat up. Her bemused eyes traveled

from the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry,

in his blood-soaked robes, then to the diary in his

hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears

began to pour down her face.

“Harry — oh, Harry — I tried to tell you at b-

breakfast, but I c- couldn’t say it in front of Percy — it

was me, Harry — but I — I s-swear I d-didn’t mean to

— R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over — and —

how did you kill that — that thing? W-where’s Riddle?

The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the

diary —”

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“It’s all right,” said Harry, holding up the diary, and showing Ginny the fang hole, “Riddle’s finished. Look!

Him and the basilisk. C’mon, Ginny, let’s get out of

here —”

“I’m going to be expelled!” Ginny wept as Harry helped

her awkwardly to her feet. “I’ve looked forward to

coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now

I’ll have to leave and — w-what’ll Mum and Dad say?”

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the

Chamber entrance. Harry urged Ginny forward; they

stepped over the motionless coils of the dead basilisk,

through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel.

Harry heard the stone doors close behind them with a

soft hiss.

After a few minutes’ progress up the dark tunnel, a

distant sound of slowly shifting rock reached Harry’s

ears.

“Ron!” Harry yelled, speeding up. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve

got her!”

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned

the next bend to see his eager face staring through

the sizable gap he had managed to make in the

rockfall.

“Ginny!” Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the

rock to pull her through first. “You’re alive! I don’t

believe it! What happened? How — what — where did

that bird come from?”

Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny.

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” said Harry, squeezing through

himself.

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“How come you’ve got a sword?” said Ron, gaping at the glittering weapon in Harry’s hand.

“I’ll explain when we get out of here,” said Harry with

a sideways glance at Ginny, who was crying harder

than ever.

“But —”

“Later,” Harry said shortly. He didn’t think it was a

good idea to tell Ron yet who’d been opening the

Chamber, not in front of Ginny, anyway. “Where’s

Lockhart?”

“Back there,” said Ron, still looking puzzled but

jerking his head up the tunnel toward the pipe. “He’s

in a bad way. Come and see.”

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a

soft golden glow in the darkness, they walked all the

way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gilderoy Lockhart

was sitting there, humming placidly to himself.

“His memory’s gone,” said Ron. “The Memory Charm

backfired. Hit him instead of us. Hasn’t got a clue

who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I told him to

come and wait here. He’s a danger to himself.”

Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all.

“Hello,” he said. “Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do

you live here?”

“No,” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe.

“Have you thought how we’re going to get back up

this?” he said to Ron.

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Ron shook his head, but Fawkes the phoenix had

swooped past Harry and was now fluttering in front of

him, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was waving

his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked uncertainly

at him.

“He looks like he wants you to grab hold …” said Ron,

looking perplexed. “But you’re much too heavy for a

bird to pull up there —”

“Fawkes,” said Harry, “isn’t an ordinary bird.” He

turned quickly to the others. “We’ve got to hold on to

each other. Ginny, grab Ron’s hand. Professor

Lockhart —”

“He means you,” said Ron sharply to Lockhart.

“You hold Ginny’s other hand —”

Harry tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into his

belt, Ron took hold of the back of Harry’s robes, and

Harry reached out and took hold of Fawkes’s

strangely hot tail feathers.

An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through

his whole body and the next second, in a rush of

wings, they were flying upward through the pipe.

Harry could hear Lockhart dangling below him,

saying, “Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!”

The chill air was whipping through Harry’s hair, and

before he’d stopped enjoying the ride, it was over —

all four of them were hitting the wet floor of Moaning

Myrtle’s bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened his

hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into

place.

Myrtle goggled at them.

“You’re alive,” she said blankly to Harry.

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“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said grimly, wiping flecks of blood and slime off his

glasses.

“Oh, well … I’d just been thinking … if you had died,

you’d have been welcome to share my toilet,” said

Myrtle, blushing silver.

“Urgh!” said Ron as they left the bathroom for the

dark, deserted corridor outside. “Harry! I think

Myrtle’s grown fond of you! You’ve got competition,

Ginny!”

But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny’s

face.

“Where now?” said Ron, with an anxious look at

Ginny. Harry pointed.

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the

corridor. They strode after him, and moments later,

found themselves outside Professor McGonagall’s

office.

Harry knocked and pushed the door open.

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DOBBY’S REWARD

For a moment there was silence as Harry, Ron,

Ginny, and Lockhart stood in the doorway, covered in

muck and slime and (in Harry’s case) blood. Then

there was a scream.

“Ginny!”

It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in

front of the fire. She leapt to her feet, closely followed

by Mr. Weasley, and both of them flung themselves on

their daughter.

Harry, however, was looking past them. Professor

Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece,

beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was

taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest.

Fawkes went whooshing past Harry’s ear and settled

on Dumbledore’s shoulder, just as Harry found

himself and Ron being swept into Mrs. Weasley’s tight

embrace.

“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?”

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“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor McGonagall weakly.

Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, who hesitated for a

moment, then walked over to the desk and laid upon

it the Sorting Hat, the ruby-encrusted sword, and

what remained of Riddle’s diary.

Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a

quarter of an hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He

told them about hearing the disembodied voice, how

Hermione had finally realized that he was hearing a

basilisk in the pipes; how he and Ron had followed

the spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them

where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how he

had guessed that Moaning Myrtle had been the

victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of

Secrets might be in her bathroom. …

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted him as

he paused, “so you found out where the entrance was

— breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along

the way, I might add — but how on earth did you all

get out of there alive, Potter?”

So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this

talking, told them about Fawkes’s timely arrival and

about the Sorting Hat giving him the sword. But then

he faltered. He had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s

diary — or Ginny. She was standing with her head

against Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder, and tears were still

coursing silently down her cheeks. What if they

expelled her? Harry thought in panic. Riddle’s diary

didn’t work anymore. … How could they prove it had

been he who’d made her do it all?

Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who

smiled faintly, the firelight glancing off his half-moon

spectacles.

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“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny,

when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in

the forests of Albania.”

Relief — warm, sweeping, glorious relief — swept over

Harry.

“W-what’s that?” said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice.

“You-Know-Who? En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny’s not

… Ginny hasn’t been … has she?”

“It was this diary,” said Harry quickly, picking it up

and showing it to Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when

he was sixteen. …”

Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered

keenly down his long, crooked nose at its burnt and

soggy pages.

“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably

the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.”

He turned around to the Weasleys, who were looking

utterly bewildered.

“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once

called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years

ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the

school … traveled far and wide … sank so deeply into

the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our

kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical

transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord

Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone

connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome

boy who was once Head Boy here.”

“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What’s our Ginny

got to do with — with — him?”

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“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, and he’s been w-writing back all year —”

“Ginny!” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I

taught you anything? What have I always told you?

Never trust anything that can think for itself if you

can’t see where it keeps its brain. Why didn’t you

show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious

object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic —”

“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one

of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had

just left it in there and forgotten about it —”

“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right

away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This

has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no

punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have

been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” He strode over

to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a

large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find

that cheers me up,” he added, twinkling kindly down

at her. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still

awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice — I

daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any

moment.”

“So Hermione’s okay!” said Ron brightly.

“There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny,” said

Dumbledore.

Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley

followed, still looking deeply shaken.

“You know, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said

thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, “I think all this

merits a good feast. Might I ask you to go and alert

the kitchens?”

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“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also

moving to the door. “I’ll leave you to deal with Potter

and Weasley, shall I?”

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore.

She left, and Harry and Ron gazed uncertainly at

Dumbledore. What exactly had Professor McGonagall

meant, deal with them? Surely — surely — they

weren’t about to be punished?

“I seem to remember telling you both that I would

have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,”

said Dumbledore.

Ron opened his mouth in horror.

“Which goes to show that the best of us must

sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on,

smiling. “You will both receive Special Awards for

Services to the School and — let me see — yes, I think

two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor.”

Ron went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine

flowers and closed his mouth again.

“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet

about his part in this dangerous adventure,”

Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gilderoy?”

Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about

Lockhart. He turned and saw that Lockhart was

standing in a corner of the room, still wearing his

vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him,

Lockhart looked over his shoulder to see who he was

talking to.

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“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said quickly, “there was an accident down in the Chamber of Secrets.

Professor Lockhart —”

“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise.

“Goodness. I expect I was hopeless, was I?”

“He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand

backfired,” Ron explained quietly to Dumbledore.

“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his

long silver mustache quivering. “Impaled upon your

own sword, Gilderoy!”

“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword.

That boy has, though.” He pointed at Harry. “He’ll

lend you one.”

“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the

infirmary, too?” Dumbledore said to Ron. “I’d like a

few more words with Harry. …”

Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at

Dumbledore and Harry as he closed the door.

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.

“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling

unaccountably nervous.

“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said

Dumbledore, eyes twinkling again. “You must have

shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing

but that could have called Fawkes to you.”

He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down

onto his knee. Harry grinned awkwardly as

Dumbledore watched him.

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“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore

thoughtfully. “I imagine he was most interested in

you. …”

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came

tumbling out of his mouth.

“Professor Dumbledore … Riddle said I’m like him.

Strange likenesses, he said. …”

“Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully

at Harry from under his thick silver eyebrows. “And

what do you think, Harry?”

“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harry, more loudly

than he’d intended. “I mean, I’m — I’m in Gryffindor,

I’m …”

But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his

mind.

“Professor,” he started again after a moment. “The

Sorting Hat told me I’d — I’d have done well in

Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin’s heir for

a while … because I can speak Parseltongue. …”

“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said

Dumbledore calmly, “because Lord Voldemort — who

is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin

— can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much

mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to

you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he

intended to do, I’m sure. …”

“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harry said,

thunderstruck.

“It certainly seems so.”

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“So I should be in Slytherin,” Harry said, looking desperately into Dumbledore’s face. “The Sorting Hat

could see Slytherin’s power in me, and it —”

“Put you in Gryffindor,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many

qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked

students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue —

resourcefulness — determination — a certain

disregard for rules,” he added, his mustache

quivering again. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in

Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.”

“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a

defeated voice, “because I asked not to go in

Slytherin. …”

“Exactly, ” said Dumbledore, beaming once more.

“Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It

is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far

more than our abilities.” Harry sat motionless in his

chair, stunned. “If you want proof, Harry, that you

belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely

at this. ”

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall’s

desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword, and

handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the

rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the

name engraved just below the hilt.

Godric Gryffindor.

“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of

the hat, Harry,” said Dumbledore simply.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then

Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in

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Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and a bottle of ink.

“What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I

suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to

Azkaban — we need our gamekeeper back. And I

must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet,

too,” he added thoughtfully. “We’ll be needing a new

Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. … Dear me,

we do seem to run through them, don’t we?”

Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just

reached for the handle, however, when the door burst

open so violently that it bounced back off the wall.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And

cowering behind his legs, heavily wrapped in

bandages, was Dobby.

“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept

into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after him,

crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of abject

terror on his face.

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was

attempting to finish cleaning Mr. Malfoy’s shoes.

Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great hurry,

for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his

usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf

bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his

cold eyes upon Dumbledore.

“So!” he said “You’ve come back. The governors

suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to

Hogwarts.”

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“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling

serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me

today. It was something like being caught in a

hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that

Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and

wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I

was the best man for the job after all. Very strange

tales they told me, too. … Several of them seemed to

think that you had threatened to curse their families

if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.”

Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes

were still slits of fury.

“So — have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered.

“Have you caught the culprit?”

“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile.

“Well?” said Mr. Malfoy sharply. “Who is it?”

“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said

Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was

acting through somebody else. By means of this

diary.”

He held up the small black book with the large hole

through the center, watching Mr. Malfoy closely.

Harry, however, was watching Dobby.

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes

fixed meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the

diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting himself

hard on the head with his fist.

“I see …” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore.

“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still

staring Mr. Malfoy straight in the eye. “Because if

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Harry here” — Mr. Malfoy shot Harry a swift, sharp look — “and his friend Ron hadn’t discovered this

book, why — Ginny Weasley might have taken all the

blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she

hadn’t acted of her own free will. …”

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly

masklike.

“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might

have happened then. … The Weasleys are one of our

most prominent pure-blood families. Imagine the

effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection

Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and

killing Muggle-borns. … Very fortunate the diary was

discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who

knows what the consequences might have been

otherwise. …”

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak.

“Very fortunate,” he said stiffly.

And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first

to the diary, then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching

himself in the head.

And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at

Dobby, and Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting

his ears in punishment.

“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that

diary, Mr. Malfoy?” said Harry.

Lucius Malfoy rounded on him.

“How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold

of it?” he said.

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“Because you gave it to her,” said Harry. “In Flourish and Blotts. You picked up her old Transfiguration

book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you?”

He saw Mr. Malfoy’s white hands clench and

unclench.

“Prove it,” he hissed.

“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore,

smiling at Harry. “Not now that Riddle has vanished

from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you,

Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord

Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them

find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur

Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back

to you. …”

Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry

distinctly saw his right hand twitch as though he was

longing to reach for his wand. Instead, he turned to

his house-elf.

“We’re going, Dobby!”

He wrenched open the door and as the elf came

hurrying up to him, he kicked him right through it.

They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all the

way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment,

thinking hard. Then it came to him —

“Professor Dumbledore,” he said hurriedly. “Can I give

that diary back to Mr. Malfoy, please?”

“Certainly, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But

hurry. The feast, remember. …”

Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office.

He could hear Dobby’s squeals of pain receding

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around the corner. Quickly, wondering if this plan could possibly work, Harry took off one of his shoes,

pulled off his slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary

into it. Then he ran down the dark corridor.

He caught up with them at the top of the stairs.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got

something for you —”

And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy’s

hand.

“What the — ?”

Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it

aside, then looked furiously from the ruined book to

Harry.

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one

of these days, Harry Potter,” he said softly. “They were

meddlesome fools, too.”

He turned to go.

“Come, Dobby. I said, come. ”

But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s

disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it

were a priceless treasure.

“Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment.

“Master gave it to Dobby.”

“What’s that?” spat Mr. Malfoy. “What did you say?”

“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it,

and Dobby caught it, and Dobby — Dobby is free. ”

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Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then he lunged at Harry.

“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!”

But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harry

Potter!”

There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown

backward. He crashed down the stairs, three at a

time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing

below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his

wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger.

“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at

Mr. Malfoy. “You shall not touch Harry Potter. You

shall go now.”

Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed

stare at the pair of them, he swung his cloak around

him and hurried out of sight.

“Harry Potter freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing

up at Harry, moonlight from the nearest window

reflected in his orb-like eyes. “Harry Potter set Dobby

free!”

“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, grinning. “Just

promise never to try and save my life again.”

The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide,

toothy smile.

“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as

Dobby pulled on Harry’s sock with shaking hands.

“You told me all this had nothing to do with He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well —”

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“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The

Dark Lord, before he changed his name, could be

freely named, you see?”

“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s

a feast, and my friend Hermione should be awake by

now. …”

Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and

hugged him.

“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he

sobbed. “Farewell, Harry Potter!”

And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared.

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never

one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas,

and the celebration lasted all night. Harry didn’t know

whether the best bit was Hermione running toward

him, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or

Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to

wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting

him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing

Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they

were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and

Ron’s four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the

House Cup for the second year running, or Professor

McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the

exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!”

said Hermione), or Dumbledore announcing that,

unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to

return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to

go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the

teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

“Shame,” said Ron, helping himself to a jam

doughnut. “He was starting to grow on me.”

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The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a

few, small differences — Defense Against the Dark

Arts classes were canceled (“but we’ve had plenty of

practice at that anyway,” Ron told a disgruntled

Hermione) and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a

school governor. Draco was no longer strutting

around the school as though he owned the place. On

the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the

other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy

again.

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the

Hogwarts Express. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred,

George, and Ginny got a compartment to themselves.

They made the most of the last few hours in which

they were allowed to do magic before the holidays.

They played Exploding Snap, set off the very last of

Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks, and practiced

disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting

very good at it.

They were almost at King’s Cross when Harry

remembered something.

“Ginny — what did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t

want you to tell anyone?”

“Oh, that,” said Ginny, giggling. “Well — Percy’s got a

girlfriend. ”

Fred dropped a stack of books on George’s head.

“What?”

“It’s that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater,”

said Ginny. “That’s who he was writing to all last

summer. He’s been meeting her all over the school in

secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty

P a g e | 379 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

classroom one day. He was so upset when she was —

you know — attacked. You won’t tease him, will you?”

she added anxiously.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fred, who was looking

like his birthday had come early.

“Definitely not,” said George, sniggering.

The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped.

Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment and

turned to Ron and Hermione.

“This is called a telephone number,” he told Ron,

scribbling it twice, tearing the parchment in two, and

handing it to them. “I told your dad how to use a

telephone last summer — he’ll know. Call me at the

Dursleys’, okay? I can’t stand another two months

with only Dudley to talk to. …”

“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won’t

they?” said Hermione as they got off the train and

joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted

barrier. “When they hear what you did this year?

“Proud?” said Harry. “Are you crazy? All those times I

could’ve died, and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be

furious. …”

And together they walked back through the gateway

to the Muggle world.

P a g e | 380 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – J.K. Rowling

Document Outline

- THE WORST BIRTHDAY

- DOBBY’S WARNING

- THE BURROW

- AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS

- THE WHOMPING WILLOW

- GILDEROY LOCKHART

- MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS

- THE DEATHDAY PARTY

- THE WRITING ON THE WALL

- THE ROGUE BLUDGER

- THE DUELING CLUB

- THE POLYJUICE POTION

- THE VERY SECRET DIARY

- CORNELIUS FUDGE

- ARAGOG

- THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS

- THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN

- DOBBY’S REWARD

OWL POST

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways.

For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more

than any other time of year. For another, he really

wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in

secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to

be a wizard.

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his

stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his

head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large

leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda

Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry

moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page,

frowning as he looked for something that would help

him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth

Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.”

The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking

paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the

bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the

book, and read:

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Non-magic people (more commonly known as

Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval

times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare

occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard,

burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard

would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and

then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a

gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird

enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed

herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in

various disguises.

Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached

underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of

parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed

the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to

write, pausing every now and then to listen, because

if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill

on their way to the bathroom, he’d probably find

himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for

the rest of the summer.

The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was

the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer

holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son,

Dudley, were Harry’s only living relatives. They were

Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude

toward magic. Harry’s dead parents, who had been a

witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned

under the Dursleys’ roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and

Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as

downtrodden as possible, they would be able to

squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had

been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of

anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the

last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was to

lock away Harry’s spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

broomstick at the start of the summer break, and

forbid him to talk to the neighbors.

This separation from his spellbooks had been a real

problem for Harry, because his teachers at Hogwarts

had given him a lot of holiday work. One of the

essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking

potions, was for Harry’s least favorite teacher,

Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an

excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had

therefore seized his chance in the first week of the

holidays. While Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and

Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire

Uncle Vernon’s new company car (in very loud voices,

so that the rest of the street would notice it too),

Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the

cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his

books, and hidden them in his bedroom. As long as

he didn’t leave spots of ink on the sheets, the

Dursleys need never know that he was studying

magic by night.

Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his

aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already

in an especially bad mood with him, all because he’d

received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one

week into the school vacation.

Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry’s best friends at

Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This

meant that he knew a lot of things Harry didn’t, but

had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily it

had been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call.

“Vernon Dursley speaking.”

Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time,

froze as he heard Ron’s voice answer.

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT —

TO — TALK — TO — HARRY — POTTER!”

Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped

and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring

at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.

“WHO IS THIS?” he roared in the direction of the

mouthpiece. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“RON — WEASLEY!” Ron bellowed back, as though he

and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends

of a football field. “I’M — A — FRIEND — OF —

HARRY’S — FROM — SCHOOL —”

Uncle Vernon’s small eyes swiveled around to Harry,

who was rooted to the spot.

“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” he roared,

now holding the receiver at arm’s length, as though

frightened it might explode. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT

SCHOOL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER

CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON’T YOU COME NEAR MY

FAMILY!”

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as

if dropping a poisonous spider.

The fight that had followed had been one of the worst

ever.

“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE

LIKE — PEOPLE LIKE YOU!” Uncle Vernon had

roared, spraying Harry with spit.

Ron obviously realized that he’d gotten Harry into

trouble, because he hadn’t called again. Harry’s other

best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, hadn’t

been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity,

because Hermione, the cleverest witch in Harry’s

year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to

use a telephone, and would probably have had

enough sense not to say that she went to Hogwarts.

So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding

friends for five long weeks, and this summer was

turning out to be almost as bad as the last one. There

was just one very small improvement — after

swearing that he wouldn’t use her to send letters to

any of his friends, Harry had been allowed to let his

owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in

because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked

in her cage all the time.

Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and

paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house

was broken only by the distant, grunting snores of his

enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late, Harry

thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness.

Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night. …

He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old

pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, A

History of Magic, his essay, quill, and ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard

under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and

checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his

bedside table.

It was one o’clock in the morning. Harry’s stomach

gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old,

without realizing it, for a whole hour.

Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little

he looked forward to his birthdays. He had never

received a birthday card in his life. The Dursleys had

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had no reason to suppose they would remember this one.

Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig’s

large, empty cage, to the open window. He leaned on

the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face after a

long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been

absent for two nights now. Harry wasn’t worried

about her: she’d been gone this long before. But he

hoped she’d be back soon — she was the only living

creature in this house who didn’t flinch at the sight of

him.

Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his

age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His

jet-black hair, however, was just as it always had

been — stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The

eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his

forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin

scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was

the most extraordinary of all. It was not, as the

Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of

the car crash that had killed Harry’s parents, because

Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash.

They had been murdered, murdered by the most

feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord

Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack

with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, where

Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had

rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive,

Voldemort had fled. …

But Harry had come face-to-face with him at

Hogwarts. Remembering their last meeting as he

stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he was

lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig,

perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse

dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing

absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before

Harry realized what he was seeing.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing

larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided

creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction. He

stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For

a split second he hesitated, his hand on the window

latch, wondering whether to slam it shut. But then

the bizarre creature soared over one of the street

lamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realizing what it

was, leapt aside.

Through the window soared three owls, two of them

holding up the third, which appeared to be

unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on

Harry’s bed, and the middle owl, which was large and

gray, keeled right over and lay motionless. There was

a large package tied to its legs.

Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once — his

name was Errol, and he belonged to the Weasley

family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the cords

around Errol’s legs, took off the parcel, and then

carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one

bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to

gulp some water.

Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of

them, the large snowy female, was his own Hedwig.

She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked extremely

pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate

nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then

flew across the room to join Errol.

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Harry didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome

tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come

from, because in addition to a third package, it was

carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When

Harry relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its

feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off

through the window into the night.

Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol’s

package, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a

present wrapped in gold, and his first ever birthday

card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the

envelope. Two pieces of paper fell out — a letter and a

newspaper clipping.

The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding

newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in

the black-and-white picture were moving. Harry

picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:

MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE

SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts

Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual

Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw.

A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet , “We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in

Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse

breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank.”

The Weasley family will be spending a month in

Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year

at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children

currently attend.

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Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin

spread across his face as he saw all nine of the

Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of

a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall,

balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all

(though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it)

with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the

picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat,

Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his

little sister, Ginny.

Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a

large pile of gold more than the Weasleys, who were

very nice and extremely poor. He picked up Ron’s

letter and unfolded it.

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday!

Look, I’m really sorry about that telephone call. I hope

the Muggles didn’t give you a hard time. I asked Dad,

and he reckons I shouldn’t have shouted.

It’s amazing here in Egypt. Bill’s taken us around all

the tombs and you wouldn’t believe the curses those

old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum wouldn’t let

Ginny come in the last one. There were all these

mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who’d broken in

and grown extra heads and stuff.

I couldn’t believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet

Draw. Seven hundred galleons! Most of it’s gone on

this trip, but they’re going to buy me a new wand for

next year.

Harry remembered only too well the occasion when

Ron’s old wand had snapped. It had happened when

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the car the two of them had been flying to Hogwarts had crashed into a tree on the school grounds.

We’ll be back about a week before term starts and

we’ll be going up to London to get my wand and our

new books. Any chance of meeting you there?

Don’t let the Muggles get you down!

Try and come to London,

Ron

PS. Percy’s Head Boy. He got the letter last week.

Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who

was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was

looking particularly smug. He had pinned his Head

Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his

neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the

Egyptian sun.

Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it.

Inside was what looked like a miniature glass

spinning top. There was another note from Ron

beneath it.

Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s

someone untrustworthy around, it’s supposed to light

up and spin. Bill says it’s rubbish sold for wizard

tourists and isn’t reliable, because it kept lighting up at

dinner last night. But he didn’t realize Fred and George

had put beetles in his soup.

Bye —

Ron

P a g e | 11 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside

table, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point,

reflecting the luminous hands of his clock. He looked

at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the

parcel Hedwig had brought.

Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card,

and a letter, this time from Hermione.

Dear Harry,

Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to

your Uncle Vernon. I do hope you’re all right.

I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t

know how I was going to send this to you — what if

they’d opened it at customs? — but then Hedwig

turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got

something for your birthday for a change. I bought your

present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in

the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so

good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding

world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a

week ago? I bet he’s learning loads. I’m really jealous

— the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating.

There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft

here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic

essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I

hope it’s not too long — it’s two rolls of parchment more

than Professor Binns asked for.

Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of

the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and

uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see

you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!

Love from

P a g e | 12 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Hermione

PS. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really

pleased.

Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it.

Harry laughed as he put Hermione’s letter aside and

picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing

Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of

very difficult spells — but it wasn’t. His heart gave a

huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a

sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped

across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.

“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the

case to look inside.

There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish

Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig

Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom

for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself

Broomcare.

Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed

most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most

popular sport in the magical world — highly

dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks.

Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player;

he had been the youngest person in a century to be

picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One of

Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two

Thousand racing broom.

Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his

last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the

brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the

Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of

paper and glimpsed something green and leathery,

P a g e | 13 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel

gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it

snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.

Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send

him anything dangerous on purpose, but then,

Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what

was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend

giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from

men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his

cabin.

Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly

again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside

table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over

his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of

the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.

And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register

its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the

golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it

flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the

bed like some weird crab.

“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered.

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and

shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it

stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space

under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still

fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees

and reached toward it.

“Ouch!”

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped

past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry

scrambled around, threw himself forward, and

P a g e | 14 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud,

sleepy grunt in the room next door.

Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry

clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms,

hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt,

which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book

shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap,

so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for

Hagrid’s card.

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday!

Think you might find this useful for next year.

Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you.

Hope the Muggles are treating you right.

All the best,

Hagrid

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a

biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s

card up next to Ron’s and Hermione’s, grinning more

broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from

Hogwarts left.

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry

slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of

parchment within, and read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

Please note that the new school year will begin on

September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave

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from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock.

Third years are permitted to visit the village of

Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the

enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to

sign.

A list of books for next year is enclosed.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and

looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful

to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an

entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot

there. But how on earth was he going to persuade

Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two

o’clock in the morning.

Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form

when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and

reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d

made for himself, counting down the days left until

his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses

and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday

cards.

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment

Harry Potter felt just like everyone else — glad, for the

first time in his life, that it was his birthday.

P a g e | 16 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to

find the three Dursleys already sitting around the

kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new

television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present

for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about

the long walk between the fridge and the television in

the living room. Dudley had spent most of the

summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on

the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate

continually.

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a

large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of

mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday,

none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had

noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too

used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of

toast and then looked up at the reporter on the

television, who was halfway through a report on an

escaped convict:

P a g e | 17 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“… The public is warned that Black is armed and

extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set

up, and any sighting of Black should be reported

immediately.”

“No need to tell us he’s no good,” snorted Uncle

Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the

prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy

layabout! Look at his hair!”

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy

hair had always been a source of great annoyance to

Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the

television, however, whose gaunt face was

surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry

felt very well groomed indeed.

The reporter had reappeared.

“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will

announce today —”

“Hang on!” barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at

the reporter. “You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s

escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be

coming up the street right now!”

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced,

whipped around and peered intently out of the

kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would

simply love to be the one to call the hot line number.

She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent

most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding

neighbors.

“When will they learn, ” said Uncle Vernon, pounding

the table with his large purple fist, “that hanging’s the

only way to deal with these people?”

P a g e | 18 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Very true,” said Aunt Petunia, who was still

squinting into next door’s runner beans.

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his

watch, and added, “I’d better be off in a minute,

Petunia. Marge’s train gets in at ten.”

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the

Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth

with an unpleasant bump.

“Aunt Marge?” he blurted out. “Sh — she’s not

coming here, is she?”

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though

she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother

had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to

call her “Aunt” all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the

country, in a house with a large garden, where she

bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at Privet Drive,

because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs,

but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in

Harry’s mind.

At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had

whacked Harry around the shins with her walking

stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical

statues. A few years later, she had turned up at

Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and

a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the

year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had

accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog.

Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up

a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off

until past midnight. The memory of this incident still

brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.

“Marge’ll be here for a week,” Uncle Vernon snarled,

“and while we’re on the subject” — he pointed a fat

P a g e | 19 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

finger threateningly at Harry — “we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her.”

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the

television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle

Vernon was Dudley’s favorite form of entertainment.

“Firstly,” growled Uncle Vernon, “you’ll keep a civil

tongue in your head when you’re talking to Marge.”

“All right,” said Harry bitterly, “if she does when she’s

talking to me.”

“Secondly,” said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he

had not heard Harry’s reply, “as Marge doesn’t know

anything about your abnormality, I don’t want any —

any funny stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself,

got me?”

“I will if she does,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“And thirdly,” said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes

now slits in his great purple face, “we’ve told Marge

you attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably

Criminal Boys.”

“What?” Harry yelled.

“And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be

trouble,” spat Uncle Vernon.

Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at

Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge

coming for a week-long visit — it was the worst

birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him,

including that pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks.

P a g e | 20 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Well, Petunia,” said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, “I’ll be off to the station, then. Want to come

along for the ride, Dudders?”

“No,” said Dudley, whose attention had returned to

the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished

threatening Harry.

“Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,”

said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley’s thick blond

hair. “Mummy’s bought him a lovely new bow tie.”

Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.

“See you in a bit, then,” he said, and he left the

kitchen.

Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified

trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning his toast, he

got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to

the front door.

Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.

“I’m not taking you, ” he snarled as he turned to see

Harry watching him.

“Like I wanted to come,” said Harry coldly. “I want to

ask you something.”

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.

“Third years at Hog — at my school are allowed to

visit the village sometimes,” said Harry.

“So?” snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from

a hook next to the door.

P a g e | 21 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“I need you to sign the permission form,” said Harry in a rush.

“And why should I do that?” sneered Uncle Vernon.

“Well,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully, “it’ll

be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that

St. Whatsits —”

“St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal

Boys!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased

to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s

voice.

“Exactly,” said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle

Vernon’s large, purple face. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ll

have to make it sound convincing, won’t I? What if I

accidentally let something slip?”

“You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?”

roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist

raised. But Harry stood his ground.

“Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt

Marge forget what I could tell her,” he said grimly.

Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an

ugly puce.

“But if you sign my permission form,” Harry went on

quickly, “I swear I’ll remember where I’m supposed to

go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug — like I’m normal

and everything.”

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it

over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was

throbbing in his temple.

P a g e | 22 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Right,” he snapped finally. “I shall monitor your

behavior carefully during Marge’s visit. If, at the end

of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll

sign your ruddy form.”

He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and

slammed it so hard that one of the little panes of

glass at the top fell out.

Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back

upstairs to his bedroom. If he was going to act like a

real Muggle, he’d better start now. Slowly and sadly

he gathered up all his presents and his birthday

cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with

his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol

seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both

asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then

poked them both awake.

“Hedwig,” he said gloomily, “you’re going to have to

clear off for a week. Go with Errol. Ron’ll look after

you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And don’t look at

me like that” — Hedwig’s large amber eyes were

reproachful — “it’s not my fault. It’s the only way I’ll

be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and

Hermione.”

Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note

to Ron bound to her leg) soared out of the window

and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly

miserable, put the empty cage away inside the

wardrobe.

But Harry didn’t have long to brood. In next to no

time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for

Harry to come down and get ready to welcome their

guest.

P a g e | 23 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Do something about your hair!” Aunt Petunia

snapped as he reached the hall.

Harry couldn’t see the point of trying to make his hair

lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing him, so the

untidier he looked, the happier she would be.

All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as

Uncle Vernon’s car pulled back into the driveway,

then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on the

garden path.

“Get the door!” Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.

A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled

the door open.

On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like

Uncle Vernon: large, beefy, and purple-faced, she

even had a mustache, though not as bushy as his. In

one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked

under the other was an old and evil-tempered

bulldog.

“Where’s my Dudders?” roared Aunt Marge. “Where’s

my neffy-poo?”

Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair

plastered flat to his fat head, a bow tie just visible

under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the

suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out

of him, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and

planted a large kiss on his cheek.

Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up

with Aunt Marge’s hugs because he was well paid for

it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley

had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist.

P a g e | 24 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Petunia!” shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as though he was a hat stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt

Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped her

large jaw against Aunt Petunia’s bony cheekbone.

Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut

the door.

“Tea, Marge?” he said. “And what will Ripper take?”

“Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,” said

Aunt Marge as they all proceeded into the kitchen,

leaving Harry alone in the hall with the suitcase. But

Harry wasn’t complaining; any excuse not to be with

Aunt Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the

case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long

as he could.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge

had been supplied with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper

was lapping noisily in the corner. Harry saw Aunt

Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool

flecked her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals.

“Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?” Uncle

Vernon asked.

“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,”

boomed Aunt Marge. “He’s retired now, good for him

to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave poor old

Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.”

Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This

directed Aunt Marge’s attention to Harry for the first

time.

“So!” she barked. “Still here, are you?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

P a g e | 25 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Don’t you say ‘yes’ in that ungrateful tone,” Aunt Marge growled. “It’s damn good of Vernon and

Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself.

You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d

been dumped on my doorstep.”

Harry was bursting to say that he’d rather live in an

orphanage than with the Dursleys, but the thought of

the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He forced his face

into a painful smile.

“Don’t you smirk at me!” boomed Aunt Marge. “I can

see you haven’t improved since I last saw you. I hoped

school would knock some manners into you.” She

took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and

said, “Where is it that you send him, again, Vernon?”

“St. Brutus’s,” said Uncle Vernon promptly. “It’s a

first-rate institution for hopeless cases.”

“I see,” said Aunt Marge. “Do they use the cane at St.

Brutus’s, boy?” she barked across the table.

“Er —”

Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge’s

back.

“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do

the thing properly, he added, “all the time.”

“Excellent,” said Aunt Marge. “I won’t have this

namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not

hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is

what’s needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.

Have you been beaten often?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, “loads of times.”

P a g e | 26 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes.

“I still don’t like your tone, boy,” she said. “If you can

speak of your beatings in that casual way, they

clearly aren’t hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I’d

write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the

use of extreme force in this boy’s case.”

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might

forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the

subject abruptly.

“Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about

that escaped prisoner, eh?”

As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry

caught himself thinking almost longingly of life at

number four without her. Uncle Vernon and Aunt

Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their

way, which Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt

Marge, on the other hand, wanted Harry under her

eye at all times, so that she could boom out

suggestions for his improvement. She delighted in

comparing Harry with Dudley, and took huge

pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents while

glaring at Harry, as though daring him to ask why he

hadn’t got a present too. She also kept throwing out

dark hints about what made Harry such an

unsatisfactory person.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s

turned out, Vernon,” she said over lunch on the third

day. “If there’s something rotten on the inside, there’s

nothing anyone can do about it.”

Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands

shook and his face was starting to burn with anger.

Remember the form, he told himself. Think about

Hogsmeade. Don’t say anything. Don’t rise —

P a g e | 27 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.

“It’s one of the basic rules of breeding,” she said. “You

see it all the time with dogs. If there’s something

wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong

with the pup —”

At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was

holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in

every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and

blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.

“Marge!” squealed Aunt Petunia. “Marge, are you all

right?”

“Not to worry,” grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face

with her napkin. “Must have squeezed it too hard. Did

the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s the other day. No

need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip …”

But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both

looking at Harry suspiciously, so he decided he’d

better skip dessert and escape from the table as soon

as he could.

Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall,

breathing deeply. It had been a long time since he’d

lost control and made something explode. He couldn’t

afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form

wasn’t the only thing at stake — if he carried on like

that, he’d be in trouble with the Ministry of Magic.

Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was

forbidden by wizard law to do magic outside school.

His record wasn’t exactly clean either. Only last

summer he’d gotten an official warning that had

stated quite clearly that if the Ministry got wind of

any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry would face

expulsion from Hogwarts.

P a g e | 28 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried upstairs out of the way.

Harry got through the next three days by forcing

himself to think about his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself

Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on him. This

worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a

glazed look, because Aunt Marge started voicing the

opinion that he was mentally subnormal.

At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge’s stay

arrived. Aunt Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and

Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They

got all the way through the soup and the salmon

without a single mention of Harry’s faults; during the

lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon bored them all

with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making

company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle

Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy.

“Can I tempt you, Marge?”

Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her

huge face was very red.

“Just a small one, then,” she chuckled. “A bit more

than that … and a bit more … that’s the ticket.”

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt

Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger

sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his

bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon’s angry little eyes

and knew he would have to sit it out.

“Aah,” said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and

putting the empty brandy glass back down. “Excellent

nosh, Petunia. It’s normally just a fry-up for me of an

evening, with twelve dogs to look after. …” She

burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach.

P a g e | 29 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy,”

she went on, winking at Dudley. “You’ll be a proper-

sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I’ll have a

spot more brandy, Vernon. …”

“Now, this one here —”

She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach

clench. The Handbook, he thought quickly.

“This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get

that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last

year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.”

Harry was trying to remember page twelve of his

book: A Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers.

“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other

day. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing

against your family, Petunia” — she patted Aunt

Petunia’s bony hand with her shovellike one — “but

your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best

families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s

the result right in front of us.”

Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his

ears. Grasp your broom firmly by the tail, he thought.

But he couldn’t remember what came next. Aunt

Marge’s voice seemed to be boring into him like one of

Uncle Vernon’s drills.

“This Potter,” said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the

brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and

over the tablecloth, “you never told me what he did?”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking

extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his

pie to gape at his parents.

P a g e | 30 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“He — didn’t work,” said Uncle Vernon, with half a

glance at Harry. “Unemployed.”

“As I expected!” said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig

of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. “A no-

account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who —”

“He was not,” said Harry suddenly. The table went

very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never

felt so angry in his life.

“MORE BRANDY!” yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone

very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge’s

glass. “You, boy,” he snarled at Harry. “Go to bed, go

on —”

“No, Vernon,” hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a

hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Go

on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They

go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I

expect) —”

“They didn’t die in a car crash!” said Harry, who

found himself on his feet.

“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left

you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking

relatives!” screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury.

“You are an insolent, ungrateful little —”

But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a

moment, it looked as though words had failed her.

She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger —

but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started

to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth

stretched too tightly for speech — next second,

several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket

and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a

monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her

P a g e | 31 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami —

“MARGE!” yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia

together as Aunt Marge’s whole body began to rise off

her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round,

now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her

hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up

into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper

came skidding into the room, barking madly.

“NOOOOOOO!”

Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge’s feet and tried to

pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the

floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and

sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon’s leg.

Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could

stop him, heading for the cupboard under the stairs.

The cupboard door burst magically open as he

reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the

front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself

under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard,

and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and

birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s

empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his

trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining

room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters.

“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK

AND PUT HER RIGHT!”

But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked

his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at

Uncle Vernon.

“She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast.

“She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.”

P a g e | 32 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.

“I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”

And in the next moment, he was out in the dark,

quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him,

Hedwig’s cage under his arm.

P a g e | 33 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

THE KNIGHT BUS

Harry was several streets away before he collapsed

onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from

the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still,

anger still surging through him, listening to the

frantic thumping of his heart.

But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new

emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he

looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was

stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with

absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, he

had just done serious magic, which meant that he

was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had

broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage

Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic

representatives weren’t swooping down on him where

he sat.

Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia

Crescent. What was going to happen to him? Would

he be arrested, or would he simply be outlawed from

the wizarding world? He thought of Ron and

P a g e | 34 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Hermione, and his heart sank even lower. Harry was

sure that, criminal or not, Ron and Hermione would

want to help him now, but they were both abroad,

and with Hedwig gone, he had no means of contacting

them.

He didn’t have any Muggle money, either. There was a

little wizard gold in the money bag at the bottom of

his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his parents had

left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding

Bank in London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk

all the way to London. Unless …

He looked down at his wand, which he was still

clutching in his hand. If he was already expelled (his

heart was now thumping painfully fast), a bit more

magic couldn’t hurt. He had the Invisibility Cloak he

had inherited from his father — what if he bewitched

the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his

broomstick, covered himself in the cloak, and flew to

London? Then he could get the rest of his money out

of his vault and … begin his life as an outcast. It was

a horrible prospect, but he couldn’t sit on this wall

forever, or he’d find himself trying to explain to

Muggle police why he was out in the dead of night

with a trunkful of spellbooks and a broomstick.

Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the

contents aside, looking for the Invisibility Cloak —

but before he had found it, he straightened up

suddenly, looking around him once more.

A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made

Harry feel he was being watched, but the street

appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from

any of the large square houses.

He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately

stood up once more, his hand clenched on his wand.

P a g e | 35 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

He had sensed rather than heard it: someone or

something was standing in the narrow gap between

the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted

at the black alleyway. If only it would move, then he’d

know whether it was just a stray cat or — something

else.

“Lumos, ” Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the

end of his wand, almost dazzling him. He held it high

over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number

two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and

between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking

outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming

eyes.

Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and

he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as he flung

out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in

the gutter —

There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his

hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding

light —

With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in

time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and

headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry

had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw

when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently

purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold

lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus.

For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been

knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple

uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak

loudly to the night.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for

the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your

P a g e | 36 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

wand hand, step on board, and we can take you

anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike,

and I will be your conductor this eve —”

The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught

sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground.

Harry snatched up his wand again and scrambled to

his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was

only a few years older than he was, eighteen or

nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and

quite a few pimples.

“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan,

dropping his professional manner.

“Fell over,” said Harry.

“ ’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One

of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he

had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He

suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and

turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway

between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s

headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was

empty.

“ ’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan.

“There was a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing

uncertainly into the gap. “Like a dog … but massive

…”

He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly

open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes

move to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Woss that on your ’ead?” said Stan abruptly.

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“Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over his scar. If the Ministry of Magic was looking for him,

he didn’t want to make it too easy for them.

“Woss your name?” Stan persisted.

“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first

name that came into his head. “So — so this bus,” he

went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did you say

it goes anywhere?”

“Yep,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s

it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he

said, looking suspicious again, “you did flag us down,

dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”

“Yes,” said Harry quickly. “Listen, how much would it

be to get to London?”

“Eleven Sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot

chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle

an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”

Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted

his money bag, and shoved some gold into Stan’s

hand. He and Stan then lifted his trunk, with

Hedwig’s cage balanced on top, up the steps of the

bus.

There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass

bedsteads stood beside the curtained windows.

Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed,

illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in

a nightcap at the rear of the bus muttered, “Not now,

thanks, I’m pickling some slugs” and rolled over in his

sleep.

“You ’ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s

trunk under the bed right behind the driver, who was

P a g e | 38 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel.

“This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is Neville

Longbottom, Ern.”

Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick

glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his

bangs again and sat down on his bed.

“Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting down in the

armchair next to Ernie’s.

There was another tremendous BANG, and the next

moment Harry found himself flat on his bed, thrown

backward by the speed of the Knight Bus. Pulling

himself up, Harry stared out of the dark window and

saw that they were now bowling along a completely

different street. Stan was watching Harry’s stunned

face with great enjoyment.

“This is where we was before you flagged us down,” he

said. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?”

“Ar,” said Ernie.

“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” said

Harry.

“Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen

properly, do they? Don’ look properly either. Never

notice nuffink, they don’.”

“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” said Ern.

“We’ll be in Abergavenny in a minute.”

Stan passed Harry’s bed and disappeared up a

narrow wooden staircase. Harry was still looking out

of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie

didn’t seem to have mastered the use of a steering

wheel. The Knight Bus kept mounting the pavement,

P a g e | 39 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

but it didn’t hit anything; lines of lampposts,

mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it

approached and back into position once it had

passed.

Stan came back downstairs, followed by a faintly

green witch wrapped in a traveling cloak.

“ ’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as

Ern stamped on the brake and the beds slid a foot or

so toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh

clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered

down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and

rammed the doors shut; there was another loud

BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow

country lane, trees leaping out of the way.

Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had

been traveling on a bus that didn’t keep banging

loudly and jumping a hundred miles at a time. His

stomach churned as he fell back to wondering what

was going to happen to him, and whether the

Dursleys had managed to get Aunt Marge off the

ceiling yet.

Stan had unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet and

was now reading with his tongue between his teeth. A

large photograph of a sunken-faced man with long,

matted hair blinked slowly at Harry from the front

page. He looked strangely familiar.

“That man!” Harry said, forgetting his troubles for a

moment. “He was on the Muggle news!”

Stanley turned to the front page and chuckled.

“Sirius Black,” he said, nodding. “ ’Course ’e was on

the Muggle news, Neville, where you been?”

P a g e | 40 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed

it to Harry.

“You oughta read the papers more, Neville.”

Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read:

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner

ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding

capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the

Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning,

“and we beg the magical community to remain calm.”

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the

International Federation of Warlocks for informing the

Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an

irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to

anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the

Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not breathe a

word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face

it — who’d believe him if he did?”

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a

gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill

each other), the magical community lives in fear of a

massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black

murdered thirteen people with a single curse.

Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black,

the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive.

P a g e | 41 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Harry had never met a vampire, but he had seen

pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts

classes, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looked

just like one.

“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been

watching Harry read.

“He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, handing

the page back to Stan, “with one curse?”

“Yep,” said Stan, “in front of witnesses an’ all. Broad

daylight. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?”

“Ar,” said Ern darkly.

Stan swiveled in his armchair, his hands on the back,

the better to look at Harry.

“Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said.

“What, Voldemort?” said Harry, without thinking.

Even Stan’s pimples went white; Ern jerked the

steering wheel so hard that a whole farmhouse had to

jump aside to avoid the bus.

“You outta your tree?” yelped Stan. “ ’Choo say ’is

name for?”

“Sorry,” said Harry hastily. “Sorry, I — I forgot —”

“Forgot!” said Stan weakly. “Blimey, my ’eart’s goin’

that fast …”

“So — so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?”

Harry prompted apologetically.

P a g e | 42 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Yeah,” said Stan, still rubbing his chest. “Yeah,

that’s right. Very close to You-Know-’Oo, they say.

Anyway, when little ’Arry Potter got the better of You-

Know-’Oo —”

Harry nervously flattened his bangs down again.

“— all You-Know-’Oo’s supporters was tracked down,

wasn’t they, Ern? Most of ’em knew it was all over,

wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not

Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in-

command once You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over.

“Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street

full of Muggles an’ Black took out ’is wand and ’e

blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it, an’ so

did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrible, eh?

An’ you know what Black did then?” Stan continued

in a dramatic whisper.

“What?” said Harry.

“Laughed,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed.

An’ when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic

got there, ’e went wiv ’em quiet as anyfink, still

laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s mad, inee, Ern? Inee

mad?”

“If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban, he will be

now,” said Ern in his slow voice. “I’d blow meself up

before I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind

you … after what he did. …”

“They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?” Stan

said. “ ’Ole street blown up an’ all them Muggles

dead. What was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?”

“Gas explosion,” grunted Ernie.

P a g e | 43 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“An’ now ’e’s out,” said Stan, examining the

newspaper picture of Black’s gaunt face again. “Never

been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there, Ern?

Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t

fancy ’is chances against them Azkaban guards, eh,

Ern?”

Ernie suddenly shivered.

“Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad.

Them Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles.”

Stan put the paper away reluctantly, and Harry

leaned against the window of the Knight Bus, feeling

worse than ever. He couldn’t help imagining what

Stan might be telling his passengers in a few nights’

time.

“ ’Ear about that ’Arry Potter? Blew up ’is aunt! We

’ad ’im ’ere on the Knight Bus, di’n’t we, Ern? ’E was

tryin’ to run for it. …”

He, Harry, had broken wizard law just like Sirius

Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge bad enough to land

him in Azkaban? Harry didn’t know anything about

the wizard prison, though everyone he’d ever heard

speak of it did so in the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the

Hogwarts gamekeeper, had spent two months there

only last year. Harry wouldn’t soon forget the look of

terror on Hagrid’s face when he had been told where

he was going, and Hagrid was one of the bravest

people Harry knew.

The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness,

scattering bushes and wastebaskets, telephone

booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless and

miserable, on his feather bed. After a while, Stan

remembered that Harry had paid for hot chocolate,

but poured it all over Harry’s pillow when the bus

P a g e | 44 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

moved abruptly from Anglesey to Aberdeen. One by

one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and

slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the

bus. They all looked very pleased to go.

Finally, Harry was the only passenger left.

“Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands,

“whereabouts in London?”

“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.

“Righto,” said Stan. “ ’Old tight, then …”

BANG!

They were thundering along Charing Cross Road.

Harry sat up and watched buildings and benches

squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way.

The sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low

for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it

opened, then set off — where, he didn’t know.

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus

skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-

looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay

the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.

“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern.

He jumped down the steps and helped Stan lower his

trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement.

“Well,” said Harry. “ ’Bye then!”

But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the

doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy

entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

P a g e | 45 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“There you are, Harry,” said a voice.

Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his

shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey!

Ern, come ’ere! Come ’ere!”

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his

shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his

stomach — he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge,

the Minister of Magic himself.

Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them.

“What didja call Neville, Minister?” he said excitedly.

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak,

looked cold and exhausted.

“Neville?” he repeated, frowning. “This is Harry

Potter.”

“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess

’oo Neville is, Ern! ’E’s ’Arry Potter! I can see ’is scar!”

“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the

Knight Bus picked Harry up, but he and I need to

step inside the Leaky Cauldron now …”

Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder,

and Harry found himself being steered inside the pub.

A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through

the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened,

toothless landlord.

“You’ve got him, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be

wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?”

“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let

go of Harry.

P a g e | 46 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind

them, and Stan and Ern appeared, carrying Harry’s

trunk and Hedwig’s cage and looking around

excitedly.

“ ’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you are, eh, Neville?”

said Stan, beaming at Harry, while Ernie’s owlish face

peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder.

“And a private parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge

pointedly.

“ ’Bye,” Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom

beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led from the

bar.

“ ’Bye, Neville!” called Stan.

Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after

Tom’s lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom

clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the grate,

and he bowed himself out of the room.

“Sit down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by

the fire.

Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his

arms despite the glow of the fire. Fudge took off his

pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up

the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down

opposite Harry.

“I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic.”

Harry already knew this, of course; he had seen

Fudge once before, but as he had been wearing his

father’s Invisibility Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn’t to

know that.

P a g e | 47 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets.

He placed the tray on a table between Fudge and

Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind

him.

“Well, Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve

had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you.

Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like

that! I’d started to think … but you’re safe, and that’s

what matters.”

Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the

plate toward Harry.

“Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then …

You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with

the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley.

Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad

were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss

Dursley has been punctured and her memory has

been modified. She has no recollection of the incident

at all. So that’s that, and no harm done.”

Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup,

rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew.

Harry, who couldn’t believe his ears, opened his

mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say,

and closed it again.

“Ah, you’re worrying about the reaction of your aunt

and uncle?” said Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they

are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to

take you back next summer as long as you stay at

Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays.”

Harry unstuck his throat.

P a g e | 48 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays,” he said, “and I don’t ever want to go

back to Privet Drive.”

“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve

calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone. “They

are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of

each other — er — very deep down.”

It didn’t occur to Harry to put Fudge right. He was

still waiting to hear what was going to happen to him

now.

“So all that remains,” said Fudge, now buttering

himself a second crumpet, “is to decide where you’re

going to spend the last three weeks of your vacation. I

suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron

and —”

“Hang on,” blurted Harry. “What about my

punishment?”

Fudge blinked.

“Punishment?”

“I broke the law!” Harry said. “The Decree for the

Restriction of Underage Wizardry!”

“Oh, my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a

little thing like that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet

impatiently. “It was an accident! We don’t send people

to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!”

But this didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings

with the Ministry of Magic.

“Last year, I got an official warning just because a

house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle’s house!”

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he told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of Magic said I’d be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more

magic there!”

Unless Harry’s eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was

suddenly looking awkward.

“Circumstances change, Harry. … We have to take

into account … in the present climate … Surely you

don’t want to be expelled?”

“Of course I don’t,” said Harry.

“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” laughed Fudge.

“Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if

Tom’s got a room for you.”

Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after

him. There was something extremely odd going on.

Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky

Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he’d done?

And now Harry came to think of it, surely it wasn’t

usual for the Minister of Magic himself to get involved

in matters of underage magic?

Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the

innkeeper.

“Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said Fudge. “I think you’ll

be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure

you’ll understand … I don’t want you wandering off

into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley.

And you’re to be back here before dark each night.

Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on

you for me.”

“Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why — ?”

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“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge

with a hearty laugh. “No, no … best we know where

you are. … I mean …”

Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his

pinstriped cloak.

“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know. …”

“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Harry asked.

Fudge’s finger slipped on the silver fastenings of his

cloak.

“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet,

but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards

have never yet failed … and they are angrier than I’ve

ever seen them.”

Fudge shuddered slightly.

“So, I’ll say good-bye.”

He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a

sudden idea.

“Er — Minister? Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile.

“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit

Hogsmeade, but my aunt and uncle didn’t sign the

permission form. D’you think you could — ?”

Fudge was looking uncomfortable.

“Ah,” he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as

I’m not your parent or guardian —”

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“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly.

“If you gave me permission —”

“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said Fudge

flatly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next

year. In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t … yes …

well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.”

And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand,

Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward,

beaming at Harry.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already

taken your things up. …”

Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase

to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which

Tom unlocked and opened for him.

Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some

highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling

fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe —

“Hedwig!” Harry gasped.

The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down

onto Harry’s arm.

“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom.

“Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there’s

anything you need, Mr. Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He gave another bow and left.

Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly

stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was

changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold,

steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold.

Harry could hardly believe that he’d left Privet Drive

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only a few hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and

that he was now facing three Dursley-free weeks.

“It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,” he yawned.

And without even removing his glasses, he slumped

back onto his pillows and fell asleep.

P a g e | 53 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

THE LEAKY CAULDRON

It took Harry several days to get used to his strange

new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up

whenever he wanted or eat whatever he fancied. He

could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was

in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was

packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in

the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to

Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world.

Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky

Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests:

funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s

shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the

latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking

warlocks; raucous dwarfs; and once, what looked

suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw

liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.

After breakfast Harry would go out into the backyard,

take out his wand, tap the third brick from the left

above the trash bin, and stand back as the archway

into Diagon Alley opened in the wall.

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Harry spent the long sunny days exploring the shops and eating under the brightly colored umbrellas

outside cafes, where his fellow diners were showing

one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old

boy — no more messing around with moon charts,

see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black

(“personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone

until he’s back in Azkaban”). Harry didn’t have to do

his homework under the blankets by flashlight

anymore; now he could sit in the bright sunshine

outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor,

finishing all his essays with occasional help from

Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a

great deal about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry

free sundaes every half an hour.

Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold

Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his

vault at Gringotts, he had to exercise a lot of self-

control not to spend the whole lot at once. He had to

keep reminding himself that he had five years to go at

Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the Dursleys

for money for spellbooks, to stop himself from buying

a handsome set of solid gold Gobstones (a wizarding

game rather like marbles, in which the stones squirt a

nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face when

they lose a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the

perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass

ball, which would have meant he never had to take

another Astronomy lesson. But the thing that tested

Harry’s resolution most appeared in his favorite shop,

Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d arrived

at the Leaky Cauldron.

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was

staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed

in among the excited witches and wizards until he

glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was

P a g e | 55 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

mounted the most magnificent broom he had ever

seen in his life.

“Just come out — prototype —” a square-jawed

wizard was telling his companion.

“It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?”

squeaked a boy younger than Harry, who was

swinging off his father’s arm.

“Irish International Side’s just put in an order for

seven of these beauties!” the proprietor of the shop

told the crowd. “And they’re favorites for the World

Cup!”

A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was

able to read the sign next to the broom:

THE FIREBOLT

This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a stream-

lined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a

diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its

own registration number. Each individually selected

birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to

aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt

unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The

Firebolt has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour in

ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable

Braking Charm. Price on request.

Price on request … Harry didn’t like to think how

much gold the Firebolt would cost. He had never

wanted anything as much in his whole life — but he

had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two

Thousand, and what was the point in emptying his

Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, when he had a very

good broom already? Harry didn’t ask for the price,

P a g e | 56 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

but he returned, almost every day after that, just to look at the Firebolt.

There were, however, things that Harry needed to

buy. He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store

of potions ingredients, and as his school robes were

now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he

visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and

bought new ones. Most important of all, he had to

buy his new schoolbooks, which would include those

for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures

and Divination.

Harry got a surprise as he looked in at the bookshop

window. Instead of the usual display of gold-

embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there

was a large iron cage behind the glass that held about

a hundred copies of The Monster Book of Monsters.

Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books

grappled with each other, locked together in furious

wrestling matches and snapping aggressively.

Harry pulled his booklist out of his pocket and

consulted it for the first time. The Monster Book of

Monsters was listed as the required book for Care of

Magical Creatures. Now Harry understood why Hagrid

had said it would come in useful. He felt relieved; he

had been wondering whether Hagrid wanted help with

some terrifying new pet.

As Harry entered Flourish and Blotts, the manager

came hurrying toward him.

“Hogwarts?” he said abruptly. “Come to get your new

books?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “I need —”

P a g e | 57 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently, brushing Harry aside. He drew on a pair of very thick

gloves, picked up a large, knobbly walking stick, and

proceeded toward the door of the Monster Books’ cage.

“Hang on,” said Harry quickly, “I’ve already got one of

those.”

“Have you?” A look of enormous relief spread over the

manager’s face. “Thank heavens for that. I’ve been

bitten five times already this morning —”

A loud ripping noise rent the air; two of the Monster

Books had seized a third and were pulling it apart.

“Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager, poking the

walking stick through the bars and knocking the

books apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never!

It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when

we bought two hundred copies of the Invisible Book of

Invisibility — cost a fortune, and we never found

them. … Well … is there anything else I can help you

with?”

“Yes,” said Harry, looking down his booklist, “I need

Unfogging the Future by Cassandra Vablatsky.”

“Ah, starting Divination, are you?” said the manager,

stripping off his gloves and leading Harry into the

back of the shop, where there was a corner devoted to

fortune-telling. A small table was stacked with

volumes such as Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate

Yourself Against Shocks and Broken Balls: When

Fortunes Turn Foul.

“Here you are,” said the manager, who had climbed a

set of steps to take down a thick, black-bound book.

“Unfogging the Future. Very good guide to all your

P a g e | 58 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal

balls, bird entrails —”

But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on

another book, which was among a display on a small

table: Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the

Worst Is Coming.

“Oh, I wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the

manager lightly, looking to see what Harry was

staring at. “You’ll start seeing death omens

everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.”

But Harry continued to stare at the front cover of the

book; it showed a black dog large as a bear, with

gleaming eyes. It looked oddly familiar. …

The manager pressed Unfogging the Future into

Harry’s hands.

“Anything else?” he said.

“Yes,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from the

dog’s and dazedly consulting his booklist. “Er — I

need Intermediate Transfiguration and The Standard

Book of Spells, Grade Three. ”

Harry emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes

later with his new books under his arms and made

his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, hardly noticing

where he was going and bumping into several people.

He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside,

and tipped his books onto his bed. Somebody had

been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun was

pouring inside. Harry could hear the buses rolling by

in the unseen Muggle street behind him and the

sound of the invisible crowd below in Diagon Alley. He

caught sight of himself in the mirror over the basin.

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“It can’t have been a death omen,” he told his

reflection defiantly. “I was panicking when I saw that

thing in Magnolia Crescent. … It was probably just a

stray dog. …”

He raised his hand automatically and tried to make

his hair lie flat.

“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” said his

mirror in a wheezy voice.

As the days slipped by, Harry started looking

wherever he went for a sign of Ron or Hermione.

Plenty of Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon

Alley now, with the start of term so near. Harry met

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, his fellow

Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where

they too were ogling the Firebolt; he also ran into the

real Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy,

outside Flourish and Blotts. Harry didn’t stop to chat;

Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist and was

being told off by his very formidable-looking

grandmother. Harry hoped she never found out that

he’d pretended to be Neville while on the run from the

Ministry of Magic.

Harry woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking

that he would at least meet Ron and Hermione

tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up,

dressed, went for a last look at the Firebolt, and was

just wondering where he’d have lunch, when someone

yelled his name and he turned.

“Harry! HARRY!”

They were there, both of them, sitting outside Florean

Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor — Ron looking

incredibly freckly, Hermione very brown, both waving

frantically at him.

P a g e | 60 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“Finally!” said Ron, grinning at Harry as he sat down.

“We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d

left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam

Malkin’s, and —”

“I got all my school stuff last week,” Harry explained.

“And how come you knew I’m staying at the Leaky

Cauldron?”

“Dad,” said Ron simply.

Mr. Weasley, who worked at the Ministry of Magic,

would of course have heard the whole story of what

had happened to Aunt Marge.

“Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?” said

Hermione in a very serious voice.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry while Ron roared with

laughter. “I just — lost control.”

“It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply.

“Honestly, I’m amazed Harry wasn’t expelled.”

“So am I,” admitted Harry. “Forget expelled, I thought

I was going to be arrested.” He looked at Ron. “Your

dad doesn’t know why Fudge let me off, does he?”

“Probably ’cause it’s you, isn’t it?” shrugged Ron, still

chuckling. “Famous Harry Potter and all that. I’d hate

to see what the Ministry’d do to me if I blew up an

aunt. Mind you, they’d have to dig me up first,

because Mum would’ve killed me. Anyway, you can

ask Dad yourself this evening. We’re staying at the

Leaky Cauldron tonight too! So you can come to

King’s Cross with us tomorrow! Hermione’s there as

well!”

P a g e | 61 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

Hermione nodded, beaming. “Mum and Dad dropped

me off this morning with all my Hogwarts things.”

“Excellent!” said Harry happily. “So, have you got all

your new books and stuff?”

“Look at this,” said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of

a bag and opening it. “Brand-new wand. Fourteen

inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And

we’ve got all our books —” He pointed at a large bag

under his chair. “What about those Monster Books,

eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we

wanted two.”

“What’s all that, Hermione?” Harry asked, pointing at

not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to

her.

“Well, I’m taking more new subjects than you, aren’t

I?” said Hermione. “Those are my books for

Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination,

Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies —”

“What are you doing Muggle Studies for?” said Ron,

rolling his eyes at Harry. “You’re Muggle-born! Your

mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all

about Muggles!”

“But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the

wizarding point of view,” said Hermione earnestly.

“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year,

Hermione?” asked Harry, while Ron sniggered.

Hermione ignored them.

“I’ve still got ten Galleons,” she said, checking her

purse. “It’s my birthday in September, and Mum and

Dad gave me some money to get myself an early

birthday present.”

P a g e | 62 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“How about a nice book?” said Ron innocently.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I

really want an owl. I mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and

you’ve got Errol —”

“I haven’t,” said Ron. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got

is Scabbers.” He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket.

“And I want to get him checked over,” he added,

placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. “I

don’t think Egypt agreed with him.”

Scabbers was looking thinner than usual, and there

was a definite droop to his whiskers.

“There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said

Harry, who knew Diagon Alley very well by now. “You

could see if they’ve got anything for Scabbers, and

Hermione can get her owl.”

So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street

to the Magical Menagerie.

There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall

was hidden by cages. It was smelly and very noisy

because the occupants of these cages were all

squeaking, squawking, jabbering, or hissing. The

witch behind the counter was already advising a

wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry,

Ron, and Hermione waited, examining the cages.

A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly

and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise

with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the

window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly

up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit

kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with

a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every

color, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny

P a g e | 63 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

custard-colored furballs that were humming loudly,

and on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats

that were playing some sort of skipping game using

their long, bald tails.

The double-ended newt wizard left, and Ron

approached the counter.

“It’s my rat,” he told the witch. “He been a bit off-color

ever since I brought him back from Egypt.”

“Bang him on the counter,” said the witch, pulling a

pair of heavy black spectacles out of her pocket.

Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and

placed him next to the cage of his fellow rats, who

stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the wire

for a better look.

Like nearly everything Ron owned, Scabbers the rat

was secondhand (he had once belonged to Ron’s

brother Percy) and a bit battered. Next to the glossy

rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone.

“Hm,” said the witch, picking up Scabbers. “How old

is this rat?”

“Dunno,” said Ron. “Quite old. He used to belong to

my brother.”

“What powers does he have?” said the witch,

examining Scabbers closely.

“Er —” The truth was that Scabbers had never shown

the faintest trace of interesting powers. The witch’s

eyes moved from Scabbers’s tattered left ear to his

front paw, which had a toe missing, and tutted

loudly.

P a g e | 64 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said.

“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” said

Ron defensively.

“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be

expected to live longer than three years or so,” said

the witch. “Now, if you were looking for something a

bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these —”

She indicated the black rats, who promptly started

skipping again. Ron muttered, “Show-offs.”

“Well, if you don’t want a replacement, you can try

this rat tonic,” said the witch, reaching under the

counter and bringing out a small red bottle.

“Okay,” said Ron. “How much — OUCH!”

Ron buckled as something huge and orange came

soaring from the top of the highest cage, landed on

his head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at

Scabbers.

“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but

Scabbers shot from between her hands like a bar of

soap, landed splay-legged on the floor, and then

scampered for the door.

“Scabbers!” Ron shouted, racing out of the shop after

him; Harry followed.

It took them nearly ten minutes to catch Scabbers,

who had taken refuge under a wastepaper bin outside

Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron stuffed the trembling

rat back into his pocket and straightened up,

massaging his head.

“What was that?”

P a g e | 65 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“It was either a very big cat or quite a small tiger,”

said Harry.

“Where’s Hermione?”

“Probably getting her owl —”

They made their way back up the crowded street to

the Magical Menagerie. As they reached it, Hermione

came out, but she wasn’t carrying an owl. Her arms

were clamped tightly around the enormous ginger cat.

“You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth

hanging open.

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing.

That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The

cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was

definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy

and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong

into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight,

however, the cat was purring contentedly in

Hermione’s arms.

“Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!” said Ron.

“He didn’t mean to, did you, Crookshanks?” said

Hermione.

“And what about Scabbers?” said Ron, pointing at the

lump in his chest pocket. “He needs rest and

relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing

around?”

“That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said

Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into Ron’s

hand. “And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be

sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours,

P a g e | 66 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

what’s the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch

said he’d been in there for ages; no one wanted him.”

“I wonder why,” said Ron sarcastically as they set off

toward the Leaky Cauldron.

They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the

Daily Prophet.

“Harry!” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How are

you?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione

joined Mr. Weasley with all their shopping.

Mr. Weasley put down his paper, and Harry saw the

now familiar picture of Sirius Black staring up at him.

“They still haven’t caught him, then?” he asked.

“No,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely grave.

“They’ve pulled us all off our regular jobs at the

Ministry to try and find him, but no luck so far.”

“Would we get a reward if we caught him?” asked

Ron. “It’d be good to get some more money —”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, who on

closer inspection looked very strained. “Black’s not

going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It’s

the Azkaban guards who’ll get him back, you mark

my words.”

At that moment Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden

with shopping bags and followed by the twins, Fred

and George, who were about to start their fifth year at

Hogwarts; the newly elected Head Boy, Percy; and the

Weasleys’ youngest child and only girl, Ginny.

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Ginny, who had always been very taken with Harry,

seemed even more heartily embarrassed than usual

when she saw him, perhaps because he had saved

her life during their previous year at Hogwarts. She

went very red and muttered “hello” without looking at

him. Percy, however, held out his hand solemnly as

though he and Harry had never met and said, “Harry.

How nice to see you.”

“Hello, Percy,” said Harry, trying not to laugh.

“I hope you’re well?” said Percy pompously, shaking

hands. It was rather like being introduced to the

mayor.

“Very well, thanks —”

“Harry!” said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and

bowing deeply. “Simply splendid to see you, old boy —

”

“Marvelous,” said George, pushing Fred aside and

seizing Harry’s hand in turn. “Absolutely spiffing.”

Percy scowled.

“That’s enough, now,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her

and seizing her hand too. “How really corking to see

you —”

“I said, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing

her shopping in an empty chair. “Hello, Harry, dear. I

suppose you’ve heard our exciting news?” She pointed

to the brand-new silver badge on Percy’s chest.

“Second Head Boy in the family!” she said, swelling

with pride.

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“And last,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning

suddenly. “I notice they haven’t made you two

prefects.”

“What do we want to be prefects for?” said George,

looking revolted at the very idea. “It’d take all the fun

out of life.”

Ginny giggled.

“You want to set a better example for your sister!”

snapped Mrs. Weasley.

“Ginny’s got other brothers to set her an example,

Mother,” said Percy loftily. “I’m going up to change for

dinner. …”

He disappeared and George heaved a sigh.

“We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” he told Harry.

“But Mum spotted us.”

Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom the

innkeeper put three tables together in the parlor, and

the seven Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione ate their

way through five delicious courses.

“How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?”

asked Fred as they dug into a sumptuous chocolate

pudding.

“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr.

Weasley.

Everyone looked up at him.

“Why?” said Percy curiously.

P a g e | 69 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

“It’s because of you, Perce,” said George seriously.

“And there’ll be little flags on the hoods, with HB on

them —”

“— for Humongous Bighead,” said Fred.

Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted into

their pudding.

“Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?” Percy

asked again, in a dignified voice.

“Well, as we haven’t got one anymore,” said Mr.

Weasley, “— and as I work there, they’re doing me a

favor —”

His voice was casual, but Harry couldn’t help noticing

that Mr. Weasley’s ears had gone red, just like Ron’s

did when he was under pressure.

“Good thing, too,” said Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you

realize how much luggage you’ve all got between you?

A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle Underground. …

You are all packed, aren’t you?”

“Ron hasn’t put all his new things in his trunk yet,”

said Percy, in a long-suffering voice. “He’s dumped

them on my bed.”

“You’d better go and pack properly, Ron, because we

won’t have much time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley

called down the table. Ron scowled at Percy.

After dinner everyone felt very full and sleepy. One by

one they made their way upstairs to their rooms to

check their things for the next day. Ron and Percy

were next door to Harry. He had just closed and

locked his own trunk when he heard angry voices

through the wall, and went to see what was going on.

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The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was

shouting.

“It was here, on the bedside table, I took it off for

polishing —”

“I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back.

“What’s up?” said Harry.

“My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy, rounding on

Harry.

“So’s Scabbers’s rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing things

out of his trunk to look. “I think I might’ve left it in

the bar —”

“You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my

badge!” yelled Percy.

“I’ll get Scabbers’s stuff, I’m packed,” Harry said to

Ron, and he went downstairs.

Harry was halfway along the passage to the bar,

which was now very dark, when he heard another

pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second

later, he recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’.

He hesitated, not wanting them to know he’d heard

them arguing, when the sound of his own name made

him stop, then move closer to the parlor door.

“… makes no sense not to tell him,” Mr. Weasley was

saying heatedly. “Harry’s got a right to know. I’ve tried

to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating Harry like a

child. He’s thirteen years old and —”

“Arthur, the truth would terrify him!” said Mrs.

Weasley shrilly. “Do you really want to send Harry

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back to school with that hanging over him? For

heaven’s sake, he’s happy not knowing!”

“I don’t want to make him miserable, I want to put

him on his guard!” retorted Mr. Weasley. “You know

what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by

themselves — they’ve even ended up in the Forbidden

Forest! But Harry mustn’t do that this year! When I

think what could have happened to him that night he

ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked

him up, I’m prepared to bet he would have been dead

before the Ministry found him.”

“But he’s not dead, he’s fine, so what’s the point —”

“Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is,

but he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban,

and that’s supposed to be impossible. It’s been a

month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, and I

don’t care what Fudge keeps telling the Daily Prophet,

we’re no nearer catching Black than inventing self-

spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is

what Black’s after —”

“But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.”

“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can

break out of Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.”

“But no one’s really sure that Black’s after Harry —”

There was a thud on wood, and Harry was sure Mr.

Weasley had banged his fist on the table.

“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They

didn’t report it in the press because Fudge wanted it

kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the night

Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black’s

been talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the

P a g e | 72 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts … he’s at Hogwarts.’

Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. If

you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will bring

You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything

the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had

twelve years alone in Azkaban to brood on that. …”

There was a silence. Harry leaned still closer to the

door, desperate to hear more.

“Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right.

But you’re forgetting Albus Dumbledore. I don’t think

anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts while

Dumbledore’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about

all this?”

“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds

the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the

entrances to the school grounds. He wasn’t happy

about it, but he agreed.”

“Not happy? Why shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re

there to catch Black?”

“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said

Mr. Weasley heavily. “Nor am I, if it comes to that …

but when you’re dealing with a wizard like Black, you

sometimes have to join forces with those you’d rather

avoid.”

“If they save Harry —”

“— then I will never say another word against them,”

said Mr. Weasley wearily. “It’s late, Molly, we’d better

go up. …”

Harry heard chairs move. As quietly as he could, he

hurried down the passage to the bar and out of sight.

The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later

P a g e | 73 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were

climbing the stairs.

The bottle of rat tonic was lying under the table they

had sat at earlier. Harry waited until he heard Mr.

and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom door close, then headed

back upstairs with the bottle.

Fred and George were crouching in the shadows on

the landing, heaving with laughter as they listened to

Percy dismantling his and Ron’s room in search of his

badge.

“We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to Harry. “We’ve been

improving it.”

The badge now read Bighead Boy.

Harry forced a laugh, went to give Ron the rat tonic,

then shut himself in his room and lay down on his

bed.

So Sirius Black was after him. This explained

everything. Fudge had been lenient with him because

he was so relieved to find him alive. He’d made Harry

promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were

plenty of wizards to keep an eye on him. And he was

sending two Ministry cars to take them all to the

station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look

after Harry until he was on the train.

Harry lay listening to the muffled shouting next door

and wondered why he didn’t feel more scared. Sirius

Black had murdered thirteen people with one curse;

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley obviously thought Harry would

be panic-stricken if he knew the truth. But Harry

happened to agree wholeheartedly with Mrs. Weasley

that the safest place on earth was wherever Albus

Dumbledore happened to be. Didn’t people always say

P a g e | 74 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

that Dumbledore was the only person Lord Voldemort

had ever been afraid of? Surely Black, as Voldemort’s

right-hand man, would be just as frightened of him?

And then there were these Azkaban guards everyone

kept talking about. They seemed to scare most people

senseless, and if they were stationed all around the

school, Black’s chances of getting inside seemed very

remote.

No, all in all, the thing that bothered Harry most was

the fact that his chances of visiting Hogsmeade now

looked like zero. Nobody would want Harry to leave

the safety of the castle until Black was caught; in

fact, Harry suspected his every move would be

carefully watched until the danger had passed.

He scowled at the dark ceiling. Did they think he

couldn’t look after himself? He’d escaped Lord

Voldemort three times; he wasn’t completely useless.

…

Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of

Magnolia Crescent crossed his mind. What to do when

you know the worst is coming. …

“I’m not going to be murdered,” Harry said out loud.

“That’s the spirit, dear,” said his mirror sleepily.

P a g e | 75 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

THE DEMENTOR

Tom woke Harry the next morning with his usual

toothless grin and a cup of tea. Harry got dressed and

was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back

into her cage when Ron banged his way into the

room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and looking

irritable.

“The sooner we get on the train, the better,” he said.

“At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now

he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his photo of

Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his

girlfriend. She’s hidden her face under the frame

because her nose has gone all blotchy. …”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry began, but they

were interrupted by Fred and George, who had looked

in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy again.

They headed down to breakfast, where Mr. Weasley

was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet with a

furrowed brow and Mrs. Weasley was telling

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Hermione and Ginny about a love potion she’d made

as a young girl. All three of them were rather giggly.

“What were you saying?” Ron asked Harry as they sat

down.

“Later,” Harry muttered as Percy stormed in.

Harry had no chance to speak to Ron or Hermione in

the chaos of leaving; they were too busy heaving all

their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron’s narrow

staircase and piling them up near the door, with

Hedwig and Hermes, Percy’s screech owl, perched on

top in their cages. A small wickerwork basket stood

beside the heap of trunks, spitting loudly.

“It’s all right, Crookshanks,” Hermione cooed through

the wickerwork. “I’ll let you out on the train.”

“You won’t,” snapped Ron. “What about poor

Scabbers, eh?”

He pointed at his chest, where a large lump indicated

that Scabbers was curled up in his pocket.

Mr. Weasley, who had been outside waiting for the

Ministry cars, stuck his head inside.

“They’re here,” he said. “Harry, come on.”

Mr. Weasley marched Harry across the short stretch

of pavement toward the first of two old-fashioned dark

green cars, each of which was driven by a furtive-

looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet.

“In you get, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, glancing up and

down the crowded street.

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Harry got into the back of the car and was shortly

joined by Hermione, Ron, and, to Ron’s disgust,

Percy.

The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful

compared with Harry’s trip on the Knight Bus. The

Ministry of Magic cars seemed almost ordinary,

though Harry noticed that they could slide through

gaps that Uncle Vernon’s new company car certainly

couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s Cross

with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers

found them trolleys, unloaded their trunks, touched

their hats in salute to Mr. Weasley, and drove away,

somehow managing to jump to the head of an

unmoving line at the traffic lights.

Mr. Weasley kept close to Harry’s elbow all the way

into the station.

“Right then,” he said, glancing around them. “Let’s do

this in pairs, as there are so many of us. I’ll go

through first with Harry.”

Mr. Weasley strolled toward the barrier between

platforms nine and ten, pushing Harry’s trolley and

apparently very interested in the InterCity 125 that

had just arrived at platform nine. With a meaningful

look at Harry, he leaned casually against the barrier.

Harry imitated him.

In a moment, they had fallen sideways through the

solid metal onto platform nine and three-quarters and

looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet

steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed

with witches and wizards seeing their children onto

the train.

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Percy and Ginny suddenly appeared behind Harry.

They were panting and had apparently taken the

barrier at a run.

“Ah, there’s Penelope!” said Percy, smoothing his hair

and going pink again. Ginny caught Harry’s eye, and

they both turned away to hide their laughter as Percy

strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with

his chest thrown out so that she couldn’t miss his

shiny badge.

Once the remaining Weasleys and Hermione had

joined them, Harry and Ron led the way to the end of

the train, past packed compartments, to a carriage

that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto

it, stowed Hedwig and Crookshanks in the luggage

rack, then went back outside to say good-bye to Mr.

and Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley kissed all her children, then Hermione,

and finally, Harry. He was embarrassed, but really

quite pleased, when she gave him an extra hug.

“Do take care, won’t you, Harry?” she said as she

straightened up, her eyes oddly bright. Then she

opened her enormous handbag and said, “I’ve made

you all sandwiches. … Here you are, Ron … no,

they’re not corned beef. … Fred? Where’s Fred? Here

you are, dear. …”

“Harry,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “come over here a

moment.”

He jerked his head toward a pillar, and Harry followed

him behind it, leaving the others crowded around

Mrs. Weasley.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you before you leave

—” said Mr. Weasley, in a tense voice.

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“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “I already know.”

“You know? How could you know?”

“I — er — I heard you and Mrs. Weasley talking last

night. I couldn’t help hearing,” Harry added quickly.

“Sorry —”

“That’s not the way I’d have chosen for you to find

out,” said Mr. Weasley, looking anxious.

“No — honestly, it’s okay. This way, you haven’t

broken your word to Fudge and I know what’s going

on.”

“Harry, you must be very scared —”

“I’m not,” said Harry sincerely. “Really, ” he added,

because Mr. Weasley was looking disbelieving. “I’m

not trying to be a hero, but seriously, Sirius Black

can’t be worse than Voldemort, can he?”

Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of the name but

overlooked it.

“Harry, I knew you were, well, made of stronger stuff

than Fudge seems to think, and I’m obviously pleased

that you’re not scared, but —”

“Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, who was now

shepherding the rest onto the train. “Arthur, what are

you doing? It’s about to go!”

“He’s coming, Molly!” said Mr. Weasley but he turned

back to Harry and kept talking in a lower and more

hurried voice. “Listen, I want you to give me your

word —”

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“— that I’ll be a good boy and stay in the castle?” said Harry gloomily.

“Not entirely,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked more

serious than Harry had ever seen him. “Harry, swear

to me you won’t go looking for Black.”

Harry stared. “What?”

There was a loud whistle. Guards were walking along

the train, slamming all the doors shut.

“Promise me, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, talking more

quickly still, “that whatever happens —”

“Why would I go looking for someone I know wants to

kill me?” said Harry blankly.

“Swear to me that whatever you might hear —”

“Arthur, quickly!” cried Mrs. Weasley.

Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to

move. Harry ran to the compartment door and Ron

threw it open and stood back to let him on. They

leaned out of the window and waved at Mr. and Mrs.

Weasley until the train turned a corner and blocked

them from view.

“I need to talk to you in private,” Harry muttered to

Ron and Hermione as the train picked up speed.

“Go away, Ginny,” said Ron.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny huffily, and she stalked

off.

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Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off down the corridor, looking for an empty compartment, but all were full

except for the one at the very end of the train.

This had only one occupant, a man sitting fast asleep

next to the window. Harry, Ron, and Hermione

checked on the threshold. The Hogwarts Express was

usually reserved for students and they had never seen

an adult there before, except for the witch who

pushed the food cart.

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of

wizard’s robes that had been darned in several places.

He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his

light brown hair was flecked with gray.

“Who d’you reckon he is?” Ron hissed as they sat

down and slid the door shut, taking the seats farthest

away from the window.

“Professor R. J. Lupin,” whispered Hermione at once.

“How d’you know that?”

“It’s on his case,” she replied, pointing at the luggage

rack over the man’s head, where there was a small,

battered case held together with a large quantity of

neatly knotted string. The name Professor R. J. Lupin

was stamped across one corner in peeling letters.

“Wonder what he teaches?” said Ron, frowning at

Professor Lupin’s pallid profile.

“That’s obvious,” whispered Hermione. “There’s only

one vacancy, isn’t there? Defense Against the Dark

Arts.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already had two

Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, both of

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whom had lasted only one year. There were rumors

that the job was jinxed.

“Well, I hope he’s up to it,” said Ron doubtfully. “He

looks like one good hex would finish him off, doesn’t

he? Anyway …” He turned to Harry. “What were you

going to tell us?”

Harry explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s

argument and the warning Mr. Weasley had just

given him. When he’d finished, Ron looked

thunderstruck, and Hermione had her hands over her

mouth. She finally lowered them to say, “Sirius Black

escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry … you’ll have to

be really, really careful. Don’t go looking for trouble,

Harry —”

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” said Harry, nettled.

“Trouble usually finds me. ”

“How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a

nutter who wants to kill him?” said Ron shakily.

They were taking the news worse than Harry had

expected. Both Ron and Hermione seemed to be much

more frightened of Black than he was.

“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” said Ron

uncomfortably. “No one’s ever done it before. And he

was a top-security prisoner too.”

“But they’ll catch him, won’t they?” said Hermione

earnestly. “I mean, they’ve got all the Muggles looking

out for him too. …”

“What’s that noise?” said Ron suddenly.

A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from

somewhere. They looked all around the compartment.

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“It’s coming from your trunk, Harry,” said Ron,

standing up and reaching into the luggage rack. A

moment later he had pulled the Pocket Sneakoscope

out from between Harry’s robes. It was spinning very

fast in the palm of Ron’s hand and glowing brilliantly.

“Is that a Sneakoscope?” said Hermione interestedly,

standing up for a better look.

“Yeah … mind you, it’s a very cheap one,” Ron said.

“It went haywire just as I was tying it to Errol’s leg to

send it to Harry.”

“Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?”

said Hermione shrewdly.

“No! Well … I wasn’t supposed to be using Errol. You

know he’s not really up to long journeys … but how

else was I supposed to get Harry’s present to him?”

“Stick it back in the trunk,” Harry advised as the

Sneakoscope whistled piercingly, “or it’ll wake him

up.”

He nodded toward Professor Lupin. Ron stuffed the

Sneakoscope into a particularly horrible pair of Uncle

Vernon’s old socks, which deadened the sound, then

closed the lid of the trunk on it.

“We could get it checked in Hogsmeade,” said Ron,

sitting back down. “They sell that sort of thing in

Dervish and Banges, magical instruments and stuff.

Fred and George told me.”

“Do you know much about Hogsmeade?” asked

Hermione keenly. “I’ve read it’s the only entirely non-

Muggle settlement in Britain —”

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“Yeah, I think it is,” said Ron in an offhand sort of way, “but that’s not why I want to go. I just want to

get inside Honeydukes!”

“What’s that?” said Hermione.

“It’s this sweetshop,” said Ron, a dreamy look coming

over his face, “where they’ve got everything. … Pepper

Imps — they make you smoke at the mouth — and

great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and

clotted cream, and really excellent sugar quills, which

you can suck in class and just look like you’re

thinking what to write next —”

“But Hogsmeade’s a very interesting place, isn’t it?”

Hermione pressed on eagerly. “In Sites of Historical

Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for the

1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s

supposed to be the most severely haunted building in

Britain —”

“— and massive sherbet balls that make you levitate a

few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them,”

said Ron, who was plainly not listening to a word

Hermione was saying.

Hermione looked around at Harry.

“Won’t it be nice to get out of school for a bit and

explore Hogsmeade?”

“ ’Spect it will,” said Harry heavily. “You’ll have to tell

me when you’ve found out.”

“What d’you mean?” said Ron.

“I can’t go. The Dursleys didn’t sign my permission

form, and Fudge wouldn’t either.”

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Ron looked horrified.

“You’re not allowed to come? But — no way —

McGonagall or someone will give you permission —”

Harry gave a hollow laugh. Professor McGonagall,

head of Gryffindor House, was very strict.

“— or we can ask Fred and George, they know every

secret passage out of the castle —”

“Ron!” said Hermione sharply. “I don’t think Harry

should be sneaking out of school with Black on the

loose —”

“Yeah, I expect that’s what McGonagall will say when

I ask for permission,” said Harry bitterly.

“But if we’re with him,” said Ron spiritedly to

Hermione, “Black wouldn’t dare —”

“Oh, Ron, don’t talk rubbish,” snapped Hermione.

“Black’s already murdered a whole bunch of people in

the middle of a crowded street. Do you really think

he’s going to worry about attacking Harry just

because we’re there?”

She was fumbling with the straps of Crookshanks’s

basket as she spoke.

“Don’t let that thing out!” Ron said, but too late;

Crookshanks leapt lightly from the basket, stretched,

yawned, and sprang onto Ron’s knees; the lump in

Ron’s pocket trembled and he shoved Crookshanks

angrily away.

“Get out of here!”

“Ron, don’t!” said Hermione angrily.

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Ron was about to answer back when Professor Lupin

stirred. They watched him apprehensively, but he

simply turned his head the other way, mouth slightly

open, and slept on.

The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the

scenery outside the window became wilder and darker

while the clouds overhead thickened. People were

chasing backward and forward past the door of their

compartment. Crookshanks had now settled in an

empty seat, his squashed face turned toward Ron, his

yellow eyes on Ron’s top pocket.

At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart

arrived at the compartment door.

“D’you think we should wake him up?” Ron asked

awkwardly, nodding toward Professor Lupin. “He

looks like he could do with some food.”

Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously.

“Er — Professor?” she said. “Excuse me — Professor?”

He didn’t move.

“Don’t worry, dear,” said the witch as she handed

Harry a large stack of Cauldron Cakes. “If he’s hungry

when he wakes, I’ll be up front with the driver.”

“I suppose he is asleep?” said Ron quietly as the witch

slid the compartment door closed. “I mean — he

hasn’t died, has he?”

“No, no, he’s breathing,” whispered Hermione, taking

the Cauldron Cake Harry passed her.

He might not be very good company, but Professor

Lupin’s presence in their compartment had its uses.

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Midafternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard

footsteps in the corridor again, and their three least

favorite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy,

flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory

Goyle.

Draco Malfoy and Harry had been enemies ever since

they had met on their very first train journey to

Hogwarts. Malfoy, who had a pale, pointed, sneering

face, was in Slytherin House; he played Seeker on the

Slytherin Quidditch team, the same position that

Harry played on the Gryffindor team. Crabbe and

Goyle seemed to exist to do Malfoy’s bidding. They

were both wide and musclely; Crabbe was taller, with

a pudding-bowl haircut and a very thick neck; Goyle

had short, bristly hair and long, gorilla-ish arms.

“Well, look who it is,” said Malfoy in his usual lazy

drawl, pulling open the compartment door. “Potty and

the Weasel.”

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly.

“I heard your father finally got his hands on some

gold this summer, Weasley,” said Malfoy. “Did your

mother die of shock?”

Ron stood up so quickly he knocked Crookshanks’s

basket to the floor. Professor Lupin gave a snort.

“Who’s that?” said Malfoy, taking an automatic step

backward as he spotted Lupin.

“New teacher,” said Harry, who got to his feet, too, in

case he needed to hold Ron back. “What were you

saying, Malfoy?”

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Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed; he wasn’t fool enough to pick a fight right under a teacher’s nose.

“C’mon,” he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and

Goyle, and they disappeared.

Harry and Ron sat down again, Ron massaging his

knuckles.

“I’m not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year,”

he said angrily. “I mean it. If he makes one more

crack about my family, I’m going to get hold of his

head and —”

Ron made a violent gesture in midair.

“Ron,” hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin,

“be careful …”

But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north;

the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray,

which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into

life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks.

The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind

roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept.

“We must be nearly there,” said Ron, leaning forward

to look past Professor Lupin at the now completely

black window.

The words had hardly left him when the train started

to slow down.

“Great,” said Ron, getting up and walking carefully

past Professor Lupin to try and see outside. “I’m

starving. I want to get to the feast. …”

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“We can’t be there yet,” said Hermione, checking her watch.

“So why’re we stopping?”

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise

of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded

louder than ever against the windows.

Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into

the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were

sticking curiously out of their compartments.

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds

and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of

the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went

out and they were plunged into total darkness.

“What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind

Harry.

“Ouch!” gasped Hermione. “Ron, that was my foot!”

Harry felt his way back to his seat.

“D’you think we’ve broken down?”

“Dunno …”

There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim

black outline of Ron, wiping a patch clean on the

window and peering out.

“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I

think people are coming aboard. …”

The compartment door suddenly opened and someone

fell painfully over Harry’s legs.

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“Sorry — d’you know what’s going on? — Ouch —

sorry —”

“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, feeling around in the dark

and pulling Neville up by his cloak.

“Harry? Is that you? What’s happening?”

“No idea — sit down —”

There was a loud hissing and a yelp of pain; Neville

had tried to sit on Crookshanks.

“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,”

came Hermione’s voice. Harry felt her pass him, heard

the door slide open again, and then a thud and two

loud squeals of pain.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”

“Ginny?”

“Hermione?”

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for Ron —”

“Come in and sit down —”

“Not here!” said Harry hurriedly. “I’m here!”

“Ouch!” said Neville.

“Quiet!” said a hoarse voice suddenly.

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Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last.

Harry could hear movements in his corner. None of

them spoke.

There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering

light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin

appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They

illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked

alert and wary.

“Stay where you are,” he said in the same hoarse

voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of

fire held out in front of him.

But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could

reach it.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering

flames in Lupin’s hand, was a cloaked figure that

towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden

beneath its hood. Harry’s eyes darted downward, and

what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a

hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening,

grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something

dead that had decayed in water. …

But it was visible only for a split second. As though

the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry’s gaze,

the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its

black cloak.

And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it

was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it

were trying to suck something more than air from its

surroundings.

An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his

own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper

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than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart. …

Harry’s eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn’t see.

He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his

ears as though of water. He was being dragged

downward, the roaring growing louder …

And then, from far away, he heard screaming,

terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to

help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but

couldn’t … a thick white fog was swirling around him,

inside him —

“Harry! Harry! Are you all right?”

Someone was slapping his face.

“W — what?”

Harry opened his eyes; there were lanterns above

him, and the floor was shaking — the Hogwarts

Express was moving again and the lights had come

back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto

the floor. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to

him, and above them he could see Neville and

Professor Lupin watching. Harry felt very sick; when

he put up his hand to push his glasses back on, he

felt cold sweat on his face.

Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto his seat.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked nervously.

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking quickly toward the door.

The hooded creature had vanished. “What happened?

Where’s that — that thing? Who screamed?”

“No one screamed,” said Ron, more nervously still.

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Harry looked around the bright compartment. Ginny

and Neville looked back at him, both very pale.

“But I heard screaming —”

A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was

breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.

“Here,” he said to Harry, handing him a particularly

large piece. “Eat it. It’ll help.”

Harry took the chocolate but didn’t eat it.

“What was that thing?” he asked Lupin.

“A dementor,” said Lupin, who was now giving

chocolate to everyone else. “One of the dementors of

Azkaban.”

Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up

the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

“Eat,” he repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the

driver, excuse me …”

He strolled past Harry and disappeared into the

corridor.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?” said Hermione,

watching Harry anxiously.

“I don’t get it. … What happened?” said Harry, wiping

more sweat off his face.

“Well — that thing — the dementor — stood there and

looked around (I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its

face) — and you — you —”

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“I thought you were having a fit or something,” said Ron, who still looked scared. “You went sort of rigid

and fell out of your seat and started twitching —”

“And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked

toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” said

Hermione, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius

Black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t

move, so Lupin muttered something, and a silvery

thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around

and sort of glided away. …”

“It was horrible,” said Neville, in a higher voice than

usual. “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?”

“I felt weird,” said Ron, shifting his shoulders

uncomfortably. “Like I’d never be cheerful again. …”

Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly

as bad as Harry felt, gave a small sob; Hermione went

over and put a comforting arm around her.

“But didn’t any of you — fall off your seats?” said

Harry awkwardly.

“No,” said Ron, looking anxiously at Harry again.

“Ginny was shaking like mad, though. …”

Harry didn’t understand. He felt weak and shivery, as

though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu; he

also felt the beginnings of shame. Why had he gone to

pieces like that, when no one else had?

Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he

entered, looked around, and said, with a small smile,

“I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know. …”

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Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt

warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and

toes.

“We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor

Lupin. “Are you all right, Harry?”

Harry didn’t ask how Professor Lupin knew his name.

“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed.

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the

journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade

station, and there was a great scramble to get

outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and Neville’s pet

toad croaked loudly from under his hat. It was

freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down

in icy sheets.

“Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione turned and saw the gigantic

outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform,

beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward

for their traditional journey across the lake.

“All righ’, you three?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of

the crowd. They waved at him, but had no chance to

speak to him because the mass of people around

them was shunting them away along the platform.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the

school along the platform and out onto a rough mud

track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited

the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only

assume, by an invisible horse, because when they

climbed inside and shut the door, the coach set off all

by itself, bumping and swaying in procession.

The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Harry

felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Ron and

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Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though

frightened he might collapse again.

As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent

wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns

topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more

towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on

either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to

engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat

and closed his eyes until they had passed the gates.

The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping

drive up to the castle; Hermione was leaning out of

the tiny window, watching the many turrets and

towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a

halt, and Hermione and Ron got out.

As Harry stepped down, a drawling, delighted voice

sounded in his ear.

“You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth?

You actually fainted?”

Malfoy elbowed past Hermione to block Harry’s way

up the stone steps to the castle, his face gleeful and

his pale eyes glinting maliciously.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” said Ron, whose jaw was

clenched.

“Did you faint as well, Weasley?” said Malfoy loudly.

“Did the scary old dementor frighten you too,

Weasley?”

“Is there a problem?” said a mild voice. Professor

Lupin had just gotten out of the next carriage.

Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which

took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated

suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he

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said, “Oh, no — er — Professor, ” then he smirked at Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the

castle.

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him

hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd

swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front

doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit

with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent

marble staircase that led to the upper floors.

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right;

Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely

glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and

cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Granger!

I want to see you both!”

Harry and Hermione turned around, surprised.

Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and

head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads

of the crowd. She was a stern-looking witch who wore

her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed

with square spectacles. Harry fought his way over to

her with a feeling of foreboding: Professor McGonagall

had a way of making him feel he must have done

something wrong.

“There’s no need to look so worried — I just want a

word in my office,” she told them. “Move along there,

Weasley.”

Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered

Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd;

they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up

the marble staircase, and along a corridor.

Once they were in her office, a small room with a

large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned

Harry and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself

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behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on

the train, Potter.”

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on

the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came

bustling in.

Harry felt himself going red in the face. It was bad

enough that he’d passed out, or whatever he had

done, without everyone making all this fuss.

“I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything —”

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madam Pomfrey, ignoring

this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I

suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous

again?”

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor

McGonagall.

They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey

clucked disapprovingly.

“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered,

pushing back Harry’s hair and feeling his forehead.

“He won’t be the last one who collapses. Yes, he’s all

clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they

have on people who are already delicate —”

“I’m not delicate!” said Harry crossly.

“Of course you’re not,” said Madam Pomfrey

absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.

“What does he need?” said Professor McGonagall

crisply. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight

in the hospital wing?”

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“I’m fine!” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of what Draco Malfoy would say if he had to go to the

hospital wing was torture.

“Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very

least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to

peer into Harry’s eyes.

“I’ve already had some,” said Harry. “Professor Lupin

gave me some. He gave it to all of us.”

“Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So

we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher who knows his remedies?”

“Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?” Professor

McGonagall said sharply.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick

word with Miss Granger about her course schedule,

then we can go down to the feast together.”

Harry went back into the corridor with Madam

Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to

herself. He had to wait only a few minutes; then

Hermione emerged looking very happy about

something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the

three of them made their way back down the marble

staircase to the Great Hall.

It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long

House tables was lined with students, their faces

glimmering by the light of thousands of candles,

which were floating over the tables in midair.

Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a

shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and

a three-legged stool out of the hall.

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“Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the

Sorting!”

New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by

trying on the Sorting Hat, which shouted out the

House they were best suited to (Gryffindor,

Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin). Professor

McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the

staff table, and Harry and Hermione set off in the

other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the

Gryffindor table. People looked around at them as

they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of

them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing

in front of the dementor traveled that fast?

He and Hermione sat down on either side of Ron, who

had saved them seats.

“What was all that about?” he muttered to Harry.

Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that

moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he

broke off.

Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave

an impression of great energy. He had several feet of

long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and

an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as

the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn’t why

Harry respected him. You couldn’t help trusting Albus

Dumbledore, and as Harry watched him beaming

around at the students, he felt really calm for the first

time since the dementor had entered the train

compartment.

“Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight

shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year

at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and

as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it

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out of the way before you become befuddled by our

excellent feast. …”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “As

you will all be aware after their search of the

Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing

host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are

here on Ministry of Magic business.”

He paused, and Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley

had said about Dumbledore not being happy with the

dementors guarding the school.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,”

Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I

must make it plain that nobody is to leave school

without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled

by tricks or disguises — or even Invisibility Cloaks,”

he added blandly, and Harry and Ron glanced at each

other. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to

understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn

each and every one of you to give them no reason to

harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head

Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul

of the dementors,” he said.

Percy, who was sitting a few seats down from Harry,

puffed out his chest again and stared around

impressively. Dumbledore paused again; he looked

very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or

made a sound.

“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to

welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.

“First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to

fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

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There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic

applause. Only those who had been in the

compartment on the train with Professor Lupin

clapped hard, Harry among them. Professor Lupin

looked particularly shabby next to all the other

teachers in their best robes.

“Look at Snape!” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear.

Professor Snape, the Potions master, was staring

along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was

common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense

Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who hated

Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his

thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing.

Harry knew that expression only too well; it was the

look Snape wore every time he set eyes on Harry.

“As to our second new appointment,” Dumbledore

continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor

Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that

Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures

teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to

enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I

am delighted to say that his place will be filled by

none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to

take on this teaching job in addition to his

gamekeeping duties.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another,

stunned. Then they joined in with the applause,

which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in

particular. Harry leaned forward to see Hagrid, who

was ruby-red in the face and staring down at his

enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of

his black beard.

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“We should’ve known!” Ron roared, pounding the

table. “Who else would have assigned us a biting

book?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the last to stop

clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started

speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his

eyes on the tablecloth.

“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said

Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!”

The golden plates and goblets before them filled

suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly

ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach

and began to eat.

It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk,

laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to

finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew

how much being made a teacher would mean to him.

Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been

expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime

he had not committed. It had been Harry, Ron, and

Hermione who had cleared Hagrid’s name last year.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart

had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore

gave the word that it was time for them all to go to

bed, and they got their chance.

“Congratulations, Hagrid!” Hermione squealed as they

reached the teachers’ table.

“All down ter you three,” said Hagrid, wiping his

shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them.

“Can’ believe it … great man, Dumbledore … came

straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn

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said he’d had enough. … It’s what I always wanted.

…”

Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his

napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined the Gryffindors

streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired

now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs,

to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower. A large

portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress asked them,

“Password?”

“Coming through, coming through!” Percy called from

behind the crowd. “The new password’s ‘Fortuna

Major’!”

“Oh no,” said Neville Longbottom sadly. He always

had trouble remembering the passwords.

Through the portrait hole and across the common

room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate

staircases. Harry climbed the spiral stair with no

thought in his head except how glad he was to be

back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory

with its five four-poster beds, and Harry, looking

around, felt he was home at last.

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TALONS AND TEA LEAVES

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great

Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they

saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining

a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As

they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a

swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.

“Ignore him,” said Hermione, who was right behind

Harry. “Just ignore him, it’s not worth it. …”

“Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin

girl with a face like a pug. “Potter! The dementors are

coming, Potter! Woooooooo!”

Harry dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next

to George Weasley.

“New third-year course schedules,” said George,

passing them over. “What’s up with you, Harry?”

“Malfoy,” said Ron, sitting down on George’s other

side and glaring over at the Slytherin table.

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George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with terror again.

“That little git,” he said calmly. “He wasn’t so cocky

last night when the dementors were down at our end

of the train. Came running into our compartment,

didn’t he, Fred?”

“Nearly wet himself,” said Fred, with a contemptuous

glance at Malfoy.

“I wasn’t too happy myself,” said George. “They’re

horrible things, those dementors. …”

“Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?” said Fred.

“You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” said Harry in

a low voice.

“Forget it, Harry,” said George bracingly. “Dad had to

go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he

said it was the worst place he’d ever been, he came

back all weak and shaking. … They suck the

happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the

prisoners go mad in there.”

“Anyway, we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our

first Quidditch match,” said Fred. “Gryffindor versus

Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?”

The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other

in a Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off

worse. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Harry helped

himself to sausages and fried tomatoes.

Hermione was examining her new schedule.

“Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,”

she said happily.

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“Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he looked over her shoulder, “they’ve messed up your schedule. Look —

they’ve got you down for about ten subjects a day.

There isn’t enough time. ”

“I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor

McGonagall.”

“But look,” said Ron, laughing, “see this morning?

Nine o’clock, Divination. And underneath, nine

o’clock, Muggle Studies. And” — Ron leaned closer to

the schedule, disbelieving — “look — underneath

that, Arithmancy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re

good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you

supposed to be in three classes at once?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione shortly. “Of course I

won’t be in three classes at once.”

“Well, then —”

“Pass the marmalade,” said Hermione.

“But —”

“Oh, Ron, what’s it to you if my schedule’s a bit full?”

Hermione snapped. “I told you, I’ve fixed it all with

Professor McGonagall.”

Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was

wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was

absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one

enormous hand.

“All righ’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way to the

staff table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after

lunch! Bin up since five gettin’ everythin’ ready. …

Hope it’s okay. … Me, a teacher … hones’ly. …”

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He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the

staff table, still swinging the polecat.

“Wonder what he’s been getting ready?” said Ron, a

note of anxiety in his voice.

The hall was starting to empty as people headed off

toward their first lesson. Ron checked his course

schedule.

“We’d better go, look, Divination’s at the top of North

Tower. It’ll take us ten minutes to get there. …”

They finished their breakfasts hastily, said good-bye

to Fred and George, and walked back through the

hall. As they passed the Slytherin table, Malfoy did

yet another impression of a fainting fit. The shouts of

laughter followed Harry into the entrance hall.

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a

long one. Two years at Hogwarts hadn’t taught them

everything about the castle, and they had never been

inside North Tower before.

“There’s — got — to — be — a — shortcut,” Ron

panted as they climbed their seventh long staircase

and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there

was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of

grass hanging on the stone wall.

“I think it’s this way,” said Hermione, peering down

the empty passage to the right.

“Can’t be,” said Ron. “That’s south, look, you can see

a bit of the lake out of the window …”

Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dapple-gray

pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing

nonchalantly. Harry was used to the subjects of

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Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their frames to visit one another, but he always enjoyed

watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in

a suit of armor clanked into the picture after his

pony. By the look of the grass stains on his metal

knees, he had just fallen off.

“Aha!” he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“What villains are these, that trespass upon my

private lands! Come to scorn at my fall, perchance?

Draw, you knaves, you dogs!”

They watched in astonishment as the little knight

tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began

brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in

rage. But the sword was too long for him; a

particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he

landed facedown in the grass.

“Are you all right?” said Harry, moving closer to the

picture.

“Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!”

The knight seized his sword again and used it to push

himself back up, but the blade sank deeply into the

grass and, though he pulled with all his might, he

couldn’t get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back

down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his

sweating face.

“Listen,” said Harry, taking advantage of the knight’s

exhaustion, “we’re looking for the North Tower. You

don’t know the way, do you?”

“A quest!” The knight’s rage seemed to vanish

instantly. He clanked to his feet and shouted, “Come

follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or

else shall perish bravely in the charge!”

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He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and failed to mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried, “On

foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!”

And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the

frame and out of sight.

They hurried after him along the corridor, following

the sound of his armor. Every now and then they

spotted him running through a picture ahead.

“Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!” yelled the

knight, and they saw him reappear in front of an

alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture

hung on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase.

Puffing loudly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the

tightly spiraling steps, getting dizzier and dizzier,

until at last they heard the murmur of voices above

them and knew they had reached the classroom.

“Farewell!” cried the knight, popping his head into a

painting of some sinister-looking monks. “Farewell,

my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have need of noble

heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!”

“Yeah, we’ll call you,” muttered Ron as the knight

disappeared, “if we ever need someone mental.”

They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a

tiny landing, where most of the class was already

assembled. There were no doors off this landing, but

Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where

there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on

it.

“ ‘Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher,’ ” Harry read.

“How’re we supposed to get up there?”

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As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor

suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended

right at Harry’s feet. Everyone got quiet.

“After you,” said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the

ladder first.

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he

had ever seen. In fact, it didn’t look like a classroom

at all, more like a cross between someone’s attic and

an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small,

circular tables were crammed inside it, all

surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs.

Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the

curtains at the windows were all closed, and the

many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It

was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning

under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a

heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large

copper kettle. The shelves running around the

circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking

feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered

playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a

huge array of teacups.

Ron appeared at Harry’s shoulder as the class

assembled around them, all talking in whispers.

“Where is she?” Ron said.

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft,

misty sort of voice.

“Welcome,” it said. “How nice to see you in the

physical world at last.”

Harry’s immediate impression was of a large,

glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the

firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her

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large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled

shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around

her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were

encrusted with bangles and rings.

“Sit, my children, sit,” she said, and they all climbed

awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione sat themselves around the same

round table.

“Welcome to Divination,” said Professor Trelawney,

who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front

of the fire. “My name is Professor Trelawney. You may

not have seen me before. I find that descending too

often into the hustle and bustle of the main school

clouds my Inner Eye.”

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary

pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately

rearranged her shawl and continued, “So you have

chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all

magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if

you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be

able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in

this field. …”

At these words, both Harry and Ron glanced,

grinning, at Hermione, who looked startled at the

news that books wouldn’t be much help in this

subject.

“Many witches and wizards, talented though they are

in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden

disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled

mysteries of the future,” Professor Trelawney went on,

her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to

nervous face. “It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy,”

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she said suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off his pouf. “Is your grandmother well?”

“I think so,” said Neville tremulously.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, dear,” said

Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long

emerald earrings. Neville gulped. Professor Trelawney

continued placidly. “We will be covering the basic

methods of Divination this year. The first term will be

devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall

progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot

suddenly at Parvati Patil, “beware a red-haired man.”

Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right

behind her, and edged her chair away from him.

“In the second term,” Professor Trelawney went on,

“we shall progress to the crystal ball — if we have

finished with fire omens, that is. Unfortunately,

classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout

of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter,

one of our number will leave us forever.”

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but

Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it.

“I wonder, dear,” she said to Lavender Brown, who

was nearest and shrank back in her chair, “if you

could pass me the largest silver teapot?”

Lavender, looking relieved, stood up, took an

enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on

the table in front of Professor Trelawney.

“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are

dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of

October.”

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Lavender trembled.

“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a

teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it.

Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs

remain. Swill these around the cup three times with

the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its

saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then

give your cup to your partner to read. You will

interpret the patterns using pages five and six of

Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping

and instructing. Oh, and dear” — she caught Neville

by the arm as he made to stand up — “after you’ve

broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to

select one of the blue patterned ones? I’m rather

attached to the pink.”

Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf

of teacups when there was a tinkle of breaking china.

Professor Trelawney swept over to him holding a

dustpan and brush and said, “One of the blue ones,

then, dear, if you wouldn’t mind … thank you. …”

When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled,

they went back to their table and tried to drink the

scalding tea quickly. They swilled the dregs around as

Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the

cups and swapped over.

“Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at

pages five and six. “What can you see in mine?”

“A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry. The heavily

perfumed smoke in the room was making him feel

sleepy and stupid.

“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes

to see past the mundane!” Professor Trelawney cried

through the gloom.

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Harry tried to pull himself together.

“Right, you’ve got a crooked sort of cross …” He

consulted Unfogging the Future. “That means you’re

going to have ‘trials and suffering’ — sorry about that

— but there’s a thing that could be the sun … hang

on … that means ‘great happiness’ … so you’re going

to suffer but be very happy. …”

“You need your Inner Eye tested, if you ask me,” said

Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as

Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction.

“My turn …” Ron peered into Harry’s teacup, his

forehead wrinkled with effort. “There’s a blob a bit like

a bowler hat,” he said. “Maybe you’re going to work

for the Ministry of Magic. …”

He turned the teacup the other way up.

“But this way it looks more like an acorn. … What’s

that?” He scanned his copy of Unfogging the Future. “

‘A windfall, unexpected gold.’ Excellent, you can lend

me some … and there’s a thing here,” he turned the

cup again, “that looks like an animal … yeah, if that

was its head … it looks like a hippo … no, a sheep …”

Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a

snort of laughter.

“Let me see that, my dear,” she said reprovingly to

Ron, sweeping over and snatching Harry’s cup from

him. Everyone went quiet to watch.

Professor Trelawney was staring into the teacup,

rotating it counterclockwise.

“The falcon … my dear, you have a deadly enemy.”

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“But everyone knows that, ” said Hermione in a loud whisper. Professor Trelawney stared at her.

“Well, they do,” said Hermione. “Everybody knows

about Harry and You-Know-Who.”

Harry and Ron stared at her with a mixture of

amazement and admiration. They had never heard

Hermione speak to a teacher like that before.

Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered

her huge eyes to Harry’s cup again and continued to

turn it.

“The club … an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy

cup. …”

“I thought that was a bowler hat,” said Ron

sheepishly.

“The skull … danger in your path, my dear. …”

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor

Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and

then screamed.

There was another tinkle of breaking china; Neville

had smashed his second cup. Professor Trelawney

sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at

her heart and her eyes closed.

“My dear boy … my poor, dear boy … no … it is

kinder not to say … no … don’t ask me. …”

“What is it, Professor?” said Dean Thomas at once.

Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they

crowded around Harry and Ron’s table, pressing close

to Professor Trelawney’s chair to get a good look at

Harry’s cup.

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“My dear,” Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened

dramatically, “you have the Grim.”

“The what?” said Harry.

He could tell that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t

understand; Dean Thomas shrugged at him and

Lavender Brown looked puzzled, but nearly everybody

else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror.

“The Grim, my dear, the Grim!” cried Professor

Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn’t

understood. “The giant, spectral dog that haunts

churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen — the worst

omen — of death!”

Harry’s stomach lurched. That dog on the cover of

Death Omens in Flourish and Blotts — the dog in the

shadows of Magnolia Crescent … Lavender Brown

clapped her hands to her mouth too. Everyone was

looking at Harry, everyone except Hermione, who had

gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor

Trelawney’s chair.

“I don’t think it looks like a Grim,” she said flatly.

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with

mounting dislike.

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I

perceive very little aura around you. Very little

receptivity to the resonances of the future.”

Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to

side.

“It looks like a Grim if you do this,” he said, with his

eyes almost shut, “but it looks more like a donkey

from here,” he said, leaning to the left.

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“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going to die or not!” said Harry, taking even himself by

surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him.

“I think we will leave the lesson here for today,” said

Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. “Yes …

please pack away your things. …”

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor

Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their

bags. Even Ron was avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“Until we meet again,” said Professor Trelawney

faintly, “fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear” — she

pointed at Neville — “you’ll be late next time, so mind

you work extra-hard to catch up.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione descended Professor

Trelawney’s ladder and the winding stair in silence,

then set off for Professor McGonagall’s

Transfiguration lesson. It took them so long to find

her classroom that, early as they had left Divination,

they were only just in time.

Harry chose a seat right at the back of the room,

feeling as though he were sitting in a very bright

spotlight; the rest of the class kept shooting furtive

glances at him, as though he were about to drop dead

at any moment. He hardly heard what Professor

McGonagall was telling them about Animagi (wizards

who could transform at will into animals), and wasn’t

even watching when she transformed herself in front

of their eyes into a tabby cat with spectacle markings

around her eyes.

“Really, what has got into you all today?” said

Professor McGonagall, turning back into herself with

a faint pop, and staring around at them all. “Not that

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it matters, but that’s the first time my

transformation’s not got applause from a class.”

Everybody’s heads turned toward Harry again, but

nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand.

“Please, Professor, we’ve just had our first Divination

class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and —”

“Ah, of course,” said Professor McGonagall, suddenly

frowning. “There is no need to say any more, Miss

Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this

year?”

Everyone stared at her.

“Me,” said Harry, finally.

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, fixing Harry with

her beady eyes. “Then you should know, Potter, that

Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one

student a year since she arrived at this school. None

of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her

favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for

the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues —”

Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her

nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly,

“Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of

magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very

little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and

Professor Trelawney —”

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-

fact tone, “You look in excellent health to me, Potter,

so you will excuse me if I don’t let you off homework

today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand

it in.”

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Hermione laughed. Harry felt a bit better. It was

harder to feel scared of a lump of tea leaves away

from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of

Professor Trelawney’s classroom. Not everyone was

convinced, however. Ron still looked worried, and

Lavender whispered, “But what about Neville’s cup?”

When the Transfiguration class had finished, they

joined the crowd thundering toward the Great Hall for

lunch.

“Ron, cheer up,” said Hermione, pushing a dish of

stew toward him. “You heard what Professor

McGonagall said.”

Ron spooned stew onto his plate and picked up his

fork but didn’t start.

“Harry,” he said, in a low, serious voice, “you haven’t

seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?”

“Yeah, I have,” said Harry. “I saw one the night I left

the Dursleys’.”

Ron let his fork fall with a clatter.

“Probably a stray,” said Hermione calmly.

Ron looked at Hermione as though she had gone

mad.

“Hermione, if Harry’s seen a Grim, that’s — that’s

bad,” he said. “My — my uncle Bilius saw one and —

and he died twenty-four hours later!”

“Coincidence,” said Hermione airily, pouring herself

some pumpkin juice.

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“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Ron, starting to get angry. “Grims scare the living daylights

out of most wizards!”

“There you are, then,” said Hermione in a superior

tone. “They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim’s

not an omen, it’s the cause of death! And Harry’s still

with us because he’s not stupid enough to see one

and think, right, well, I’d better kick the bucket then!”

Ron mouthed wordlessly at Hermione, who opened

her bag, took out her new Arithmancy book, and

propped it open against the juice jug.

“I think Divination seems very woolly,” she said,

searching for her page. “A lot of guesswork, if you ask

me.”

“There was nothing woolly about the Grim in that

cup!” said Ron hotly.

“You didn’t seem quite so confident when you were

telling Harry it was a sheep,” said Hermione coolly.

“Professor Trelawney said you didn’t have the right

aura! You just don’t like being bad at something for a

change!”

He had touched a nerve. Hermione slammed her

Arithmancy book down on the table so hard that bits

of meat and carrot flew everywhere.

“If being good at Divination means I have to pretend

to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I’m not

sure I’ll be studying it much longer! That lesson was

absolute rubbish compared with my Arithmancy

class!”

She snatched up her bag and stalked away.

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Ron frowned after her.

“What’s she talking about?” he said to Harry. “She

hasn’t been to an Arithmancy class yet.”

Harry was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch.

Yesterday’s rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale

gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot

as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical

Creatures class.

Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other.

Harry walked beside them in silence as they went

down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of

the Forbidden Forest. It was only when he spotted

three only-too-familiar backs ahead of them that he

realized they must be having these lessons with the

Slytherins. Malfoy was talking animatedly to Crabbe

and Goyle, who were chortling. Harry was quite sure

he knew what they were talking about.

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut.

He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the

boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start.

“C’mon, now, get a move on!” he called as the class

approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great

lesson comin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!”

For one nasty moment, Harry thought that Hagrid

was going to lead them into the forest; Harry had had

enough unpleasant experiences in there to last him a

lifetime. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge

of the trees, and five minutes later, they found

themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was

nothing in there.

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“Everyone gather ’round the fence here!” he called.

“That’s it — make sure yeh can see — now, firs’ thing

yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books —”

“How?” said the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.

“Eh?” said Hagrid.

“How do we open our books?” Malfoy repeated. He

took out his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters,

which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other

people took theirs out too; some, like Harry, had

belted their book shut; others had crammed them

inside tight bags or clamped them together with

binder clips.

“Hasn’ — hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their

books?” said Hagrid, looking crestfallen.

The class all shook their heads.

“Yeh’ve got ter stroke ’em,” said Hagrid, as though

this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look —

”

He took Hermione’s copy and ripped off the Spellotape

that bound it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a

giant forefinger down its spine, and the book

shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.

“Oh, how silly we’ve all been!” Malfoy sneered. “We

should have stroked them! Why didn’t we guess!”

“I — I thought they were funny,” Hagrid said

uncertainly to Hermione.

“Oh, tremendously funny!” said Malfoy. “Really witty,

giving us books that try and rip our hands off!”

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“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Hagrid was

looking downcast and Harry wanted Hagrid’s first

lesson to be a success.

“Righ’ then,” said Hagrid, who seemed to have lost his

thread, “so — so yeh’ve got yer books an’ — an’ —

now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go

an’ get ’em. Hang on …”

He strode away from them into the forest and out of

sight.

“God, this place is going to the dogs,” said Malfoy

loudly. “That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a

fit when I tell him —”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry repeated.

“Careful, Potter, there’s a dementor behind you —”

“Oooooooh!” squealed Lavender Brown, pointing

toward the opposite side of the paddock.

Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most bizarre

creatures Harry had ever seen. They had the bodies,

hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs,

wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles,

with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly

orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a

foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a

thick leather collar around its neck, which was

attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these

were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came

jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.

“Gee up, there!” he roared, shaking the chains and

urging the creatures toward the fence where the class

stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached

them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

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“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at them. “Beau’iful, aren’ they?”

Harry could sort of see what Hagrid meant. Once you

got over the first shock of seeing something that was

half horse, half bird, you started to appreciate the

hippogriffs’ gleaming coats, changing smoothly from

feather to hair, each of them a different color: stormy

gray, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and

inky black.

“So,” said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and

beaming around, “if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer —”

No one seemed to want to. Harry, Ron, and Hermione,

however, approached the fence cautiously.

“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ hippogriffs is,

they’re proud,” said Hagrid. “Easily offended,

hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ’cause it might

be the last thing yeh do.”

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle weren’t listening; they

were talking in an undertone and Harry had a nasty

feeling they were plotting how best to disrupt the

lesson.

“Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs’

move,” Hagrid continued. “It’s polite, see? Yeh walk

toward him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows

back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow,

then get away from him sharpish, ’cause those talons

hurt.

“Right — who wants ter go first?”

Most of the class backed farther away in answer.

Even Harry, Ron, and Hermione had misgivings. The

hippogriffs were tossing their fierce heads and flexing

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their powerful wings; they didn’t seem to like being tethered like this.

“No one?” said Hagrid, with a pleading look.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry.

There was an intake of breath from behind him, and

both Lavender and Parvati whispered, “Oooh, no,

Harry, remember your tea leaves!”

Harry ignored them. He climbed over the paddock

fence.

“Good man, Harry!” roared Hagrid. “Right then — let’s

see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.”

He untied one of the chains, pulled the gray hippogriff

away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather

collar. The class on the other side of the paddock

seemed to be holding its breath. Malfoy’s eyes were

narrowed maliciously.

“Easy, now, Harry,” said Hagrid quietly. “Yeh’ve got

eye contact, now try not ter blink. … Hippogriffs don’

trust yeh if yeh blink too much. …”

Harry’s eyes immediately began to water, but he

didn’t shut them. Buckbeak had turned his great,

sharp head and was staring at Harry with one fierce

orange eye.

“Tha’s it,” said Hagrid. “Tha’s it, Harry … now, bow

…”

Harry didn’t feel much like exposing the back of his

neck to Buckbeak, but he did as he was told. He gave

a short bow and then looked up.

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The hippogriff was still staring haughtily at him. It didn’t move.

“Ah,” said Hagrid, sounding worried. “Right — back

away, now, Harry, easy does it —”

But then, to Harry’s enormous surprise, the hippogriff

suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into

what was an unmistakable bow.

“Well done, Harry!” said Hagrid, ecstatic. “Right —

yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!”

Feeling that a better reward would have been to back

away, Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and

reached out toward it. He patted the beak several

times and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as

though enjoying it.

The class broke into applause, all except for Malfoy,

Crabbe, and Goyle, who were looking deeply

disappointed.

“Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid. “I reckon he might’

let yeh ride him!”

This was more than Harry had bargained for. He was

used to a broomstick; but he wasn’t sure a hippogriff

would be quite the same.

“Yeh climb up there, jus’ behind the wing joint,” said

Hagrid, “an’ mind yeh don’ pull any of his feathers

out, he won’ like that. …”

Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak’s wing and

hoisted himself onto its back. Buckbeak stood up.

Harry wasn’t sure where to hold on; everything in

front of him was covered with feathers.

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“Go on, then!” roared Hagrid, slapping the hippogriff’s hindquarters.

Without warning, twelve-foot wings flapped open on

either side of Harry; he just had time to seize the

hippogriff around the neck before he was soaring

upward. It was nothing like a broomstick, and Harry

knew which one he preferred; the hippogriff’s wings

beat uncomfortably on either side of him, catching

him under his legs and making him feel he was about

to be thrown off; the glossy feathers slipped under his

fingers and he didn’t dare get a stronger grip; instead

of the smooth action of his Nimbus Two Thousand, he

now felt himself rocking backward and forward as the

hindquarters of the hippogriff rose and fell with its

wings.

Buckbeak flew him once around the paddock and

then headed back to the ground; this was the bit

Harry had been dreading; he leaned back as the

smooth neck lowered, feeling he was going to slip off

over the beak, then felt a heavy thud as the four ill-

assorted feet hit the ground. He just managed to hold

on and push himself straight again.

“Good work, Harry!” roared Hagrid as everyone except

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle cheered. “Okay, who else

wants a go?”

Emboldened by Harry’s success, the rest of the class

climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied

the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were

bowing nervously, all over the paddock. Neville ran

repeatedly backward from his, which didn’t seem to

want to bend its knees. Ron and Hermione practiced

on the chestnut, while Harry watched.

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Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had taken over Buckbeak.

He had bowed to Malfoy, who was now patting his

beak, looking disdainful.

“This is very easy,” Malfoy drawled, loud enough for

Harry to hear him. “I knew it must have been, if

Potter could do it. … I bet you’re not dangerous at all,

are you?” he said to the hippogriff. “Are you, you great

ugly brute?”

It happened in a flash of steely talons; Malfoy let out a

high-pitched scream and next moment, Hagrid was

wrestling Buckbeak back into his collar as he

strained to get at Malfoy, who lay curled in the grass,

blood blossoming over his robes.

“I’m dying!” Malfoy yelled as the class panicked. “I’m

dying, look at me! It’s killed me!”

“Yer not dyin’!” said Hagrid, who had gone very white.

“Someone help me — gotta get him outta here —”

Hermione ran to hold open the gate as Hagrid lifted

Malfoy easily. As they passed, Harry saw that there

was a long, deep gash on Malfoy’s arm; blood

splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the

slope toward the castle.

Very shaken, the Care of Magical Creatures class

followed at a walk. The Slytherins were all shouting

about Hagrid.

“They should fire him straight away!” said Pansy

Parkinson, who was in tears.

“It was Malfoy’s fault!” snapped Dean Thomas.

Crabbe and Goyle flexed their muscles threateningly.

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They all climbed the stone steps into the deserted entrance hall.

“I’m going to see if he’s okay!” said Pansy, and they all

watched her run up the marble staircase. The

Slytherins, still muttering about Hagrid, headed away

in the direction of their dungeon common room;

Harry, Ron, and Hermione proceeded upstairs to

Gryffindor Tower.

“D’you think he’ll be all right?” said Hermione

nervously.

“ ’Course he will. Madam Pomfrey can mend cuts in

about a second,” said Harry, who had had far worse

injuries mended magically by the nurse.

“That was a really bad thing to happen in Hagrid’s

first class, though, wasn’t it?” said Ron, looking

worried. “Trust Malfoy to mess things up for him. …”

They were among the first to reach the Great Hall at

dinnertime, hoping to see Hagrid, but he wasn’t there.

“They wouldn’t fire him, would they?” said Hermione

anxiously, not touching her steak-and-kidney

pudding.

“They’d better not,” said Ron, who wasn’t eating

either.

Harry was watching the Slytherin table. A large group

including Crabbe and Goyle was huddled together,

deep in conversation. Harry was sure they were

cooking up their own version of how Malfoy had been

injured.

“Well, you can’t say it wasn’t an interesting first day

back,” said Ron gloomily.

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They went up to the crowded Gryffindor common

room after dinner and tried to do the homework

Professor McGonagall had given them, but all three of

them kept breaking off and glancing out of the tower

window.

“There’s a light on in Hagrid’s window,” Harry said

suddenly.

Ron looked at his watch.

“If we hurried, we could go down and see him. It’s still

quite early. …”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said slowly, and Harry saw

her glance at him.

“I’m allowed to walk across the grounds, ” he said

pointedly. “Sirius Black hasn’t got past the dementors

yet, has he?”

So they put their things away and headed out of the

portrait hole, glad to meet nobody on their way to the

front doors, as they weren’t entirely sure they were

supposed to be out.

The grass was still wet and looked almost black in the

twilight. When they reached Hagrid’s hut, they

knocked, and a voice growled, “C’min.”

Hagrid was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his scrubbed

wooden table; his boarhound, Fang, had his head in

Hagrid’s lap. One look told them that Hagrid had been

drinking a lot; there was a pewter tankard almost as

big as a bucket in front of him, and he seemed to be

having difficulty getting them into focus.

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“ ’Spect it’s a record,” he said thickly, when he

recognized them. “Don’ reckon they’ve ever had a

teacher who lasted on’y a day before.”

“You haven’t been fired, Hagrid!” gasped Hermione.

“Not yet,” said Hagrid miserably, taking a huge gulp

of whatever was in the tankard. “But ’s only a matter

o’ time, i’n’t it, after Malfoy …”

“How is he?” said Ron as they all sat down. “It wasn’t

serious, was it?”

“Madam Pomfrey fixed him best she could,” said

Hagrid dully, “but he’s sayin’ it’s still agony … covered

in bandages … moanin’ …”

“He’s faking it,” said Harry at once. “Madam Pomfrey

can mend anything. She regrew half my bones last

year. Trust Malfoy to milk it for all it’s worth.”

“School gov’nors have bin told, o’ course,” said Hagrid

miserably. “They reckon I started too big. Shoulda left

hippogriffs fer later … done flobberworms or summat.

… Jus’ thought it’d make a good firs’ lesson. … ’S all

my fault. …”

“It’s all Malfoy’s fault, Hagrid!” said Hermione

earnestly.

“We’re witnesses,” said Harry. “You said hippogriffs

attack if you insult them. It’s Malfoy’s problem that

he wasn’t listening. We’ll tell Dumbledore what really

happened.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Hagrid, we’ll back you up,” said

Ron.

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Tears leaked out of the crinkled corners of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes. He grabbed both Harry and Ron

and pulled them into a bone-breaking hug.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Hagrid,” said

Hermione firmly. She took the tankard from the table

and went outside to empty it.

“Ar, maybe she’s right,” said Hagrid, letting go of

Harry and Ron, who both staggered away, rubbing

their ribs. Hagrid heaved himself out of his chair and

followed Hermione unsteadily outside. They heard a

loud splash.

“What’s he done?” said Harry nervously as Hermione

came back in with the empty tankard.

“Stuck his head in the water barrel,” said Hermione,

putting the tankard away.

Hagrid came back, his long hair and beard sopping

wet, wiping the water out of his eyes.

“Tha’s better,” he said, shaking his head like a dog

and drenching them all. “Listen, it was good of yeh ter

come an’ see me, I really —”

Hagrid stopped dead, staring at Harry as though he’d

only just realized he was there.

“WHAT D’YEH THINK YOU’RE DOIN’, EH?” he roared,

so suddenly that they jumped a foot in the air.

“YEH’RE NOT TO GO WANDERIN’ AROUND AFTER

DARK, HARRY! AN’ YOU TWO! LETTIN’ HIM!”

Hagrid strode over to Harry, grabbed his arm, and

pulled him to the door.

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“C’mon!” Hagrid said angrily. “I’m takin’ yer all back up ter school, an’ don’ let me catch yeh walkin’ down

ter see me after dark again. I’m not worth that!”

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THE BOGGART IN THE WARDROBE

Malfoy didn’t reappear in classes until late on

Thursday morning, when the Slytherins and

Gryffindors were halfway through double Potions. He

swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in

bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Harry’s

opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of

some dreadful battle.

“How is it, Draco?” simpered Pansy Parkinson. “Does

it hurt much?”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of

grimace. But Harry saw him wink at Crabbe and

Goyle when Pansy had looked away.

“Settle down, settle down,” said Professor Snape idly.

Harry and Ron scowled at each other; Snape wouldn’t

have said “settle down” if they’d walked in late, he’d

have given them detention. But Malfoy had always

been able to get away with anything in Snape’s

P a g e | 136 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

classes; Snape was head of Slytherin House, and

generally favored his own students above all others.

They were making a new potion today, a Shrinking

Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to

Harry and Ron, so that they were preparing their

ingredients on the same table.

“Sir,” Malfoy called, “sir, I’ll need help cutting up

these daisy roots, because of my arm —”

“Weasley, cut up Malfoy’s roots for him,” said Snape

without looking up.

Ron went brick red.

“There’s nothing wrong with your arm,” he hissed at

Malfoy.

Malfoy smirked across the table.

“Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these

roots.”

Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy’s roots toward

him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they

were all different sizes.

“Professor,” drawled Malfoy, “Weasley’s mutilating my

roots, sir.”

Snape approached their table, stared down his

hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an

unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black

hair.

“Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley.”

“But, sir — !”

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Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces.

“Now, ” said Snape in his most dangerous voice.

Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the

table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again.

“And, sir, I’ll need this shrivelfig skinned,” said

Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter.

“Potter, you can skin Malfoy’s shrivelfig,” said Snape,

giving Harry the look of loathing he always reserved

just for him.

Harry took Malfoy’s shrivelfig as Ron began trying to

repair the damage to the roots he now had to use.

Harry skinned the shrivelfig as fast as he could and

flung it back across the table at Malfoy without

speaking. Malfoy was smirking more broadly than

ever.

“Seen your pal Hagrid lately?” he asked them quietly.

“None of your business,” said Ron jerkily, without

looking up.

“I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,” said

Malfoy in a tone of mock sorrow. “Father’s not very

happy about my injury —”

“Keep talking, Malfoy, and I’ll give you a real injury,”

snarled Ron.

“— he’s complained to the school governors. And to

the Ministry of Magic. Father’s got a lot of influence,

you know. And a lasting injury like this” — he gave a

huge, fake sigh — “who knows if my arm’ll ever be the

same again?”

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“So that’s why you’re putting it on,” said Harry,

accidentally beheading a dead caterpillar because his

hand was shaking in anger. “To try to get Hagrid

fired.”

“Well,” said Malfoy, lowering his voice to a whisper,

“partly, Potter. But there are other benefits too.

Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me.”

A few cauldrons away, Neville was in trouble. Neville

regularly went to pieces in Potions lessons; it was his

worst subject, and his great fear of Professor Snape

made things ten times worse. His potion, which was

supposed to be a bright, acid green, had turned —

“Orange, Longbottom,” said Snape, ladling some up

and allowing it to splash back into the cauldron, so

that everyone could see. “Orange. Tell me, boy, does

anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn’t

you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat

spleen was needed? Didn’t I state plainly that a dash

of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to

make you understand, Longbottom?”

Neville was pink and trembling. He looked as though

he was on the verge of tears.

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, “please, I could help

Neville put it right —”

“I don’t remember asking you to show off, Miss

Granger,” said Snape coldly, and Hermione went as

pink as Neville. “Longbottom, at the end of this lesson

we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad

and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage

you to do it properly.”

Snape moved away, leaving Neville breathless with

fear.

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“Help me!” he moaned to Hermione.

“Hey, Harry,” said Seamus Finnigan, leaning over to

borrow Harry’s brass scales, “have you heard? Daily

Prophet this morning — they reckon Sirius Black’s

been sighted.”

“Where?” said Harry and Ron quickly. On the other

side of the table, Malfoy looked up, listening closely.

“Not too far from here,” said Seamus, who looked

excited. “It was a Muggle who saw him. ’Course, she

didn’t really understand. The Muggles think he’s just

an ordinary criminal, don’t they? So she phoned the

telephone hot line. By the time the Ministry of Magic

got there, he was gone.”

“Not too far from here … ,” Ron repeated, looking

significantly at Harry. He turned around and saw

Malfoy watching closely. “What, Malfoy? Need

something else skinned?”

But Malfoy’s eyes were shining malevolently, and they

were fixed on Harry. He leaned across the table.

“Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed,

Potter?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry offhandedly.

Malfoy’s thin mouth was curving in a mean smile.

“Of course, if it was me,” he said quietly, “I’d have

done something before now. I wouldn’t be staying in

school like a good boy, I’d be out there looking for

him.”

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” said Ron

roughly.

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“Don’t you know, Potter?” breathed Malfoy, his pale eyes narrowed.

“Know what?”

Malfoy let out a low, sneering laugh.

“Maybe you’d rather not risk your neck,” he said.

“Want to leave it to the dementors, do you? But if it

was me, I’d want revenge. I’d hunt him down myself.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry angrily, but

at that moment Snape called, “You should have

finished adding your ingredients by now; this potion

needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away

while it simmers and then we’ll test Longbottom’s. …”

Crabbe and Goyle laughed openly, watching Neville

sweat as he stirred his potion feverishly. Hermione

was muttering instructions to him out of the corner of

her mouth, so that Snape wouldn’t see. Harry and

Ron packed away their unused ingredients and went

to wash their hands and ladles in the stone basin in

the corner.

“What did Malfoy mean?” Harry muttered to Ron as

he stuck his hands under the icy jet that poured from

the gargoyle’s mouth. “Why would I want revenge on

Black? He hasn’t done anything to me — yet.”

“He’s making it up,” said Ron savagely. “He’s trying to

make you do something stupid. …”

The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to

Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron.

“Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes

glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s

toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking

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Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be

poisoned.”

The Gryffindors watched fearfully. The Slytherins

looked excited. Snape picked up Trevor the toad in

his left hand and dipped a small spoon into Neville’s

potion, which was now green. He trickled a few drops

down Trevor’s throat.

There was a moment of hushed silence, in which

Trevor gulped; then there was a small pop, and Trevor

the tadpole was wriggling in Snape’s palm.

The Gryffindors burst into applause. Snape, looking

sour, pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his

robe, poured a few drops on top of Trevor, and he

reappeared suddenly, fully grown.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, which

wiped the smiles from every face. “I told you not to

help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the steps to the

entrance hall. Harry was still thinking about what

Malfoy had said, while Ron was seething about

Snape.

“Five points from Gryffindor because the potion was

all right! Why didn’t you lie, Hermione? You should’ve

said Neville did it all by himself!”

Hermione didn’t answer. Ron looked around.

“Where is she?”

Harry turned too. They were at the top of the steps

now, watching the rest of the class pass them,

heading for the Great Hall and lunch.

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“She was right behind us,” said Ron, frowning.

Malfoy passed them, walking between Crabbe and

Goyle. He smirked at Harry and disappeared.

“There she is,” said Harry.

Hermione was panting slightly, hurrying up the

stairs; one hand clutched her bag, the other seemed

to be tucking something down the front of her robes.

“How did you do that?” said Ron.

“What?” said Hermione, joining them.

“One minute you were right behind us, the next

moment, you were back at the bottom of the stairs

again.”

“What?” Hermione looked slightly confused. “Oh — I

had to go back for something. Oh no —”

A seam had split on Hermione’s bag. Harry wasn’t

surprised; he could see that it was crammed with at

least a dozen large and heavy books.

“Why are you carrying all these around with you?”

Ron asked her.

“You know how many subjects I’m taking,” said

Hermione breathlessly. “Couldn’t hold these for me,

could you?”

“But —” Ron was turning over the books she had

handed him, looking at the covers. “You haven’t got

any of these subjects today. It’s only Defense Against

the Dark Arts this afternoon.”

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“Oh yes,” said Hermione vaguely, but she packed all the books back into her bag just the same. “I hope

there’s something good for lunch, I’m starving,” she

added, and she marched off toward the Great Hall.

“D’you get the feeling Hermione’s not telling us

something?” Ron asked Harry.

Professor Lupin wasn’t there when they arrived at his

first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. They all

sat down, took out their books, quills, and

parchment, and were talking when he finally entered

the room. Lupin smiled vaguely and placed his tatty

old briefcase on the teacher’s desk. He was as shabby

as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train,

as though he had had a few square meals.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Would you please put all

your books back in your bags. Today’s will be a

practical lesson. You will need only your wands.”

A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put

away their books. They had never had a practical

Defense Against the Dark Arts before, unless you

counted the memorable class last year when their old

teacher had brought a cageful of pixies to class and

set them loose.

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin, when everyone

was ready. “If you’d follow me.”

Puzzled but interested, the class got to its feet and

followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led

them along the deserted corridor and around a

corner, where the first thing they saw was Peeves the

Poltergeist, who was floating upside down in midair

and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum.

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Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two feet away; then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and

broke into song.

“Loony, loopy Lupin,” Peeves sang. “Loony, loopy

Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin —”

Rude and unmanageable as he almost always was,

Peeves usually showed some respect toward the

teachers. Everyone looked quickly at Professor Lupin

to see how he would take this; to their surprise, he

was still smiling.

“I’d take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you,

Peeves,” he said pleasantly. “Mr. Filch won’t be able to

get in to his brooms.”

Filch was the Hogwarts caretaker, a bad-tempered,

failed wizard who waged a constant war against the

students and, indeed, Peeves. However, Peeves paid

no attention to Professor Lupin’s words, except to

blow a loud wet raspberry.

Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his

wand.

“This is a useful little spell,” he told the class over his

shoulder. “Please watch closely.”

He raised the wand to shoulder height, said,

“Waddiwasi!” and pointed it at Peeves.

With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum

shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves’s left

nostril; he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing.

“Cool, sir!” said Dean Thomas in amazement.

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“Thank you, Dean,” said Professor Lupin, putting his wand away again. “Shall we proceed?”

They set off again, the class looking at shabby

Professor Lupin with increased respect. He led them

down a second corridor and stopped, right outside the

staffroom door.

“Inside, please,” said Professor Lupin, opening it and

standing back.

The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old,

mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher.

Professor Snape was sitting in a low armchair, and he

looked around as the class filed in. His eyes were

glittering and there was a nasty sneer playing around

his mouth. As Professor Lupin came in and made to

close the door behind him, Snape said, “Leave it open,

Lupin. I’d rather not witness this.”

He got to his feet and strode past the class, his black

robes billowing behind him. At the doorway he turned

on his heel and said, “Possibly no one’s warned you,

Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I

would advise you not to entrust him with anything

difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing

instructions in his ear.”

Neville went scarlet. Harry glared at Snape; it was bad

enough that he bullied Neville in his own classes, let

alone doing it in front of other teachers.

Professor Lupin had raised his eyebrows.

“I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the

first stage of the operation,” he said, “and I am sure

he will perform it admirably.”

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Neville’s face went, if possible, even redder. Snape’s lip curled, but he left, shutting the door with a snap.

“Now, then,” said Professor Lupin, beckoning the

class toward the end of the room, where there was

nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept

their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand

next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble,

banging off the wall.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Professor Lupin calmly

because a few people had jumped backward in alarm.

“There’s a boggart in there.”

Most people seemed to feel that this was something to

worry about. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of

pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now

rattling doorknob apprehensively.

“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” said Professor

Lupin. “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the

cupboards under sinks — I’ve even met one that had

lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in

yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if

the staff would leave it to give my third years some

practice.

“So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what

is a boggart?”

Hermione put up her hand.

“It’s a shape-shifter,” she said. “It can take the shape

of whatever it thinks will frighten us most.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Professor

Lupin, and Hermione glowed. “So the boggart sitting

in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form.

He does not yet know what will frighten the person on

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the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a

boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let

him out, he will immediately become whatever each of

us most fears.

“This means,” said Professor Lupin, choosing to

ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a

huge advantage over the boggart before we begin.

Have you spotted it, Harry?”

Trying to answer a question with Hermione next to

him, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet

with her hand in the air, was very off-putting, but

Harry had a go.

“Er — because there are so many of us, it won’t know

what shape it should be?”

“Precisely,” said Professor Lupin, and Hermione put

her hand down, looking a little disappointed. “It’s

always best to have company when you’re dealing

with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should

he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I

once saw a boggart make that very mistake — tried to

frighten two people at once and turned himself into

half a slug. Not remotely frightening.

“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it

requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really

finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is

force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.

“We will practice the charm without wands first. After

me, please … riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus!” said the class together.

“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Very good. But that

was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone

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is not enough. And this is where you come in,

Neville.”

The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as

Neville, who walked forward as though he were

heading for the gallows.

“Right, Neville,” said Professor Lupin. “First things

first: what would you say is the thing that frightens

you most in the world?”

Neville’s lips moved, but no noise came out.

“Didn’t catch that, Neville, sorry,” said Professor

Lupin cheerfully.

Neville looked around rather wildly, as though

begging someone to help him, then said, in barely

more than a whisper, “Professor Snape.”

Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned

apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked

thoughtful.

“Professor Snape … hmmm … Neville, I believe you

live with your grandmother?”

“Er — yes,” said Neville nervously. “But — I don’t

want the boggart to turn into her either.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” said Professor

Lupin, now smiling. “I wonder, could you tell us what

sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?”

Neville looked startled, but said, “Well … always the

same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top.

And a long dress … green, normally … and sometimes

a fox-fur scarf.”

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“And a handbag?” prompted Professor Lupin.

“A big red one,” said Neville.

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin. “Can you picture

those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them

in your mind’s eye?”

“Yes,” said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering

what was coming next.

“When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe,

Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of

Professor Snape,” said Lupin. “And you will raise your

wand — thus — and cry ‘ Riddikulus’ — and

concentrate hard on your grandmother’s clothes. If all

goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into

that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with

that big red handbag.”

There was a great shout of laughter. The wardrobe

wobbled more violently.

“If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift

his attention to each of us in turn,” said Professor

Lupin. “I would like all of you to take a moment now

to think of the thing that scares you most, and

imagine how you might force it to look comical. …”

The room went quiet. Harry thought … What scared

him most in the world?

His first thought was Lord Voldemort — a Voldemort

returned to full strength. But before he had even

started to plan a possible counterattack on a boggart-

Voldemort, a horrible image came floating to the

surface of his mind. …

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A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a black cloak … a long, rattling breath from an unseen

mouth … then a cold so penetrating it felt like

drowning. …

Harry shivered, then looked around, hoping no one

had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight.

Ron was muttering to himself, “Take its legs off.”

Harry was sure he knew what that was about. Ron’s

greatest fear was spiders.

“Everyone ready?” said Professor Lupin.

Harry felt a lurch of fear. He wasn’t ready. How could

you make a dementor less frightening? But he didn’t

want to ask for more time; everyone else was nodding

and rolling up their sleeves.

“Neville, we’re going to back away,” said Professor

Lupin. “Let you have a clear field, all right? I’ll call the

next person forward. … Everyone back, now, so

Neville can get a clear shot —”

They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving

Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and

frightened, but he had pushed up the sleeves of his

robes and was holding his wand ready.

“On the count of three, Neville,” said Professor Lupin,

who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the

wardrobe. “One — two — three — now!”

A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin’s

wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst

open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape

stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville.

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Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing

wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him,

reaching inside his robes.

“R — r — riddikulus!” squeaked Neville.

There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled;

he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a

towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and

he was swinging a huge crimson handbag.

There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused,

confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, “Parvati!

Forward!”

Parvati walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded

on her. There was another crack, and where he had

stood was a bloodstained, bandaged mummy; its

sightless face was turned to Parvati and it began to

walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, its stiff

arms rising —

“Riddikulus!” cried Parvati.

A bandage unraveled at the mummy’s feet; it became

entangled, fell face forward, and its head rolled off.

“Seamus!” roared Professor Lupin.

Seamus darted past Parvati.

Crack! Where the mummy had been was a woman

with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green-

tinged face — a banshee. She opened her mouth wide

and an unearthly sound filled the room, a long,

wailing shriek that made the hair on Harry’s head

stand on end —

“Riddikulus!” shouted Seamus.

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The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her

throat; her voice was gone.

Crack! The banshee turned into a rat, which chased

its tail in a circle, then — crack! — became a

rattlesnake, which slithered and writhed before —

crack! — becoming a single, bloody eyeball.

“It’s confused!” shouted Lupin. “We’re getting there!

Dean!”

Dean hurried forward.

Crack! The eyeball became a severed hand, which

flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a

crab.

“Riddikulus!” yelled Dean.

There was a snap, and the hand was trapped in a

mousetrap.

“Excellent! Ron, you next!”

Ron leapt forward.

Crack!

Quite a few people screamed. A giant spider, six feet

tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron,

clicking its pincers menacingly. For a moment, Harry

thought Ron had frozen. Then —

“Riddikulus!” bellowed Ron, and the spider’s legs

vanished; it rolled over and over; Lavender Brown

squealed and ran out of its way and it came to a halt

at Harry’s feet. He raised his wand, ready, but —

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“Here!” shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying forward.

Crack!

The legless spider had vanished. For a second,

everyone looked wildly around to see where it was.

Then they saw a silvery-white orb hanging in the air

in front of Lupin, who said, “Riddikulus!” almost

lazily.

Crack!

“Forward, Neville, and finish him off!” said Lupin as

the boggart landed on the floor as a cockroach. Crack!

Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward

looking determined.

“Riddikulus!” he shouted, and they had a split

second’s view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville

let out a great “Ha!” of laughter, and the boggart

exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke,

and was gone.

“Excellent!” cried Professor Lupin as the class broke

into applause. “Excellent, Neville. Well done,

everyone. … Let me see … five points to Gryffindor for

every person to tackle the boggart — ten for Neville

because he did it twice … and five each to Hermione

and Harry.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” said Harry.

“You and Hermione answered my questions correctly

at the start of the class, Harry,” Lupin said lightly.

“Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework,

kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it

for me … to be handed in on Monday. That will be

all.”

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Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. Harry, however, wasn’t feeling cheerful. Professor Lupin had

deliberately stopped him from tackling the boggart.

Why? Was it because he’d seen Harry collapse on the

train, and thought he wasn’t up to much? Had he

thought Harry would pass out again?

But no one else seemed to have noticed anything.

“Did you see me take that banshee?” shouted

Seamus.

“And the hand!” said Dean, waving his own around.

“And Snape in that hat!”

“And my mummy!”

“I wonder why Professor Lupin’s frightened of crystal

balls?” said Lavender thoughtfully.

“That was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts

lesson we’ve ever had, wasn’t it?” said Ron excitedly

as they made their way back to the classroom to get

their bags.

“He seems like a very good teacher,” said Hermione

approvingly. “But I wish I could have had a turn with

the boggart —”

“What would it have been for you?” said Ron,

sniggering. “A piece of homework that only got nine

out of ten?”

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FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had

become most people’s favorite class. Only Draco

Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had anything bad to

say about Professor Lupin.

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a

loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses

like our old house-elf.”

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes

were patched and frayed. His next few lessons were

just as interesting as the first. After boggarts, they

studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures

that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in

the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted

battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten

lost. From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy

water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with

webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in

their ponds.

Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his

other classes. Worst of all was Potions. Snape was in

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a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one was in any doubt why. The story of the boggart

assuming Snape’s shape, and the way that Neville

had dressed it in his grandmother’s clothes, had

traveled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn’t

seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at

the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he

was bullying Neville worse than ever.

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent

in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room,

deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to

ignore the way Professor Trelawney’s enormous eyes

filled with tears every time she looked at him. He

couldn’t like Professor Trelawney, even though she

was treated with respect bordering on reverence by

many of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown

had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney’s tower

room at lunchtimes, and always returned with

annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though

they knew things the others didn’t. They had also

started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to

Harry, as though he were on his deathbed.

Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which,

after the action-packed first class, had become

extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to have lost his

confidence. They were now spending lesson after

lesson learning how to look after flobberworms, which

had to be some of the most boring creatures in

existence.

“Why would anyone bother looking after them?” said

Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded

lettuce down the flobberworms’ slimy throats.

At the start of October, however, Harry had

something else to occupy him, something so enjoyable

it more than made up for his unsatisfactory classes.

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The Quidditch season was approaching, and Oliver

Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor team, called a

meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics for

the new season.

There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three

Chasers, whose job it was to score goals by putting

the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) through one of

the fifty-foot-high hoops at each end of the field; two

Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to repel

the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed

around trying to attack the players); a Keeper, who

defended the goal posts, and the Seeker, who had the

hardest job of all, that of catching the Golden Snitch,

a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture

ended the game and earned the Seeker’s team an

extra one hundred and fifty points.

Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in

his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a

quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed

his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms

on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field.

“This is our last chance — my last chance — to win

the Quidditch Cup,” he told them, striding up and

down in front of them. “I’ll be leaving at the end of

this year. I’ll never get another shot at it.

“Gryffindor hasn’t won for seven years now. Okay, so

we’ve had the worst luck in the world — injuries —

then the tournament getting called off last year. …”

Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought

a lump to his throat. “But we also know we’ve got the

best — ruddy — team — in — the — school, ” he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic

glint back in his eye.

“We’ve got three superb Chasers.”

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Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson,

and Katie Bell.

“We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.”

“Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” said Fred

and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.

“And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win

us a match!” Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a

kind of furious pride. “And me,” he added as an

afterthought.

“We think you’re very good too, Oliver,” said George.

“Spanking good Keeper,” said Fred.

“The point is,” Wood went on, resuming his pacing,

“the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it

these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the

team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we

haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get

to finally see our name on the thing. …”

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George

looked sympathetic.

“Oliver, this year’s our year,” said Fred.

“We’ll do it, Oliver!” said Angelina.

“Definitely,” said Harry.

Full of determination, the team started training

sessions, three evenings a week. The weather was

getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no

amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry’s

wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver

Quidditch Cup.

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Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one

evening after training, cold and stiff but pleased with

the way practice had gone, to find the room buzzing

excitedly.

“What’s happened?” he asked Ron and Hermione,

who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the

fireside and completing some star charts for

Astronomy.

“First Hogsmeade weekend,” said Ron, pointing at a

notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin

board. “End of October. Halloween.”

“Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Harry

through the portrait hole. “I need to visit Zonko’s. I’m

nearly out of Stink Pellets.”

Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high

spirits ebbing away. Hermione seemed to read his

mind.

“Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she

said. “They’re bound to catch Black soon. He’s been

sighted once already”

“Black’s not fool enough to try anything in

Hogsmeade,” said Ron. “Ask McGonagall if you can go

this time, Harry. The next one might not be for ages

—”

“Ron!” said Hermione. “Harry’s supposed to stay in

school —”

“He can’t be the only third year left behind,” said Ron.

“Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry —”

“Yeah, I think I will,” said Harry, making up his mind.

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Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that

moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap. A

large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.

“Does he have to eat that in front of us?” said Ron,

scowling.

“Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by

yourself?” said Hermione.

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow

eyes fixed insolently on Ron.

“Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron

irritably, turning back to his star chart. “I’ve got

Scabbers asleep in my bag.”

Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he

still had his own star chart to complete. He pulled his

bag toward him, took out parchment, ink, and quill,

and started work.

“You can copy mine, if you like,” said Ron, labeling

his last star with a flourish and shoving the chart

toward Harry.

Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her

lips but didn’t say anything. Crookshanks was still

staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his

bushy tail. Then, without warning, he pounced.

“OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks

sank four sets of claws deep inside it and began

tearing ferociously. “GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!”

Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but

Crookshanks clung on, spitting and slashing.

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“Ron, don’t hurt him!” squealed Hermione; the whole common room was watching; Ron whirled the bag

around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, and Scabbers

came flying out of the top —

“CATCH THAT CAT!” Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed

himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the

table, and chased after the terrified Scabbers.

George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but

missed; Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of

legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers.

Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his

bandy legs, and started making furious swipes

beneath it with his front paw.

Ron and Hermione hurried over; Hermione grabbed

Crookshanks around the middle and heaved him

away; Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with

great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail.

“Look at him!” he said furiously to Hermione,

dangling Scabbers in front of her. “He’s skin and

bone! You keep that cat away from him!”

“Crookshanks doesn’t understand it’s wrong!” said

Hermione, her voice shaking. “All cats chase rats,

Ron!”

“There’s something funny about that animal!” said

Ron, who was trying to persuade a frantically wiggling

Scabbers back into his pocket. “It heard me say that

Scabbers was in my bag!”

“Oh, what rubbish,” said Hermione impatiently.

“Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d’you

think —”

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“That cat’s got it in for Scabbers!” said Ron, ignoring the people around him, who were starting to giggle.

“And Scabbers was here first, and he’s ill!”

Ron marched through the common room and out of

sight up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

Ron was still in a bad mood with Hermione next day.

He barely talked to her all through Herbology, even

though he, Harry, and Hermione were working

together on the same puffapod.

“How’s Scabbers?” Hermione asked timidly as they

stripped fat pink pods from the plants and emptied

the shining beans into a wooden pail.

“He’s hiding at the bottom of my bed, shaking,” said

Ron angrily, missing the pail and scattering beans

over the greenhouse floor.

“Careful, Weasley, careful!” cried Professor Sprout as

the beans burst into bloom before their very eyes.

They had Transfiguration next. Harry, who had

resolved to ask Professor McGonagall after the lesson

whether he could go into Hogsmeade with the rest,

joined the line outside the class trying to decide how

he was going to argue his case. He was distracted,

however, by a disturbance at the front of the line.

Lavender Brown seemed to be crying. Parvati had her

arm around her and was explaining something to

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were

looking very serious.

“What’s the matter, Lavender?” said Hermione

anxiously as she, Harry, and Ron went to join the

group.

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“She got a letter from home this morning,” Parvati whispered. “It’s her rabbit, Binky. He’s been killed by

a fox.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, “I’m sorry, Lavender.”

“I should have known!” said Lavender tragically. “You

know what day it is?”

“Er —”

“The sixteenth of October! ‘That thing you’re dreading,

it will happen on the sixteenth of October!’

Remember? She was right, she was right!”

The whole class was gathered around Lavender now.

Seamus shook his head seriously. Hermione

hesitated; then she said, “You — you were dreading

Binky being killed by a fox?”

“Well, not necessarily by a fox, ” said Lavender,

looking up at Hermione with streaming eyes, “but I

was obviously dreading him dying, wasn’t I?”

“Oh,” said Hermione. She paused again. Then —

“Was Binky an old rabbit?”

“N — no!” sobbed Lavender. “H — he was only a

baby!”

Parvati tightened her arm around Lavender’s

shoulders.

“But then, why would you dread him dying?” said

Hermione.

Parvati glared at her.

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“Well, look at it logically,” said Hermione, turning to the rest of the group. “I mean, Binky didn’t even die

today, did he? Lavender just got the news today —”

Lavender wailed loudly. “— and she can’t have been

dreading it, because it’s come as a real shock —”

“Don’t mind Hermione, Lavender,” said Ron loudly,

“she doesn’t think other people’s pets matter very

much.”

Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door at

that moment, which was perhaps lucky; Hermione

and Ron were looking daggers at each other, and

when they got into class, they seated themselves on

either side of Harry and didn’t talk to each other for

the whole class.

Harry still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to

Professor McGonagall when the bell rang at the end of

the lesson, but it was she who brought up the subject

of Hogsmeade first.

“One moment, please!” she called as the class made

to leave. “As you’re all in my House, you should hand

Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween.

No form, no visiting the village, so don’t forget!”

Neville put up his hand.

“Please, Professor, I — I think I’ve lost —”

“Your grandmother sent yours to me directly,

Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “She

seemed to think it was safer. Well, that’s all, you may

leave.”

“Ask her now,” Ron hissed at Harry.

“Oh, but —” Hermione began.

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“Go for it, Harry,” said Ron stubbornly.

Harry waited for the rest of the class to disappear,

then headed nervously for Professor McGonagall’s

desk.

“Yes, Potter?”

Harry took a deep breath.

“Professor, my aunt and uncle — er — forgot to sign

my form,” he said.

Professor McGonagall looked over her square

spectacles at him but didn’t say anything.

“So — er — d’you think it would be all right — I

mean, will it be okay if I — if I go to Hogsmeade?”

Professor McGonagall looked down and began

shuffling papers on her desk.

“I’m afraid not, Potter,” she said. “You heard what I

said. No form, no visiting the village. That’s the rule.”

“But — Professor, my aunt and uncle — you know,

they’re Muggles, they don’t really understand about

— about Hogwarts forms and stuff,” Harry said, while

Ron egged him on with vigorous nods. “If you said I

could go —”

“But I don’t say so,” said Professor McGonagall,

standing up and piling her papers neatly into a

drawer. “The form clearly states that the parent or

guardian must give permission.” She turned to look at

him, with an odd expression on her face. Was it pity?

“I’m sorry, Potter, but that’s my final word. You had

better hurry, or you’ll be late for your next lesson.”

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There was nothing to be done. Ron called Professor McGonagall a lot of names that greatly annoyed

Hermione; Hermione assumed an “all-for-the-best”

expression that made Ron even angrier, and Harry

had to endure everyone in the class talking loudly

and happily about what they were going to do first,

once they got into Hogsmeade.

“There’s always the feast,” said Ron, in an effort to

cheer Harry up. “You know, the Halloween feast, in

the evening.”

“Yeah,” said Harry gloomily, “great.”

The Halloween feast was always good, but it would

taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in

Hogsmeade with everyone else. Nothing anyone said

made him feel any better about being left behind.

Dean Thomas, who was good with a quill, had offered

to forge Uncle Vernon’s signature on the form, but as

Harry had already told Professor McGonagall he

hadn’t had it signed, that was no good. Ron

halfheartedly suggested the Invisibility Cloak, but

Hermione stamped on that one, reminding Ron what

Dumbledore had told them about the dementors

being able to see through them. Percy had what were

possibly the least helpful words of comfort.

“They make a fuss about Hogsmeade, but I assure

you, Harry, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said

seriously. “All right, the sweetshop’s rather good, and

Zonko’s Joke Shop’s frankly dangerous, and yes, the

Shrieking Shack’s always worth a visit, but really,

Harry, apart from that, you’re not missing anything.”

On Halloween morning, Harry awoke with the rest

and went down to breakfast, feeling thoroughly

depressed, though doing his best to act normally.

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“We’ll bring you lots of sweets back from

Honeydukes,” said Hermione, looking desperately

sorry for him.

“Yeah, loads,” said Ron. He and Hermione had finally

forgotten their squabble about Crookshanks in the

face of Harry’s difficulties.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Harry, in what he hoped

was an offhand voice, “I’ll see you at the feast. Have a

good time.”

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where

Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front

doors, checking off names against a long list, peering

suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no

one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, who was

standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. “Scared of

passing the dementors?”

Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the

marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and

back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Password?” said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze.

“Fortuna Major,” said Harry listlessly.

The portrait swung open and he climbed through the

hole into the common room. It was full of chattering

first and second years, and a few older students, who

had obviously visited Hogsmeade so often the novelty

had worn off.

“Harry! Harry! Hi, Harry!”

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It was Colin Creevey, a second year who was deeply in awe of Harry and never missed an opportunity to

speak to him.

“Aren’t you going to Hogsmeade, Harry? Why not?

Hey” — Colin looked eagerly around at his friends —

“you can come and sit with us, if you like, Harry!”

“Er — no, thanks, Colin,” said Harry, who wasn’t in

the mood to have a lot of people staring avidly at the

scar on his forehead. “I — I’ve got to go to the library,

got to get some work done.”

After that, he had no choice but to turn right around

and head back out of the portrait hole again.

“What was the point waking me up?” the Fat Lady

called grumpily after him as he walked away.

Harry wandered dispiritedly toward the library, but

halfway there he changed his mind; he didn’t feel like

working. He turned around and came face-to-face

with Filch, who had obviously just seen off the last of

the Hogsmeade visitors.

“What are you doing?” Filch snarled suspiciously.

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully.

“Nothing!” spat Filch, his jowls quivering

unpleasantly. “A likely story! Sneaking around on

your own — why aren’t you in Hogsmeade buying

Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms

like the rest of your nasty little friends?”

Harry shrugged.

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“Well, get back to your common room where you

belong!” snapped Filch, and he stood glaring until

Harry had passed out of sight.

But Harry didn’t go back to the common room; he

climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the

Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another

corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms

said, “Harry?”

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met

Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

“What are you doing?” said Lupin, though in a very

different voice from Filch. “Where are Ron and

Hermione?”

“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

“Ah,” said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment.

“Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a

grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” said Harry.

He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a

very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with

sharp little horns had its face pressed against the

glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly

fingers.

“Water demon,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow

thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with

him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his

grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong,

but very brittle.”

The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried

itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

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“Cup of tea?” Lupin said, looking around for his

kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.”

“All right,” said Harry awkwardly.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of

steam issued suddenly from the spout.

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin.

“I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay

you’ve had enough of tea leaves?”

Harry looked at him. Lupin’s eyes were twinkling.

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked.

“Professor McGonagall told me,” said Lupin, passing

Harry a chipped mug of tea. “You’re not worried, are

you?”

“No,” said Harry.

He thought for a moment of telling Lupin about the

dog he’d seen in Magnolia Crescent but decided not

to. He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward,

especially since Lupin already seemed to think he

couldn’t cope with a boggart.

Something of Harry’s thoughts seemed to have shown

on his face, because Lupin said, “Anything worrying

you, Harry?”

“No,” Harry lied. He drank a bit of tea and watched

the grindylow brandishing a fist at him. “Yes,” he said

suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin’s desk. “You

know that day we fought the boggart?

“Yes,” said Lupin slowly.

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“Why didn’t you let me fight it?” said Harry abruptly.

Lupin raised his eyebrows.

“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he

said, sounding surprised.

Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he’d

done any such thing, was taken aback.

“Why?” he said again.

“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that

if the boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of

Lord Voldemort.”

Harry stared. Not only was this the last answer he’d

expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort’s name. The

only person Harry had ever heard say the name aloud

(apart from himself) was Professor Dumbledore.

“Clearly, I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning at

Harry. “But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord

Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined

that people would panic.”

“I didn’t think of Voldemort,” said Harry honestly. “I

— I remembered those dementors.”

“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Well, well … I’m

impressed.” He smiled slightly at the look of surprise

on Harry’s face. “That suggests that what you fear

most of all is — fear. Very wise, Harry.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank

some more tea.

“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you

capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.

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“Well … yeah,” said Harry. He was suddenly feeling a lot happier. “Professor Lupin, you know the

dementors —”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” called Lupin.

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was

carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and

stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes

narrowing.

“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling. “Thanks very

much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes

wandering between Harry and Lupin.

“I was just showing Harry my grindylow,” said Lupin

pleasantly, pointing at the tank.

“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it. “You

should drink that directly, Lupin.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.

“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If

you need more.”

“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks

very much, Severus.”

“Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his

eye Harry didn’t like. He backed out of the room,

unsmiling and watchful.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled.

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“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He

picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes

it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

“Why — ?” Harry began. Lupin looked at him and

answered the unfinished question.

“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said. “This potion

is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be

working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many

wizards who are up to making it.”

Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a

crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands.

“Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,”

he blurted out.

“Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as

he took another gulp of potion.

“Some people reckon —” Harry hesitated, then

plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do

anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts

job.”

Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.

“Disgusting,” he said. “Well, Harry, I’d better get back

to work. I’ll see you at the feast later.”

“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup.

The empty goblet was still smoking.

“There you go,” said Ron. “We got as much as we

could carry.”

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A shower of brilliantly colored sweets fell into Harry’s lap. It was dusk, and Ron and Hermione had just

turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the

cold wind and looking as though they’d had the time

of their lives.

“Thanks,” said Harry, picking up a packet of tiny

black Pepper Imps. “What’s Hogsmeade like? Where

did you go?”

By the sound of it — everywhere. Dervish and

Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke

Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of

hot butterbeer, and many places besides.

“The post office, Harry! About two hundred owls, all

sitting on shelves, all color-coded depending on how

fast you want your letter to get there!”

“Honeydukes has got a new kind of fudge; they were

giving out free samples, there’s a bit, look —”

“We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts

at the Three Broomsticks —”

“Wish we could have brought you some butterbeer,

really warms you up —”

“What did you do?” said Hermione, looking anxious.

“Did you get any work done?”

“No,” said Harry. “Lupin made me a cup of tea in his

office. And then Snape came in. …”

He told them all about the goblet. Ron’s mouth fell

open.

“Lupin drank it?” he gasped. “Is he mad?”

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Hermione checked her watch.

“We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be

starting in five minutes. …” They hurried through the

portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing

Snape.

“But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her

voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying

to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in

front of Harry.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry as they reached the

entrance hall and crossed into the Great Hall. It had

been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of

candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats,

and many flaming orange streamers, which were

swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant

watersnakes.

The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who

were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets,

managed second helpings of everything. Harry kept

glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked

cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking

animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the

Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the

table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining

it, or were Snape’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more

often than was natural?

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by

the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls

and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly

Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great

success with a reenactment of his own botched

beheading.

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It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who

shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall,

“The dementors send their love, Potter!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the

Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower,

but when they reached the corridor that ended with

the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed

with students.

“Why isn’t anyone going in?” said Ron curiously.

Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The

portrait seemed to be closed.

“Let me through, please,” came Percy’s voice, and he

came bustling importantly through the crowd.

“What’s the holdup here? You can’t all have forgotten

the password — excuse me, I’m Head Boy —”

And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front

first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the

corridor. They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp

voice, “Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.”

People’s heads turned; those at the back were

standing on tiptoe.

“What’s going on?” said Ginny, who had just arrived.

A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there,

sweeping toward the portrait; the Gryffindors

squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron,

and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble

was.

“Oh, my —” Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm.

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The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas

littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn

away completely.

Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined

painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see

Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying

toward him.

“We need to find her,” said Dumbledore. “Professor

McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell

him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat

Lady.”

“You’ll be lucky!” said a cackling voice.

It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd

and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight

of wreckage or worry.

“What do you mean, Peeves?” said Dumbledore

calmly, and Peeves’s grin faded a little. He didn’t dare

taunt Dumbledore. Instead he adopted an oily voice

that was no better than his cackle.

“Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn’t want to be

seen. She’s a horrible mess. Saw her running through

the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging

between the trees. Crying something dreadful,” he

said happily. “Poor thing,” he added unconvincingly.

“Did she say who did it?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Oh yes, Professorhead,” said Peeves, with the air of

one cradling a large bombshell in his arms. “He got

very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see.”

Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from

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between his own legs. “Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black.”

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GRIM DEFEAT

Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to

the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes

later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and

Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough

search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them

as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all

doors into the hall. “I’m afraid that, for your own

safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want

the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the

hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in

charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me

immediately,” he added to Percy, who was looking

immensely proud and important. “Send word with one

of the ghosts.”

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall,

and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing …”

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew

to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against

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the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the

door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the

Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what

had just happened.

“Everyone into their sleeping bags!” shouted Percy.

“Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten

minutes!”

“C’mon,” Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized

three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.

“Do you think Black’s still in the castle?” Hermione

whispered anxiously.

“Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,” said Ron.

“It’s very lucky he picked tonight, you know,” said

Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their

sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows

to talk. “The one night we weren’t in the tower. …”

“I reckon he’s lost track of time, being on the run,”

said Ron. “Didn’t realize it was Halloween. Otherwise

he’d have come bursting in here.”

Hermione shuddered.

All around them, people were asking one another the

same question: “How did he get in?”

“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw

a few feet away. “Just appear out of thin air, you

know.”

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“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

“He could’ve flown in,” suggested Dean Thomas.

“Honestly, am I the only person who’s ever bothered

to read Hogwarts, A History?” said Hermione crossly

to Harry and Ron.

“Probably,” said Ron. “Why?”

“Because the castle’s protected by more than walls,

you know,” said Hermione. “There are all sorts of

enchantments on it, to stop people entering by

stealth. You can’t just Apparate in here. And I’d like

to see the disguise that could fool those dementors.

They’re guarding every single entrance to the

grounds. They’d have seen him fly in too. And Filch

knows all the secret passages, they’ll have them

covered. …”

“The lights are going out now!” Percy shouted. “I want

everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!”

The candles all went out at once. The only light now

came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about

talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted

ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered

with stars. What with that, and the whispering that

still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were

sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall

to check that everything was quiet. Around three in

the morning, when many students had finally fallen

asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched

him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling

between the sleeping bags, telling people off for

talking. Percy was only a short way away from Harry,

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Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be

asleep as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer.

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a

whisper.

“No. All well here?”

“Everything under control, sir.”

“Good. There’s no point moving them all now. I’ve

found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor

portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in

tomorrow.”

“And the Fat Lady, sir?”

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor.

Apparently she refused to let Black in without the

password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed,

but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch

restore her.”

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again,

and more footsteps.

“Headmaster?” It was Snape. Harry kept quite still,

listening hard. “The whole of the third floor has been

searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the

dungeons; nothing there either.”

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor

Trelawney’s room? The Owlery?”

“All searched …”

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to

linger.”

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“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?”

asked Snape.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free

his other ear.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the

next.”

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to

where they stood; Dumbledore’s back was to him, but

he could see Percy’s face, rapt with attention, and

Snape’s profile, which looked angry.

“You remember the conversation we had,

Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?”

said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as

though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.

“I do, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and there was

something like warning in his voice.

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could

have entered the school without inside help. I did

express my concerns when you appointed —”

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle

would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore,

and his tone made it so clear that the subject was

closed that Snape didn’t reply. “I must go down to the

dementors,” said Dumbledore. “I said I would inform

them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Percy.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no

dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I

am headmaster.”

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Percy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a

moment, watching the headmaster with an expression

of deep resentment on his face; then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of

them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry

ceiling.

“What was all that about?” Ron mouthed.

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the

next few days. The theories about how he had entered

the castle became wilder and wilder; Hannah Abbott,

from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology

class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could

turn into a flowering shrub.

The Fat Lady’s ripped canvas had been taken off the

wall and replaced with the portrait of Sir Cadogan

and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about

this. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging

people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously

complicated passwords, which he changed at least

twice a day.

“He’s a complete lunatic,” said Seamus Finnigan

angrily to Percy. “Can’t we get anyone else?”

“None of the other pictures wanted the job,” said

Percy. “Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady.

Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to

volunteer.”

Sir Cadogan, however, was the least of Harry’s

worries. He was now being closely watched. Teachers

found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and

Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspected, on his

mother’s orders) was tailing him everywhere like an

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extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with

such a somber expression on her face Harry thought

someone must have died.

“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer,

Potter,” she said in a very serious voice. “I know this

will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black —”

“I know he’s after me,” said Harry wearily. “I heard

Ron’s dad telling his mum. Mr. Weasley works for the

Ministry of Magic.”

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She

stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, “I see!

Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I

don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing

Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only

your team members, it’s very exposed, Potter —”

“We’ve got our first match on Saturday!” said Harry,

outraged. “I’ve got to train, Professor!”

Professor McGonagall considered him intently. Harry

knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor

team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d

suggested him as Seeker in the first place. He waited,

holding his breath.

“Hmm …” Professor McGonagall stood up and stared

out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible

through the rain. “Well … goodness knows, I’d like to

see us win the Cup at last … but all the same, Potter

… I’d be happier if a teacher were present. I’ll ask

Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions.”

The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch

match drew nearer. Undaunted, the Gryffindor team

was training harder than ever under the eye of

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Madam Hooch. Then, at their final training session before Saturday’s match, Oliver Wood gave his team

some unwelcome news.

“We’re not playing Slytherin!” he told them, looking

very angry. “Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing

Hufflepuff instead.”

“Why?” chorused the rest of the team.

“Flint’s excuse is that their Seeker’s arm’s still

injured,” said Wood, grinding his teeth furiously. “But

it’s obvious why they’re doing it. Don’t want to play in

this weather. Think it’ll damage their chances. …”

There had been strong winds and heavy rain all day,

and as Wood spoke, they heard a distant rumble of

thunder.

“There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy’s arm!” said Harry

furiously. “He’s faking it!”

“I know that, but we can’t prove it,” said Wood

bitterly. “And we’ve been practicing all those moves

assuming we’re playing Slytherin, and instead it’s

Hufflepuff, and their style’s quite different. They’ve got

a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory —”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled.

“What?” said Wood, frowning at this lighthearted

behavior.

“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” said

Angelina.

“Strong and silent,” said Katie, and they started to

giggle again.

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“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two words together,” said Fred impatiently. “I don’t know

why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover.

Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in

about five minutes, remember?”

“We were playing in completely different conditions!”

Wood shouted, his eyes bulging slightly. “Diggory’s

put a very strong side together! He’s an excellent

Seeker! I was afraid you’d take it like this! We mustn’t

relax! We must keep our focus! Slytherin is trying to

wrong-foot us! We must win!”

“Oliver, calm down!” said Fred, looking slightly

alarmed. “We’re taking Hufflepuff very seriously.

Seriously. ”

The day before the match, the winds reached howling

point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so

dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra

torches and lanterns were lit. The Slytherin team was

looking very smug indeed, and none more so than

Malfoy.

“Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!” he sighed

as the gale outside pounded the windows.

Harry had no room in his head to worry about

anything except the match tomorrow. Oliver Wood

kept hurrying up to him between classes and giving

him tips. The third time this happened, Wood talked

for so long that Harry suddenly realized he was ten

minutes late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and

set off at a run with Wood shouting after him,

“Diggory’s got a very fast swerve, Harry, so you might

want to try looping him —”

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Harry skidded to a halt outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, pulled the door open, and

dashed inside.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor Lupin, I —”

But it wasn’t Professor Lupin who looked up at him

from the teacher’s desk; it was Snape.

“This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think

we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down.”

But Harry didn’t move.

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” he said.

“He says he is feeling too ill to teach today,” said

Snape with a twisted smile. “I believe I told you to sit

down?”

But Harry stayed where he was.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Snape’s black eyes glittered.

“Nothing life-threatening,” he said, looking as though

he wished it were. “Five more points from Gryffindor,

and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be

fifty.”

Harry walked slowly to his seat and sat down. Snape

looked around at the class.

“As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor

Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have

covered so far —”

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“Please, sir, we’ve done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows,” said Hermione quickly, “and we’re

just about to start —”

“Be quiet,” said Snape coldly. “I did not ask for

information. I was merely commenting on Professor

Lupin’s lack of organization.”

“He’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher

we’ve ever had,” said Dean Thomas boldly, and there

was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the

class. Snape looked more menacing than ever.

“You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing

you — I would expect first years to be able to deal

with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall

discuss —”

Harry watched him flick through the textbook, to the

very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t

covered.

“— werewolves,” said Snape.

“But, sir,” said Hermione, seemingly unable to

restrain herself, “we’re not supposed to do werewolves

yet, we’re due to start hinkypunks —”

“Miss Granger,” said Snape in a voice of deadly calm,

“I was under the impression that I am teaching this

lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to

page 394.” He glanced around again. “All of you!

Now!”

With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen

muttering, the class opened their books.

“Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between

the werewolf and the true wolf?” said Snape.

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Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, had shot

straight into the air.

“Anyone?” Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted

smile was back. “Are you telling me that Professor

Lupin hasn’t even taught you the basic distinction

between —”

“We told you,” said Parvati suddenly, “we haven’t got

as far as werewolves yet, we’re still on —”

“Silence!” snarled Snape. “Well, well, well, I never

thought I’d meet a third-year class who wouldn’t even

recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make

a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very

behind you all are. …”

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, whose hand was still in

the air, “the werewolf differs from the true wolf in

several small ways. The snout of the werewolf —”

“That is the second time you have spoken out of turn,

Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points

from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”

Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and

stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears. It was a

mark of how much the class loathed Snape that they

were all glaring at him, because every one of them

had called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and

Ron, who told Hermione she was a know-it-all at least

twice a week, said loudly, “You asked us a question

and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want

to be told?”

The class knew instantly he’d gone too far. Snape

advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its

breath.

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“Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very close to Ron’s. “And if I ever hear you criticize the way

I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.”

No one made a sound throughout the rest of the

lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from

the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the

rows of desks, examining the work they had been

doing with Professor Lupin.

“Very poorly explained … That is incorrect, the kappa

is more commonly found in Mongolia. … Professor

Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn’t have given

it three. …”

When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.

“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me,

on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want

two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want

them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took

this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to

arrange your detention.”

Harry and Hermione left the room with the rest of the

class, who waited until they were well out of earshot,

then burst into a furious tirade about Snape.

“Snape’s never been like this with any of our other

Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did

want the job,” Harry said to Hermione. “Why’s he got

it in for Lupin? D’you think this is all because of the

boggart?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione pensively. “But I really

hope Professor Lupin gets better soon. …”

Ron caught up with them five minutes later, in a

towering rage.

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“D’you know what that —” (he called Snape

something that made Hermione say “Ron!”) “— is

making me do? I’ve got to scrub out the bedpans in

the hospital wing. Without magic!” He was breathing

deeply, his fists clenched. “Why couldn’t Black have

hidden in Snape’s office, eh? He could have finished

him off for us!”

Harry woke extremely early the next morning; so early

that it was still dark. For a moment he thought the

roaring of the wind had woken him. Then he felt a

cold breeze on the back of his neck and sat bolt

upright — Peeves the Poltergeist had been floating

next to him, blowing hard in his ear.

“What did you do that for?” said Harry furiously.

Peeves puffed out his cheeks, blew hard, and zoomed

backward out of the room, cackling.

Harry fumbled for his alarm clock and looked at it. It

was half past four. Cursing Peeves, he rolled over and

tried to get back to sleep, but it was very difficult, now

that he was awake, to ignore the sounds of the

thunder rumbling overhead, the pounding of the wind

against the castle walls, and the distant creaking of

the trees in the Forbidden Forest. In a few hours he

would be out on the Quidditch field, battling through

that gale. Finally, he gave up any thought of more

sleep, got up, dressed, picked up his Nimbus Two

Thousand, and walked quietly out of the dormitory.

As Harry opened the door, something brushed against

his leg. He bent down just in time to grab

Crookshanks by the end of his bushy tail and drag

him outside.

“You know, I reckon Ron was right about you,” Harry

told Crookshanks suspiciously. “There are plenty of

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mice around this place — go and chase them. Go on,”

he added, nudging Crookshanks down the spiral

staircase with his foot. “Leave Scabbers alone.”

The noise of the storm was even louder in the

common room. Harry knew better than to think the

match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren’t

called off for trifles like thunderstorms. Nevertheless,

he was starting to feel very apprehensive. Wood had

pointed out Cedric Diggory to him in the corridor;

Diggory was a fifth year and a lot bigger than Harry.

Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory’s

weight would be an advantage in this weather

because he was less likely to be blown off course.

Harry whiled away the hours until dawn in front of

the fire, getting up every now and then to stop

Crookshanks from sneaking up the boys’ staircase

again. At long last Harry thought it must be time for

breakfast, so he headed through the portrait hole

alone.

“Stand and fight, you mangy cur!” yelled Sir Cadogan.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry yawned.

He revived a bit over a large bowl of porridge, and by

the time he’d started on toast, the rest of the team

had turned up.

“It’s going to be a tough one,” said Wood, who wasn’t

eating anything.

“Stop worrying, Oliver,” said Alicia soothingly, “we

don’t mind a bit of rain.”

But it was considerably more than a bit of rain. Such

was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school

turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran

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down the lawns toward the Quidditch field, heads

bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being

whipped out of their hands as they went. Just before

he entered the locker room, Harry saw Malfoy,

Crabbe, and Goyle, laughing and pointing at him from

under an enormous umbrella on their way to the

stadium.

The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited

for Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk, but it didn’t

come. He tried to speak several times, made an odd

gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and

beckoned them to follow him.

The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways

as they walked out onto the field. If the crowd was

cheering, they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of

thunder. Rain was splattering over Harry’s glasses.

How on earth was he going to see the Snitch in this?

The Hufflepuffs were approaching from the opposite

side of the field, wearing canary-yellow robes. The

Captains walked up to each other and shook hands;

Diggory smiled at Wood but Wood now looked as

though he had lockjaw and merely nodded. Harry saw

Madam Hooch’s mouth form the words, “Mount your

brooms.” He pulled his right foot out of the mud with

a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two

Thousand. Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips

and gave it a blast that sounded shrill and distant —

they were off.

Harry rose fast, but his Nimbus was swerving slightly

with the wind. He held it as steady as he could and

turned, squinting into the rain.

Within five minutes Harry was soaked to his skin and

frozen, hardly able to see his teammates, let alone the

tiny Snitch. He flew backward and forward across the

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field past blurred red and yellow shapes, with no idea of what was happening in the rest of the game. He

couldn’t hear the commentary over the wind. The

crowd was hidden beneath a sea of cloaks and

battered umbrellas. Twice Harry came very close to

being unseated by a Bludger; his vision was so

clouded by the rain on his glasses he hadn’t seen

them coming.

He lost track of time. It was getting harder and harder

to hold his broom straight. The sky was getting

darker, as though night had decided to come early.

Twice Harry nearly hit another player, without

knowing whether it was a teammate or opponent;

everyone was now so wet, and the rain so thick, he

could hardly tell them apart. …

With the first flash of lightning came the sound of

Madam Hooch’s whistle; Harry could just see the

outline of Wood through the thick rain, gesturing him

to the ground. The whole team splashed down into

the mud.

“I called for time-out!” Wood roared at his team.

“Come on, under here —”

They huddled at the edge of the field under a large

umbrella; Harry took off his glasses and wiped them

hurriedly on his robes.

“What’s the score?”

“We’re fifty points up,” said Wood, “but unless we get

the Snitch soon, we’ll be playing into the night.”

“I’ve got no chance with these on,” Harry said

exasperatedly, waving his glasses.

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At that very moment, Hermione appeared at his

shoulder; she was holding her cloak over her head

and was, inexplicably, beaming.

“I’ve had an idea, Harry! Give me your glasses, quick!”

He handed them to her, and as the team watched in

amazement, Hermione tapped them with her wand

and said, “Impervius!”

“There!” she said, handing them back to Harry.

“They’ll repel water!”

Wood looked as though he could have kissed her.

“Brilliant!” he called hoarsely after her as she

disappeared into the crowd. “Okay, team, let’s go for

it!”

Hermione’s spell had done the trick. Harry was still

numb with cold, still wetter than he’d ever been in his

life, but he could see. Full of fresh determination, he

urged his broom through the turbulent air, staring in

every direction for the Snitch, avoiding a Bludger,

ducking beneath Diggory, who was streaking in the

opposite direction. …

There was another clap of thunder, followed

immediately by forked lightning. This was getting

more and more dangerous. Harry needed to get the

Snitch quickly —

He turned, intending to head back toward the middle

of the field, but at that moment, another flash of

lightning illuminated the stands, and Harry saw

something that distracted him completely — the

silhouette of an enormous shaggy black dog, clearly

imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost,

empty row of seats.

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Harry’s numb hands slipped on the broom handle

and his Nimbus dropped a few feet. Shaking his

sodden bangs out of his eyes, he squinted back into

the stands. The dog had vanished.

“Harry!” came Wood’s anguished yell from the

Gryffindor goal posts. “Harry, behind you!”

Harry looked wildly around. Cedric Diggory was

pelting up the field, and a tiny speck of gold was

shimmering in the rain-filled air between them —

With a jolt of panic, Harry threw himself flat to the

broom-handle and zoomed toward the Snitch.

“Come on!” he growled at his Nimbus as the rain

whipped his face. “Faster!”

But something odd was happening. An eerie silence

was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as

strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as

though someone had turned off the sound, as though

Harry had gone suddenly deaf — what was going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over

him, inside him, just as he became aware of

something moving on the field below. …

Before he’d had time to think, Harry had taken his

eyes off the Snitch and looked down.

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces

pointing up at him, were standing beneath him. It

was as though freezing water were rising in his chest,

cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again. …

Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head

… a woman …

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

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“Stand aside, you silly girl … stand aside, now. …”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —”

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s

brain. … What was he doing? Why was he flying? He

needed to help her. … She was going to die. … She

was going to be murdered. …

He was falling, falling through the icy mist.

“Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy. …”

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was

screaming, and Harry knew no more.

“Lucky the ground was so soft.”

“I thought he was dead for sure.”

“But he didn’t even break his glasses.”

Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they

made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t have a clue

where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d

been doing before he got there. All he knew was that

every inch of him was aching as though it had been

beaten.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Scariest … the scariest thing … hooded black figures

… cold … screaming …

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was lying in the

hospital wing. The Gryffindor Quidditch team,

spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered

around his bed. Ron and Hermione were also there,

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looking as though they’d just climbed out of a

swimming pool.

“Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white

underneath the mud. “How’re you feeling?”

It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward.

The lightning — the Grim — the Snitch — and the

dementors …

“What happened?” he said, sitting up so suddenly

they all gasped.

“You fell off,” said Fred. “Must’ve been — what — fifty

feet?”

“We thought you’d died,” said Alicia, who was

shaking.

Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes were

extremely bloodshot.

“But the match,” said Harry. “What happened? Are we

doing a replay?”

No one said anything. The horrible truth sank into

Harry like a stone.

“We didn’t — lose?”

“Diggory got the Snitch,” said George. “Just after you

fell. He didn’t realize what had happened. When he

looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to

call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and

square … even Wood admits it.”

“Where is Wood?” said Harry, suddenly realizing he

wasn’t there.

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“Still in the showers,” said Fred. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”

Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping

his hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it

roughly.

“C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the Snitch

before.”

“There had to be one time you didn’t get it,” said

George.

“It’s not over yet,” said Fred. “We lost by a hundred

points, right? So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and

we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin …”

“Hufflepuff’ll have to lose by at least two hundred

points,” said George.

“But if they beat Ravenclaw …”

“No way, Ravenclaw is too good. But if Slytherin loses

against Hufflepuff …”

“It all depends on the points — a margin of a hundred

either way —”

Harry lay there, not saying a word. They had lost …

for the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match.

After ten minutes or so, Madam Pomfrey came over to

tell the team to leave him in peace.

“We’ll come and see you later,” Fred told him. “Don’t

beat yourself up, Harry, you’re still the best Seeker

we’ve ever had.”

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The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them.

Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking

disapproving. Ron and Hermione moved nearer to

Harry’s bed.

“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a

quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before.

He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and

you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground.

Then he whirled his wand at the dementors. Shot

silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away.

… He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We

heard him —”

“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” said Ron.

“And walked up to school with you floating on it.

Everyone thought you were …”

His voice faded, but Harry hardly noticed. He was

thinking about what the dementors had done to him

… about the screaming voice. He looked up and saw

Ron and Hermione looking at him so anxiously that

he quickly cast around for something matter-of-fact to

say.

“Did someone get my Nimbus?”

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other.

“Er —”

“What?” said Harry, looking from one to the other.

“Well … when you fell off, it got blown away,” said

Hermione hesitantly.

“And?”

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“And it hit — it hit — oh, Harry — it hit the

Whomping Willow.”

Harry’s insides lurched. The Whomping Willow was a

very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the

grounds.

“And?” he said, dreading the answer.

“Well, you know the Whomping Willow,” said Ron. “It

— it doesn’t like being hit.”

“Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you

came around,” said Hermione in a very small voice.

Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned

it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered

wood and twig onto the bed, the only remains of

Harry’s faithful, finally beaten broomstick.

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THE MARAUDER’S MAP

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the

hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t

argue or complain, but he wouldn’t let her throw

away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two

Thousand. He knew he was being stupid, knew that

the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn’t

help it; he felt as though he’d lost one of his best

friends.

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him

up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that

looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley,

blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she

had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry

kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor

team visited again on Sunday morning, this time

accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow,

dead sort of voice) that he didn’t blame him in the

slightest. Ron and Hermione left Harry’s bedside only

at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make

Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of

what was troubling him.

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He hadn’t told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron and Hermione, because he knew Ron would panic

and Hermione would scoff. The fact remained,

however, that it had now appeared twice, and both

appearances had been followed by near-fatal

accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over

by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from

his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him

until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest

of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?

And then there were the dementors. Harry felt sick

and humiliated every time he thought of them.

Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but no

one else collapsed every time they went near one. No

one else heard echoes in their head of their dying

parents.

Because Harry knew who that screaming voice

belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard

them over and over again during the night hours in

the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the

strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the

dementors approached him, he heard the last

moments of his mother’s life, her attempts to protect

him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s

laughter before he murdered her. … Harry dozed

fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted

hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell

again on his mother’s voice.

It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the

main school on Monday, where he was forced to think

about other things, even if he had to endure Draco

Malfoy’s taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself

with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat. He had finally taken

off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of

both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry

falling off his broom. Malfoy spent much of their next

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Potions class doing dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large,

slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in

the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from

Gryffindor.

“If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts

again, I’m skiving off,” said Ron as they headed

toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch. “Check who’s

in there, Hermione.”

Hermione peered around the classroom door.

“It’s okay!”

Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked

as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging

more loosely on him and there were dark shadows

beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class

as they took their seats, and they burst at once into

an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior

while Lupin had been ill.

“It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give

us homework?”

“We don’t know anything about werewolves —”

“— two rolls of parchment!”

“Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them

yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly.

The babble broke out again.

“Yes, but he said we were really behind —”

“— he wouldn’t listen —”

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“— two rolls of parchment!”

Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on

every face.

“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t

have to do the essay.”

“Oh no, ” said Hermione, looking very disappointed.

“I’ve already finished it!”

They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin

had brought along a glass box containing a

hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as

though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail

and harmless-looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as

they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from

his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light —

then —”

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise

against the glass.

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things

and headed for the door, Harry among them, but —

“Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I’d like a

word.”

Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin

covering the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth.

“I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back

to his desk and starting to pile books into his

briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is

there any chance of fixing it?”

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“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Lupin sighed.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year

that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a

game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In

the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an

eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No

broomstick would have a chance.

“Did you hear about the dementors too?” said Harry

with difficulty.

Lupin looked at him quickly.

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor

Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing

restless for some time … furious at his refusal to let

them inside the grounds. … I suppose they were the

reason you fell?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question

he had to ask burst from him before he could stop

himself. “Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I

just — ?”

“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor

Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind.

“The dementors affect you worse than the others

because there are horrors in your past that the others

don’t have.”

A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom,

illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his

young face.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk

this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places,

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they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them.

Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t

see them. Get too near a dementor and every good

feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of

you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long

enough to reduce you to something like itself … soul-

less and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst

experiences of your life. And the worst that happened

to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their

broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“When they get near me —” Harry stared at Lupin’s

desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort

murdering my mum.”

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though

to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it.

There was a moment’s silence, then —

“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry

bitterly.

“They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting

his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won’t let them

into the school, so their supply of human prey has

dried up. … I don’t think they could resist the large

crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement

… emotions running high … it was their idea of a

feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered. Lupin

nodded grimly.

“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea,

but they don’t need walls and water to keep the

prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their

own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought.

Most of them go mad within weeks.”

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“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said

slowly. “He got away. …”

Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to

stoop quickly to catch it.

“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have

found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it

possible. … Dementors are supposed to drain a

wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long.

…”

“You made that dementor on the train back off,” said

Harry suddenly.

“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said

Lupin. “But there was only one dementor on the train.

The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to

resist.”

“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach

me?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors,

Harry … quite the contrary. …”

“But if the dementors come to another Quidditch

match, I need to be able to fight them —”

Lupin looked into Harry’s determined face, hesitated,

then said, “Well … all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll

have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to

do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient

time to fall ill.”

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from

Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear

his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw

flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the

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end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite

upturn. Gryffindor were not out of the running after

all, although they could not afford to lose another

match. Wood became repossessed of his manic

energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the

chilly haze of rain that persisted into December.

Harry saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds.

Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at

their stations at the entrances.

Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky

lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and

the muddy grounds were revealed one morning

covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was

a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the

Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom

with shimmering lights that turned out to be real,

fluttering fairies. The students were all happily

discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and

Hermione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and

though Ron said it was because he couldn’t stand two

weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed

to use the library, Harry wasn’t fooled; they were

doing it to keep him company, and he was very

grateful.

To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be

another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of

the term.

“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said

Hermione. “Mum and Dad would really love those

Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!”

Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third

year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of

Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend

the day reading up on the different makes. He had

been riding one of the school brooms at team

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practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of

his own.

On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip,

Harry bid good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who were

wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the

marble staircase alone, and headed back toward

Gryffindor Tower. Snow had started to fall outside the

windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

“Psst — Harry!”

He turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to

see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a

statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

“What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How

come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?”

“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before

we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in

here. …”

He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of

the one-eyed statue. Harry followed Fred and George

inside. George closed the door quietly and then

turned, beaming, to look at Harry.

“Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said.

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a

flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large,

square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing

written on it. Harry, suspecting one of Fred and

George’s jokes, stared at it.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

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“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said

George, patting the parchment fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we

decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We

bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.”

“And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?”

said Harry.

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes

with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended

him. “Explain, George.”

“Well … when we were in our first year, Harry —

young, carefree, and innocent —”

Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George

had ever been innocent.

“— well, more innocent than we are now — we got

into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset

him for some reason —”

“So he hauled us off to his office and started

threatening us with the usual —”

“— detention —”

“— disembowelment —”

“— and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of

his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly

Dangerous. ”

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“Don’t tell me —” said Harry, starting to grin.

“Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George

caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I

whipped the drawer open, and grabbed — this. ”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George.

“We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it.

He probably suspected what it was, though, or he

wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

“And you know how to work it?”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s

taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the

ragged old bit of parchment.

“Oh, are we?” said George.

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly,

and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. ”

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a

spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had

touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed,

they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then

words began to blossom across the top, great, curly

green words, that proclaimed:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

are proud to present

THE MARAUDER’S MAP

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It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts

castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing

were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled

with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry

bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner

showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his

study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling

the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was

currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as

Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar

corridors, he noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages he had never

entered. And many of them seemed to lead —

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of

them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now,

Filch knows about these four” — he pointed them out

— “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know

about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the

mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last

winter, but it’s caved in — completely blocked. And

we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because

the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the

entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into

the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times.

And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right

outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s

hump.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed

George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe

them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new

generation of law-breakers,” said Fred solemnly.

“Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it

after you’ve used it —”

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“— or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And

it’ll go blank.”

“So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny

impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.”

“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.

They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of

way.

Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He

watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause

to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t

know … he wouldn’t have to pass the dementors at

all. …

But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement,

something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say

came floating out of his memory.

Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you

can’t see where it keeps its brain.

This map was one of those dangerous magical objects

Mr. Weasley had been warning against. … Aids for

Magical Mischief-Makers … but then, Harry reasoned,

he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it

wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or

attack anyone … and Fred and George had been

using it for years without anything horrible

happening. …

Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with

his finger.

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Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and

hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a

couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very

carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the

statue of the one-eyed witch.

What did he have to do? He pulled out the map again

and saw, to his astonishment, that a new ink figure

had appeared upon it, labeled Harry Potter. This

figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was

standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor.

Harry watched carefully. His little ink self appeared to

be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry

quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue.

Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The

tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure.

The word inside said, “Dissendium. ”

“Dissendium!” Harry whispered, tapping the stone

witch again.

At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to

admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up

and down the corridor, then tucked the map away

again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and

pushed himself forward.

He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone

slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up,

looking around. It was pitch dark. He held up his

wand, muttered, “Lumos!” and saw that he was in a

very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He raised the

map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and

muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank

at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his

robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and

apprehensive, he set off.

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The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried

along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor,

holding his wand out in front of him.

It took ages, but Harry had the thought of

Honeydukes to sustain him. After what felt like an

hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped

up, his face hot, his feet very cold.

Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn

stone steps, which rose out of sight above him.

Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb.

A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as

he climbed, watching his feet. … Then, without

warning, his head hit something hard.

It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there,

massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn’t

hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, he pushed

the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.

He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates

and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and

replaced it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty

floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry

crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led

upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to

mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and

shutting of a door.

Wondering what he ought to do, he suddenly heard a

door open much closer at hand; somebody was about

to come downstairs.

“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they’ve

nearly cleaned us out —” said a woman’s voice.

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A pair of feet was coming down the staircase. Harry leapt behind an enormous crate and waited for the

footsteps to pass. He heard the man shifting boxes

against the opposite wall. He might not get another

chance —

Quickly and silently, Harry dodged out from his

hiding place and climbed the stairs; looking back, he

saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head,

buried in a box. Harry reached the door at the top of

the stairs, slipped through it, and found himself

behind the counter of Honeydukes — he ducked,

crept sideways, and then straightened up.

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students

that no one looked twice at Harry. He edged among

them, looking around, and suppressed a laugh as he

imagined the look that would spread over Dudley’s

piggy face if he could see where Harry was now.

There were shelves upon shelves of the most

succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks

of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice,

fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds

of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of

Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees,

the levitating sherbert balls that Ron had mentioned;

along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets:

Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with

bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days),

the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny

black Pepper Imps (“breathe fire for your friends!”),

Ice Mice (“hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”),

peppermint creams shaped like toads (“hop

realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun

quills, and exploding bonbons.

Harry squeezed himself through a crowd of sixth

years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of

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the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione

were standing underneath it, examining a tray of

blood-flavored lollipops. Harry sneaked up behind

them.

“Ugh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for

vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying.

“How about these?” said Ron, shoving a jar of

Cockroach Clusters under Hermione’s nose.

“Definitely not,” said Harry.

Ron nearly dropped the jar.

“Harry!” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing

here? How — how did you — ?”

“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you’ve

learned to Apparate!”

“ ’Course I haven’t,” said Harry. He dropped his voice

so that none of the sixth years could hear him and

told them all about the Marauder’s Map.

“How come Fred and George never gave it to me!” said

Ron, outraged. “I’m their brother!”

“But Harry isn’t going to keep it!” said Hermione, as

though the idea were ludicrous. “He’s going to hand it

in to Professor McGonagall, aren’t you, Harry?”

“No, I’m not!” said Harry.

“Are you mad?” said Ron, goggling at Hermione.

“Hand in something that good?”

“If I hand it in, I’ll have to say where I got it! Filch

would know Fred and George had nicked it!”

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“But what about Sirius Black?” Hermione hissed. “He could be using one of the passages on that map to get

into the castle! The teachers have got to know!”

“He can’t be getting in through a passage,” said Harry

quickly. “There are seven secret tunnels on the map,

right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows

about four of them. And of the other three — one of

them’s caved in, so no one can get through it. One of

them’s got the Whomping Willow planted over the

entrance, so you can’t get out of it. And the one I just

came through — well — it’s really hard to see the

entrance to it down in the cellar, so unless he knew it

was there …”

Harry hesitated. What if Black did know the passage

was there? Ron, however, cleared his throat

significantly, and pointed to a notice pasted on the

inside of the sweetshop door.

— BY ORDER OF —

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Customers are reminded that until further notice,

dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade

every night after sundown. This measure has been put

in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will

be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It is

therefore advisable that you complete your shopping

well before nightfall.

Merry Christmas!

“See?” said Ron quietly. “I’d like to see Black try and

break into Honeydukes with dementors swarming all

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over the village. Anyway, Hermione, the Honeydukes owners would hear a break-in, wouldn’t they? They

live over the shop!”

“Yes, but — but —” Hermoine seemed to be struggling

to find another problem. “Look, Harry still shouldn’t

be coming into Hogsmeade. He hasn’t got a signed

form! If anyone finds out, he’ll be in so much trouble!

And it’s not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns

up today? Now?”

“He’d have a job spotting Harry in this,” said Ron,

nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick,

swirling snow. “Come on, Hermione, it’s Christmas.

Harry deserves a break.”

Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried.

“Are you going to report me?” Harry asked her,

grinning.

“Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry —”

“Seen the Fizzing Whizbees, Harry?” said Ron,

grabbing him and leading him over to their barrel.

“And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave

me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole

right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping

him with her broomstick.” Ron stared broodingly into

the Acid Pop box. “Reckon Fred’d take a bit of

Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?”

When Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets,

the three of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard

outside.

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little

thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a

layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the

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doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in

the trees.

Harry shivered; unlike the other two, he didn’t have

his cloak. They headed up the street, heads bowed

against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting

through their scarves.

“That’s the post office —”

“Zonko’s is up there —”

“We could go up to the Shrieking Shack —”

“Tell you what,” said Ron, his teeth chattering, “shall

we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?”

Harry was more than willing; the wind was fierce and

his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road,

and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn.

It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A

curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a

bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.

“That’s Madam Rosmerta,” said Ron. “I’ll get the

drinks, shall I?” he added, going slightly red.

Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of

the room, where there was a small, vacant table

between the window and a handsome Christmas tree,

which stood next to the fireplace. Ron came back five

minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot

butterbeer.

“Merry Christmas!” he said happily, raising his

tankard.

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Harry drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him

from the inside.

A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The door of the

Three Broomsticks had opened again. Harry looked

over the rim of his tankard and choked.

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered

the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed

by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly

man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped

cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed

hands on the top of Harry’s head and forced him off

his stool and under the table. Dripping with

butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Harry clutched

his empty tankard and watched the teachers’ and

Fudge’s feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn

and walk right toward him.

Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered,

“Mobiliarbus!”

The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few

inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed

with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding

them from view. Staring through the dense lower

branches, Harry saw four sets of chair legs move back

from the table right beside theirs, then heard the

grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they

sat down.

Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly

turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice.

“A small gillywater —”

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“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Four pints of mulled mead —”

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella —”

“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.

“So you’ll be the red currant rum, Minister.”

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge’s voice.

“Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one

yourself, won’t you? Come and join us. …”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

Harry watched the glittering heels march away and

back again. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in

his throat. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this

was the last weekend of term for the teachers too?

And how long were they going to sit there? He needed

time to sneak back into Honeydukes if he wanted to

return to school tonight. … Hermione’s leg gave a

nervous twitch next to him.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods,

Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta’s voice.

Harry saw the lower part of Fudge’s thick body twist

in his chair as though he were checking for

eavesdroppers. Then he said in a quiet voice, “What

else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard

what happened up at the school at Halloween?”

“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Madam Rosmerta.

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“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor McGonagall exasperatedly.

“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?”

whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.

“You know that the dementors have searched the

whole village twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight

edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away. …

It’s very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than

you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary

precaution … unfortunate, but there you are. … I’ve

just met some of them. They’re in a fury against

Dumbledore — he won’t let them inside the castle

grounds.”

“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall

sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those

horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose

feet were dangling a foot from the ground.

“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to

protect you all from something much worse. … We all

know what Black’s capable of. …”

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said

Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to

go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d

have thought … I mean, I remember him when he was

a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was

going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much

mead.”

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“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.”

“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive

with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor

people, you mean?”

“I certainly do,” said Fudge.

“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,”

murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember

who his best friend was?”

“Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small

laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The

number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used

to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black

and James Potter!”

Harry dropped his tankard with a loud clunk. Ron

kicked him.

“Precisely,” said Professor McGonagall. “Black and

Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very

bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but

I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of

troublemakers —”

“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George

Weasley could give ’em a run fer their money.”

“You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!”

chimed in Professor Flitwick. “Inseparable!”

“Of course they were,” said Fudge. “Potter trusted

Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed

when they left school. Black was best man when

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James married Lily. Then they named him godfather

to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can

imagine how the idea would torment him.”

“Because Black turned out to be in league with You-

Know-Who?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Worse even than that, m’dear. …” Fudge dropped his

voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble. “Not

many people are aware that the Potters knew You-

Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of

course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had

a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off,

and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised

them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-

Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore

told them that their best chance was the Fidelius

Charm.”

“How does that work?” said Madam Rosmerta,

breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his

throat.

“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily,

“involving the magical concealment of a secret inside

a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside

the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is

henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the

Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the

Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could

search the village where Lily and James were staying

for years and never find them, not even if he had his

nose pressed against their sitting room window!”

“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered

Madam Rosmerta.

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “James Potter

told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell

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where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself … and yet, Dumbledore remained

worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters’

Secret-Keeper himself.”

“He suspected Black?” gasped Madam Rosmerta.

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had

been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their

movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly.

“Indeed, he had suspected for some time that

someone on our side had turned traitor and was

passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.”

“But James Potter insisted on using Black?”

“He did,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week

after the Fidelius Charm had been performed —”

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta.

“He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent

role, he was ready to declare his support openly for

You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this

for the moment of the Potters’ death. But, as we all

know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry

Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And

this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His

master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black,

had shown his true colors as a traitor. He had no

choice but to run for it —”

“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that

half the bar went quiet.

“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall.

“I met him!” growled Hagrid. “I musta bin the last ter

see him before he killed all them people! It was me

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what rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after they was killed! Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor

little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’

his parents dead … an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that

flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride. Never occurred ter

me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know he’d bin Lily

an’ James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard

the news o’ You-Know-Who’s attack an’ come ter see

what he could do. White an’ shakin’, he was. An’ yeh

know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’

TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared.

“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall. “Keep

your voice down!”

“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’

James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’

then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his

godfather, I’ll look after him —’ Ha! But I’d had me

orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no,

Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’

uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told

me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there. ‘I won’t

need it anymore,’ he says.

“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on

then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it

ter me for? Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact

was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d

bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was

goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a

matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him.

“But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh? I bet he’d’ve

pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’

friends’ son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark

Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ’em

anymore. …”

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A long silence followed Hagrid’s story. Then Madam Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t

manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic

caught up with him next day!”

“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly. “It was not

we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew —

another of the Potters’ friends. Maddened by grief, no

doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’

Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.”

“Pettigrew … that fat little boy who was always

tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam

Rosmerta.

“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor

McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise.

I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine

how I — how I regret that now. …” She sounded as

though she had a sudden head cold.

“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly, “Pettigrew

died a hero’s death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of

course, we wiped their memories later — told us how

Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing,

‘Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’ And then he

went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker.

Blew Pettigrew to smithereens. …”

Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly,

“Stupid boy … foolish boy … he was always hopeless

at dueling … should have left it to the Ministry. …”

“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew

did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands — I’d’ve

ripped him limb — from — limb,” Hagrid growled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,”

said Fudge sharply. “Nobody but trained Hit Wizards

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from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have

stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I

was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical

Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on

the scene after Black murdered all those people. I — I

will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A

crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had

cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles

screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with

what was left of Pettigrew in front of him … a heap of

bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments —”

Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly. There was the sound

of five noses being blown.

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge

thickly. “Black was taken away by twenty members of

the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew

received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I

think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black’s

been in Azkaban ever since.”

Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh.

“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I

certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for

a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those

Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate

man — cruel … pointless. Yet I met Black on my last

inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the

prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the

dark; there’s no sense in them … but I was shocked

at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite

rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have

thought he was merely bored — asked if I’d finished

with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he

missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at

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how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in

the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day

and night.”

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said

Madam Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t

trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said

Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long

before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and

friendless is one thing … but give him back his most

devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly

he’ll rise again. …”

There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone

had set down their glass.

“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the

headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,”

said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the

weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks

swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta’s glittering

heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the

Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another

flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

“Harry?”

Ron’s and Hermione’s faces appeared under the table.

They were both staring at him, lost for words.

P a g e | 233 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

THE FIREBOLT

Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had

managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar,

through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All

he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no

time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was

doing, because his head was still pounding with the

conversation he had just heard.

Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid,

Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge … why hadn’t anyone

ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died

because their best friend had betrayed them?

Ron and Hermione watched Harry nervously all

through dinner, not daring to talk about what they’d

overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them.

When they went upstairs to the crowded common

room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half a

dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits.

Harry, who didn’t want Fred and George asking him

whether he’d reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked

quietly up to the empty dormitory and headed

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straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for —

the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him

two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his

mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew the

hangings around him, and started turning the pages,

searching, until …

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day.

There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the

untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in

all directions. There was his mother, alight with

happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there …

that must be him. Their best man … Harry had never

given him a thought before.

If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would

never have guessed it was Black in this old

photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but

handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been

working for Voldemort when this picture had been

taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two

people next to him? Did he realize he was facing

twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would

make him unrecognizable?

But the dementors don’t affect him, Harry thought,

staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn’t

have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close —

Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and

stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robe and

glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings

were hiding him from view.

The dormitory door opened.

“Harry?” said Ron’s voice uncertainly.

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But Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep. He heard Ron leave again, and rolled over on his back, his eyes

wide open.

A hatred such as he had never known before was

coursing through Harry like poison. He could see

Black laughing at him through the darkness, as

though somebody had pasted the picture from the

album over his eyes. He watched, as though

somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius

Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville

Longbottom) into a thousand pieces. He could hear

(though having no idea what Black’s voice might

sound like) a low, excited mutter. “It has happened,

My Lord … the Potters have made me their Secret-

Keeper. …” And then came another voice, laughing

shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his

head whenever the dementors drew near. …

“Harry, you — you look terrible.”

Harry hadn’t gotten to sleep until daybreak. He had

awoken to find the dormitory deserted, dressed, and

gone down the spiral staircase to a common room

that was completely empty except for Ron, who was

eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his

stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her

homework over three tables.

“Where is everyone?” said Harry.

“Gone! It’s the first day of the holidays, remember?”

said Ron, watching Harry closely. “It’s nearly

lunchtime; I was going to come and wake you up in a

minute.”

Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire. Snow was

still falling outside the windows. Crookshanks was

spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug.

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“You really don’t look well, you know,” Hermione said, peering anxiously into his face.

“I’m fine,” said Harry.

“Harry, listen,” said Hermione, exchanging a look with

Ron, “you must be really upset about what we heard

yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing

anything stupid.”

“Like what?” said Harry.

“Like trying to go after Black,” said Ron sharply.

Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation

while he had been asleep. He didn’t say anything.

“You won’t, will you, Harry?” said Hermione.

“Because Black’s not worth dying for,” said Ron.

Harry looked at them. They didn’t seem to

understand at all.

“D’you know what I see and hear every time a

dementor gets too near me?” Ron and Hermione

shook their heads, looking apprehensive. “I can hear

my mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort.

And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that,

just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a

hurry. And if you found out someone who was

supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent

Voldemort after her —”

“There’s nothing you can do!” said Hermione, looking

stricken. “The dementors will catch Black and he’ll go

back to Azkaban and — and serve him right!”

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“You heard what Fudge said. Black isn’t affected by Azkaban like normal people are. It’s not a

punishment for him like it is for the others.”

“So what are you saying?” said Ron, looking very

tense. “You want to — to kill Black or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione in a panicky voice.

“Harry doesn’t want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?”

Again, Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he

wanted to do. All he knew was that the idea of doing

nothing, while Black was at liberty, was almost more

than he could stand.

“Malfoy knows,” he said abruptly. “Remember what

he said to me in Potions? ‘If it was me, I’d hunt him

down myself. … I’d want revenge.’ ”

“You’re going to take Malfoy’s advice instead of ours?”

said Ron furiously. “Listen … you know what

Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished

with him? Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First

Class, and Pettigrew’s finger in a box. That was the

biggest bit of him they could find. Black’s a madman,

Harry, and he’s dangerous —”

“Malfoy’s dad must have told him,” said Harry,

ignoring Ron. “He was right in Voldemort’s inner

circle —”

“Say You-Know-Who, will you?” interjected Ron

angrily.

“— so obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working

for Voldemort —”

“— and Malfoy’d love to see you blown into about a

million pieces, like Pettigrew! Get a grip. Malfoy’s just

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hoping you’ll get yourself killed before he has to play you at Quidditch.”

“Harry, please, ” said Hermione, her eyes now shining

with tears, “please be sensible. Black did a terrible,

terrible thing, but d-don’t put yourself in danger, it’s

what Black wants. … Oh, Harry, you’d be playing

right into Black’s hands if you went looking for him.

Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you to get hurt,

would they? They’d never want you to go looking for

Black!”

“I’ll never know what they’d have wanted, because

thanks to Black, I’ve never spoken to them,” said

Harry shortly.

There was a silence in which Crookshanks stretched

luxuriously, flexing his claws. Ron’s pocket quivered.

“Look,” said Ron, obviously casting around for a

change of subject, “it’s the holidays! It’s nearly

Christmas! Let’s — let’s go down and see Hagrid. We

haven’t visited him for ages!”

“No!” said Hermione quickly. “Harry isn’t supposed to

leave the castle, Ron —”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Harry, sitting up, “and I can ask

him how come he never mentioned Black when he

told me all about my parents!”

Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn’t

what Ron had had in mind.

“Or we could have a game of chess,” he said hastily,

“or Gobstones. Percy left a set —”

“No, let’s visit Hagrid,” said Harry firmly.

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So they got their cloaks from their dormitories and set off through the portrait hole (“Stand and fight, you

yellow-bellied mongrels!”), down through the empty

castle and out through the oak front doors.

They made their way slowly down the lawn, making a

shallow trench in the glittering, powdery snow, their

socks and the hems of their cloaks soaked and

freezing. The Forbidden Forest looked as though it

had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver,

and Hagrid’s cabin looked like an iced cake.

Ron knocked, but there was no answer.

“He’s not out, is he?” said Hermione, who was

shivering under her cloak.

Ron had his ear to the door.

“There’s a weird noise,” he said. “Listen — is that

Fang?”

Harry and Hermione put their ears to the door too.

From inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing

moans.

“Think we’d better go and get someone?” said Ron

nervously.

“Hagrid!” called Harry, thumping the door. “Hagrid,

are you in there?”

There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door

creaked open. Hagrid stood there with his eyes red

and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his

leather vest.

“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and he flung himself

onto Harry’s neck.

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Hagrid being at least twice the size of a normal man, this was no laughing matter. Harry, about to collapse

under Hagrid’s weight, was rescued by Ron and

Hermione, who each seized Hagrid under an arm and

heaved him back into the cabin. Hagrid allowed

himself to be steered into a chair and slumped over

the table, sobbing uncontrollably, his face glazed with

tears that dripped down into his tangled beard.

“Hagrid, what is it?” said Hermione, aghast.

Harry spotted an official-looking letter lying open on

the table.

“What’s this, Hagrid?”

Hagrid’s sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter

toward Harry, who picked it up and read aloud:

Dear Mr. Hagrid,

Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on

a student in your class, we have accepted the

assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no

responsibility for the regrettable incident.

“Well, that’s okay then, Hagrid!” said Ron, clapping

Hagrid on the shoulder. But Hagrid continued to sob,

and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to

read on.

However, we must register our concern about the

hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the

official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter

will therefore be taken to the Committee for the

Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take

place on April 20th, and we ask you to present

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in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated.

Yours in fellowship …

There followed a list of the school governors.

“Oh,” said Ron. “But you said Buckbeak isn’t a bad

hippogriff, Hagrid. I bet he’ll get off—”

“Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee fer

the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” choked Hagrid,

wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’ve got it in fer

interestin’ creatures!”

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid’s cabin

made Harry, Ron, and Hermione whip around.

Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner,

chomping on something that was oozing blood all over

the floor.

“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow!”

choked Hagrid. “All on his own! At Christmas.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.

They had never seen eye to eye with Hagrid about

what he called “interesting creatures” and other

people called “terrifying monsters.” On the other

hand, there didn’t seem to be any particular harm in

Buckbeak. In fact, by Hagrid’s usual standards, he

was positively cute.

“You’ll have to put up a good strong defense, Hagrid,”

said Hermione, sitting down and laying a hand on

Hagrid’s massive forearm. “I’m sure you can prove

Buckbeak is safe.”

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“Won’t make no diff’rence!” sobbed Hagrid. “Them

Disposal devils, they’re all in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket!

Scared o’ him! An’ if I lose the case, Buckbeak —”

Hagrid drew his finger swiftly across his throat, then

gave a great wail and lurched forward, his face in his

arms.

“What about Dumbledore, Hagrid?” said Harry.

“He’s done more’n enough fer me already,” groaned

Hagrid. “Got enough on his plate what with keepin’

them dementors outta the castle, an’ Sirius Black

lurkin’ around —”

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at Harry, as though

expecting him to start berating Hagrid for not telling

him the truth about Black. But Harry couldn’t bring

himself to do it, not now that he saw Hagrid so

miserable and scared.

“Listen, Hagrid,” he said, “you can’t give up.

Hermione’s right, you just need a good defense. You

can call us as witnesses —”

“I’m sure I’ve read about a case of hippogriff-baiting,”

said Hermione thoughtfully, “where the hippogriff got

off. I’ll look it up for you, Hagrid, and see exactly what

happened.”

Hagrid howled still more loudly. Harry and Hermione

looked at Ron to help them.

“Er — shall I make a cup of tea?” said Ron.

Harry stared at him.

“It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,”

Ron muttered, shrugging.

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At last, after many more assurances of help, with a steaming mug of tea in front of him, Hagrid blew his

nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and

said, “Yer right. I can’ afford to go ter pieces. Gotta

pull meself together. …”

Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the

table and laid his head on Hagrid’s knee.

“I’ve not bin meself lately,” said Hagrid, stroking Fang

with one hand and mopping his face with the other.

“Worried abou’ Buckbeak, an’ no one likin’ me classes

—”

“We do like them!” lied Hermione at once.

“Yeah, they’re great!” said Ron, crossing his fingers

under the table. “Er — how are the flobberworms?”

“Dead,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Too much lettuce.”

“Oh no!” said Ron, his lip twitching.

“An’ them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an’

all,” said Hagrid, with a sudden shudder. “Gotta walk

past ’em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three

Broomsticks. ’S like bein’ back in Azkaban —”

He fell silent, gulping his tea. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione watched him breathlessly. They had never

heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban

before. After a pause, Hermione said timidly, “Is it

awful in there, Hagrid?”

“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly. “Never bin

anywhere like it. Thought I was goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’

over horrible stuff in me mind … the day I got

expelled from Hogwarts … day me dad died … day I

had ter let Norbert go. …”

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His eyes filled with tears. Norbert was the baby

dragon Hagrid had once won in a game of cards.

“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while.

An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all. I used ter

hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep. … When they let me out,

it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’

back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world. Mind, the

dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.”

“But you were innocent!” said Hermione.

Hagrid snorted.

“Think that matters to them? They don’ care. Long as

they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there

with ’em, so they can leech all the happiness out of

’em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s

not.”

Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea.

Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting

Buckbeak go … tryin’ ter make him fly away … but

how d’yeh explain ter a hippogriff it’s gotta go inter

hidin’? An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law. …” He

looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again.

“I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.”

The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had

nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had

hoped. Though Harry had by no means forgotten

about Black, he couldn’t brood constantly on revenge

if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the

Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next

day and returned to the empty common room laden

with books that might help prepare a defense for

Buckbeak. The three of them sat in front of the

roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty

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volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts,

speaking occasionally when they ran across

something relevant.

“Here’s something … there was a case in 1722 … but

the hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they

did to it, that’s disgusting —”

“This might help, look — a manticore savaged

someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off — oh

— no, that was only because everyone was too scared

to go near it. …”

Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual

magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up,

despite the fact that hardly any of the students

remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and

mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious

lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the

Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas

trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and

delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and

by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even

Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron’s

pocket to sniff hopefully at the air.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron

throwing his pillow at him.

“Oy! Presents!”

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on,

squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his

bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Ron

was already ripping the paper off his own presents.

“Another sweater from Mum … maroon again … see if

you’ve got one.”

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Harry had. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet

sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front,

also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas

cake, and a box of nut brittle. As he moved all these

things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying

underneath.

“What’s that?” said Ron, looking over, a freshly

unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.

“Dunno …”

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a

magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his

bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his

bed for a closer look.

“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.

It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry

had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle

glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating

and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly

the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved

from the golden registration number at the top of the

handle, right down to the perfectly smooth,

streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

“Who sent it to you?” said Ron in a hushed voice.

“Look and see if there’s a card,” said Harry.

Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings.

“Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?”

“Well,” said Harry, feeling stunned, “I’m betting it

wasn’t the Dursleys.”

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“I bet it was Dumbledore,” said Ron, now walking

around and around the Firebolt, taking in every

glorious inch. “He sent you the Invisibility Cloak

anonymously. …”

“That was my dad’s, though,” said Harry.

“Dumbledore was just passing it on to me. He

wouldn’t spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can’t

go giving students stuff like this —”

“That’s why he wouldn’t say it was from him!” said

Ron. “In case some git like Malfoy said it was

favoritism. Hey, Harry” — Ron gave a great whoop of

laughter — “Malfoy! Wait till he sees you on this! He’ll

be sick as a pig! This is an international standard

broom, this is!”

“I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, running a hand

along the Firebolt, while Ron sank onto Harry’s bed,

laughing his head off at the thought of Malfoy. “Who

— ?”

“I know,” said Ron, controlling himself, “I know who it

could’ve been — Lupin!”

“What?” said Harry, now starting to laugh himself.

“Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he’d be able

to buy himself some new robes.”

“Yeah, but he likes you,” said Ron. “And he was away

when your Nimbus got smashed, and he might’ve

heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and

get this for you —”

“What d’you mean, he was away?” said Harry. “He

was ill when I was playing in that match.”

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“Well, he wasn’t in the hospital wing,” said Ron. “I was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention

from Snape, remember?”

Harry frowned at Ron.

“I can’t see Lupin affording something like this.”

“What’re you two laughing about?”

Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing

gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking

very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his

neck.

“Don’t bring him in here!” said Ron, hurriedly

snatching Scabbers from the depths of his bed and

stowing him in his pajama pocket. But Hermione

wasn’t listening. She dropped Crookshanks onto

Seamus’s empty bed and stared, open-mouthed, at

the Firebolt.

“Oh, Harry! Who sent you that?”

“No idea,” said Harry. “There wasn’t a card or

anything with it.”

To his great surprise, Hermione did not appear either

excited or intrigued by the news. On the contrary, her

face fell, and she bit her lip.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Ron.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly, “but it’s a bit

odd, isn’t it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a

good broom, isn’t it?”

Ron sighed exasperatedly.

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“It’s the best broom there is, Hermione,” he said.

“So it must’ve been really expensive. …”

“Probably cost more than all the Slytherins’ brooms

put together,” said Ron happily.

“Well … who’d send Harry something as expensive as

that, and not even tell him they’d sent it?” said

Hermione.

“Who cares?” said Ron impatiently. “Listen, Harry,

can I have a go on it? Can I?”

“I don’t think anyone should ride that broom just yet!”

said Hermione shrilly.

Harry and Ron looked at her.

“What d’you think Harry’s going to do with it — sweep

the floor?” said Ron.

But before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks

sprang from Seamus’s bed, right at Ron’s chest.

“GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!” Ron bellowed

as Crookshanks’s claws ripped his pajamas and

Scabbers attempted a wild escape over his shoulder.

Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and aimed a

misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at

the end of Harry’s bed, knocking it over and causing

Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.

Crookshanks’s fur suddenly stood on end. A shrill,

tinny whistling was filling the room. The Pocket

Sneakoscope had become dislodged from Uncle

Vernon’s old socks and was whirling and gleaming on

the floor.

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“I forgot about that!” Harry said, bending down and picking up the Sneakoscope. “I never wear those

socks if I can help it. …”

The Sneakoscope whirled and whistled in his palm.

Crookshanks was hissing and spitting at it.

“You’d better take that cat out of here, Hermione,”

said Ron furiously, sitting on Harry’s bed nursing his

toe. “Can’t you shut that thing up?” he added to

Harry as Hermione strode out of the room,

Crookshanks’s yellow eyes still fixed maliciously on

Ron.

Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back inside the socks

and threw it back into his trunk. All that could be

heard now were Ron’s stifled moans of pain and rage.

Scabbers was huddled in Ron’s hands. It had been a

while since Harry had seen him out of Ron’s pocket,

and he was unpleasantly surprised to see that

Scabbers, once so fat, was now very skinny; patches

of fur seemed to have fallen out too.

“He’s not looking too good, is he?” Harry said.

“It’s stress!” said Ron. “He’d be fine if that big stupid

furball left him alone!”

But Harry, remembering what the woman at the

Magical Menagerie had said about rats living only

three years, couldn’t help feeling that unless Scabbers

had powers he had never revealed, he was reaching

the end of his life. And despite Ron’s frequent

complaints that Scabbers was both boring and

useless, he was sure Ron would be very miserable if

Scabbers died.

Christmas spirit was definitely thin on the ground in

the Gryffindor common room that morning. Hermione

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had shut Crookshanks in her dormitory, but was

furious with Ron for trying to kick him; Ron was still

fuming about Crookshanks’s fresh attempt to eat

Scabbers. Harry gave up trying to make them talk to

each other and devoted himself to examining the

Firebolt, which he had brought down to the common

room with him. For some reason this seemed to

annoy Hermione as well; she didn’t say anything, but

she kept looking darkly at the broom as though it too

had been criticizing her cat.

At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to

find that the House tables had been moved against

the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve,

stood in the middle of the room. Professors

Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and

Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker,

who had taken off his usual brown coat and was

wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat.

There were only three other students, two extremely

nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced

Slytherin fifth year.

“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron,

and Hermione approached the table. “As there are so

few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables.

… Sit down, sit down!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at

the end of the table.

“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering

the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who

took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a

gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large,

pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron’s eye

and they both grinned; Snape’s mouth thinned and

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he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped

it for his wizard’s hat at once.

“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the

doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor

Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels.

She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of

the occasion, making her look more than ever like a

glittering, oversized dragonfly.

“Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore,

standing up.

“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said

Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway

voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself

abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join

you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at

once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to

forgive my lateness. …”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes

twinkling. “Let me draw you up a chair —”

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his

wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling

with a thud between Professors Snape and

McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit

down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the

table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

“I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be

thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget

that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will

be the first to die!”

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“We’ll risk it, Sibyll,” said Professor McGonagall impatiently. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone

cold.”

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself

into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched

tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the

table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into

the nearest tureen.

“Tripe, Sibyll?”

Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again,

she looked around once more and said, “But where is

dear Professor Lupin?”

“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said

Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start

serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should

happen on Christmas Day.”

“But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said

Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very

cold look.

“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But

one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing.

I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the

Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Professor

McGonagall tartly.

Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good

deal less misty.

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“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor

Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He

seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He

positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him —

”

“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.

“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly

raised voice, which put an end to Professor

McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation,

“that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger.

Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape.

“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and

about in no time. … Derek, have you had any of these

chipolatas? They’re excellent.”

The first-year boy went furiously red on being

addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the

platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until

the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later.

Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still

wearing their party hats, Harry and Ron got up first

from the table and she shrieked loudly.

“My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?”

“Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry.

“I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor

McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting

outside the doors to slaughter the first into the

entrance hall.”

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Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.

“Coming?” Harry said to Hermione.

“No,” Hermione muttered, “I want a quick word with

Professor McGonagall.”

“Probably trying to see if she can take any more

classes,” yawned Ron as they made their way into the

entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad

axe-men.

When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir

Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of

monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts,

and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted

them with a flagon of mead.

“Merry — hic — Christmas! Password?”

“Scurvy cur,” said Ron.

“And the same to you, sir!” roared Sir Cadogan as the

painting swung forward to admit them.

Harry went straight up to the dormitory, collected the

Firebolt and the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione

had given him for his birthday, brought them

downstairs, and tried to find something to do to the

Firebolt; however, there were no bent twigs to clip,

and the handle was so shiny already it seemed

pointless to polish it. He and Ron simply sat admiring

it from every angle until the portrait hole opened, and

Hermione came in, accompanied by Professor

McGonagall.

Though Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor

House, Harry had seen her in the common room only

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once before, and that had been to make a very grave announcement. He and Ron stared at her, both

holding the Firebolt. Hermione walked around them,

sat down, picked up the nearest book, and hid her

face behind it.

“So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily,

walking over to the fireside and staring at the

Firebolt. “Miss Granger has just informed me that you

have been sent a broomstick, Potter.”

Harry and Ron looked around at Hermione. They

could see her forehead reddening over the top of her

book, which was upside down.

“May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t

wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of

their hands. She examined it carefully from handle to

twig-ends. “Hmm. And there was no note at all,

Potter? No card? No message of any kind?”

“No,” said Harry blankly.

“I see … ,” said Professor McGonagall. “Well, I’m

afraid I will have to take this, Potter.”

“W — what?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet.

“Why?”

“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor

McGonagall. “Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay

Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it

down —”

“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor

McGonagall was mad.

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“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said

Professor McGonagall. “You will have it back if we are

sure it is jinx-free.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice

shaking slightly. “Honestly, Professor —”

“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor

McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at

any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question

until we are certain that it has not been tampered

with. I shall keep you informed.”

Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried

the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed

behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of

High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron,

however, rounded on Hermione.

“What did you go running to McGonagall for?”

Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in

the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.

“Because I thought — and Professor McGonagall

agrees with me — that that broom was probably sent

to Harry by Sirius Black!”

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THE PATRONUS

Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that

didn’t stop him from being angry with her. He had

been the owner of the best broom in the world for a

few short hours, and now, because of her

interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever

see it again. He was positive that there was nothing

wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state

would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts

of anti-jinx tests?

Ron was furious with Hermione too. As far as he was

concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new

Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage.

Hermione, who remained convinced that she had

acted for the best, started avoiding the common room.

Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the

library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back.

All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school

returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower

became crowded and noisy again.

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Wood sought Harry out on the night before term

started.

“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without

waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice,

and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking over

Christmas, Harry. After the last match, you know. If

the dementors come to the next one … I mean … we

can’t afford you to — well —”

Wood broke off, looking awkward.

“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly. “Professor

Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the dementors.

We should be starting this week. He said he’d have

time after Christmas.”

“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing. “Well, in

that case — I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker,

Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?”

“No,” said Harry.

“What! You’d better get a move on, you know — you

can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!”

“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron.

“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A — a real Firebolt?”

“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily. “I

haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.” And he

explained all about how the Firebolt was now being

checked for jinxes.

“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?”

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“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily. “He’s supposed to be after me. So McGonagall reckons he might have

sent it.”

Waving aside the information that a famous murderer

was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t

have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole

country’s on the lookout for him! How could he just

walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a

broomstick?”

“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to

strip it down —”

Wood went pale.

“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised. “I’ll make

her see reason. … A Firebolt … a real Firebolt, on our

team … She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we

do. … I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt …”

Classes started again the next day. The last thing

anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the

grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had

provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their

enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson

collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing

while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and

down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The first

Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun;

Professor Trelawney was now teaching them

palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry

that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen.

It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was

keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he

wanted to get started on his anti-dementor lessons as

soon as possible.

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“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his promise at the end of class. “Let me see … how about

eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of

Magic classroom should be large enough. … I’ll have

to think carefully about how we’re going to do this. …

We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to

practice on. …”

“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked

down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you

reckon’s the matter with him?”

There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind

them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the

feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was

so full of books it wouldn’t close.

“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron

irritably.

“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her

bag back over her shoulder.

“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s

wrong with Lupin, and you —”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of

maddening superiority.

“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron.

“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.

“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after

Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her

again.”

At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left

Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom.

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It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the lamps with his wand and had waited only five

minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a

large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor

Binns’ desk.

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak.

“I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and

very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s

filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real

dementor. The boggart will turn into a dementor when

he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him. I can

store him in my office when we’re not using him;

there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he

wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin

had found such a good substitute for a real dementor.

“So …” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand,

and indicated that Harry should do the same. “The

spell I am going to try and teach you is highly

advanced magic, Harry — well beyond Ordinary

Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”

“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.

“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a

Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-

dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between

you and the dementor.”

Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching

behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club.

Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of

positive force, a projection of the very things that the

dementor feeds upon — hope, happiness, the desire

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to survive — but it cannot feel despair, as real

humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it. But I

must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too

advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have

difficulty with it.”

“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry

curiously.

“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”

“And how do you conjure it?”

“With an incantation, which will work only if you are

concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very

happy memory.”

Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory.

Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the

Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, he settled on the

moment when he had first ridden a broomstick.

“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible

the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach.

“The incantation is this —” Lupin cleared his throat.

“Expecto patronum!”

“Expecto patronum,” Harry repeated under his breath,

“expecto patronum. ”

“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?”

“Oh — yeah —” said Harry, quickly forcing his

thoughts back to that first broom ride. “Expecto

patrono — no, patronum — sorry — expecto patronum, expecto patronum —”

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Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his

wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “Something

happened!”

“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling. “Right, then — ready

to try it on a dementor?”

“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and

moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He

tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else

kept intruding. … Any second now, he might hear his

mother again … but he shouldn’t think that, or he

would hear her again, and he didn’t want to … or did

he?

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face

turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand

gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom

flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from

the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry,

drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing

cold broke over him —

“Expecto patronum!” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum!

Expecto —”

But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving.

… Harry was falling again through thick white fog,

and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing

inside his head — “Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I’ll do anything —”

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

“Harry!”

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Harry jerked back to life. He was lying flat on his back on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again.

He didn’t have to ask what had happened.

“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat

trickling down behind his glasses.

“Are you all right?” said Lupin.

“Yes …” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks

and leaned against it.

“Here —” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat

this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it

your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if

you had.”

“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the

Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder that time — and

him — Voldemort —”

Lupin looked paler than usual.

“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than

understand —”

“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the

Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if

the dementors turn up at our match against

Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose

this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”

“All right then … ,” said Lupin. “You might want to

select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to

concentrate on. … That one doesn’t seem to have

been strong enough. …”

Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when

Gryffindor had won the House Championship last

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year had definitely qualified as very happy. He

gripped his wand tightly again and took up his

position in the middle of the classroom.

“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.

“Ready,” said Harry, trying hard to fill his head with

happy thoughts about Gryffindor winning, and not

dark thoughts about what was going to happen when

the box opened.

“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went

icily cold and dark once more. The dementor glided

forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was

extending toward Harry —

“Expecto patronum!” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum!

Expecto pat —”

White fog obscured his senses … big, blurred shapes

were moving around him … then came a new voice, a

man’s voice, shouting, panicking —

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off —”

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room — a

door bursting open — a cackle of high-pitched

laughter —

“Harry! Harry … wake up. …”

Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face. This time

it was a minute before Harry understood why he was

lying on a dusty classroom floor.

“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first

time I’ve ever heard him — he tried to take on

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Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it.

…”

Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his

face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low

as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending

to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.

“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice.

“Yeah …” Face dry, Harry looked up. “Why — you

didn’t know my dad, did you?”

“I — I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were

friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Harry — perhaps we

should leave it here for tonight. This charm is

ridiculously advanced. … I shouldn’t have suggested

putting you through this. …”

“No!” said Harry. He got up again. “I’ll have one more

go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s

what it is. … Hang on. …”

He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory

… one that he could turn into a good, strong

Patronus …

The moment when he’d first found out he was a

wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for

Hogwarts! If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t

know what was. … Concentrating very hard on how

he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet

Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case

once more.

“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were

doing this against his better judgment.

“Concentrating hard? All right — go!”

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He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and

dark —

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry bellowed. “EXPECTO

PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again

— except this time, it sounded as though it were

coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder

and softer again — and he could still see the

dementor — it had halted — and then a huge, silver

shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand,

to hover between him and the dementor, and though

Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet —

though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure —

“Riddikulus!” roared Lupin, springing forward.

There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus

vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a

chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile,

and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye,

he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into

the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a

silvery orb again.

“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry

sat. “Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!”

“Can we have another go? Just one more go?”

“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for

one night. Here —”

He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ best

chocolate.

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“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood.

Same time next week?”

“Okay,” said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate

and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had

rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. A

thought had just occurred to him.

“Professor Lupin?” he said. “If you knew my dad, you

must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”

Lupin turned very quickly.

“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.

“Nothing — I mean, I just knew they were friends at

Hogwarts too. …”

Lupin’s face relaxed.

“Yes, I knew him,” he said shortly. “Or I thought I did.

You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.”

Harry left the classroom, walking along the corridor

and around a corner, then took a detour behind a

suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish

his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Black, as

Lupin was obviously not keen on the subject. Then

Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his mother and

father. …

He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he

was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear

his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head,

these were the only times Harry had heard their

voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never

be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half

wanted to hear his parents again. …

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“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly. “They’re dead and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them

back. You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want

that Quidditch Cup.”

He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into

his mouth, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of

term. Slytherin won, though narrowly. According to

Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor, who would

take second place if they beat Ravenclaw too. He

therefore increased the number of team practices to

five a week. This meant that with Lupin’s anti-

dementor classes, which in themselves were more

draining than six Quidditch practices, Harry had just

one night a week to do all his homework. Even so, he

wasn’t showing the strain nearly as much as

Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to

be getting to her. Every night, without fail, Hermione

was to be seen in a corner of the common room,

several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts,

rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy

objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she

barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was

interrupted.

“How’s she doing it?” Ron muttered to Harry one

evening as Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on

Undetectable Poisons for Snape. Harry looked up.

Hermione was barely visible behind a tottering pile of

books.

“Doing what?”

“Getting to all her classes!” Ron said. “I heard her

talking to Professor Vector, that Arithmancy witch,

this morning. They were going on about yesterday’s

lesson, but Hermione can’t’ve been there, because she

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was with us in Care of Magical Creatures! And Ernie McMillan told me she’s never missed a Muggle

Studies class, but half of them are at the same time

as Divination, and she’s never missed one of them

either!”

Harry didn’t have time to fathom the mystery of

Hermione’s impossible schedule at the moment; he

really needed to get on with Snape’s essay. Two

seconds later, however, he was interrupted again, this

time by Wood.

“Bad news, Harry. I’ve just been to see Professor

McGonagall about the Firebolt. She — er — got a bit

shirty with me. Told me I’d got my priorities wrong.

Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup

than I do about you staying alive. Just because I told

her I didn’t care if it threw you off, as long as you

caught the Snitch first.” Wood shook his head in

disbelief. “Honestly, the way she was yelling at me …

you’d think I’d said something terrible. … Then I

asked her how much longer she was going to keep it.

…” He screwed up his face and imitated Professor

McGonagall’s severe voice. “ ‘As long as necessary,

Wood’ … I reckon it’s time you ordered a new broom,

Harry. There’s an order form at the back of Which

Broomstick … you could get a Nimbus Two Thousand

and One, like Malfoy’s got.”

“I’m not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good,” said

Harry flatly.

January faded imperceptibly into February, with no

change in the bitterly cold weather. The match

against Ravenclaw was drawing nearer and nearer,

but Harry still hadn’t ordered a new broom. He was

now asking Professor McGonagall for news of the

Firebolt after every Transfiguration lesson, Ron

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standing hopefully at his shoulder, Hermione rushing past with her face averted.

“No, Potter, you can’t have it back yet,” Professor

McGonagall told him the twelfth time this happened,

before he’d even opened his mouth. “We’ve checked

for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick

believes the broom might be carrying a Hurling Hex. I

shall tell you once we’ve finished checking it. Now,

please stop badgering me.”

To make matters even worse, Harry’s anti-dementor

lessons were not going nearly as well as he had

hoped. Several sessions on, he was able to produce

an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart-

dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too

feeble to drive the dementor away. All it did was

hover, like a semi-transparent cloud, draining Harry

of energy as he fought to keep it there. Harry felt

angry with himself, guilty about his secret desire to

hear his parents’ voices again.

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” said

Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of

practice. “For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an

indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement. You aren’t

passing out anymore, are you?”

“I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors

down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly. “Make

them disappear —”

“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin. “But

you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of

time. If the dementors put in an appearance at your

next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them

at bay long enough to get back to the ground.”

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“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said Harry.

“I have complete confidence in you,” said Lupin,

smiling. “Here — you’ve earned a drink — something

from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it

before —”

He pulled two bottles out of his briefcase.

“Butterbeer!” said Harry, without thinking. “Yeah, I

like that stuff!”

Lupin raised an eyebrow.

“Oh — Ron and Hermione brought me some back

from Hogsmeade,” Harry lied quickly.

“I see,” said Lupin, though he still looked slightly

suspicious. “Well — let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory

against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take

sides, as a teacher … ,” he added hastily.

They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry

voiced something he’d been wondering for a while.

“What’s under a dementor’s hood?”

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully.

“Hmmm … well, the only people who really know are

in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor

lowers its hood only to use its last and worst

weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a

slightly twisted smile. “It’s what dementors do to

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those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because

they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim

and — and suck out his soul.”

Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer.

“What — they kill — ?”

“Oh no,” said Lupin. “Much worse than that. You can

exist without your soul, you know, as long as your

brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no

sense of self anymore, no memory, no … anything.

There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just —

exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever

… lost.”

Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s

the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the Daily

Prophet this morning. The Ministry have given the

dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”

Harry sat stunned for a moment at the idea of

someone having their soul sucked out through their

mouth. But then he thought of Black.

“He deserves it,” he said suddenly.

“You think so?” said Lupin lightly. “Do you really

think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes,” said Harry defiantly. “For … for some things …”

He would have liked to have told Lupin about the

conversation he’d overheard about Black in the Three

Broomsticks, about Black betraying his mother and

father, but it would have involved revealing that he’d

gone to Hogsmeade without permission, and he knew

Lupin wouldn’t be very impressed by that. So he

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finished his butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and left the History of Magic classroom.

Harry half wished that he hadn’t asked what was

under a dementor’s hood, the answer had been so

horrible, and he was so lost in unpleasant thoughts of

what it would feel like to have your soul sucked out of

you that he walked headlong into Professor

McGonagall halfway up the stairs.

“Do watch where you’re going, Potter!”

“Sorry, Professor —”

“I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor

common room. Well, here it is, we’ve done everything

we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be

anything wrong with it at all. You’ve got a very good

friend somewhere, Potter. …”

Harry’s jaw dropped. She was holding out his

Firebolt, and it looked as magnificent as ever.

“I can have it back?” Harry said weakly. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” said Professor McGonagall, and she was

actually smiling. “I daresay you’ll need to get the feel

of it before Saturday’s match, won’t you? And Potter

— do try and win, won’t you? Or we’ll be out of the

running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor

Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night.

…”

Speechless, Harry carried the Firebolt back upstairs

toward Gryffindor Tower. As he turned a corner, he

saw Ron dashing toward him, grinning from ear to

ear.

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“She gave it to you? Excellent! Listen, can I still have a go on it? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah … anything … ,” said Harry, his heart lighter

than it had been in a month. “You know what — we

should make up with Hermione. … She was only

trying to help. …”

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. “She’s in the common

room now — working, for a change —”

They turned into the corridor to Gryffindor Tower and

saw Neville Longbottom, pleading with Sir Cadogan,

who seemed to be refusing him entrance.

“I wrote them down!” Neville was saying tearfully.

“But I must’ve dropped them somewhere!”

“A likely tale!” roared Sir Cadogan. Then, spotting

Harry and Ron: “Good even, my fine young yeomen!

Come clap this loon in irons. He is trying to force

entry to the chambers within!”

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron as he and Harry drew level

with Neville.

“I’ve lost the passwords!” Neville told them miserably.

“I made him tell me what passwords he was going to

use this week, because he keeps changing them, and

now I don’t know what I’ve done with them!”

“Oddsbodikins,” said Harry to Sir Cadogan, who

looked extremely disappointed and reluctantly swung

forward to let them into the common room. There was

a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and

the next moment, Harry was surrounded by people

exclaiming over his Firebolt.

“Where’d you get it, Harry?”

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“Will you let me have a go?”

“Have you ridden it yet, Harry?”

“Ravenclaw’ll have no chance, they’re all on

Cleansweep Sevens!”

“Can I just hold it, Harry?”

After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was

passed around and admired from every angle, the

crowd dispersed and Harry and Ron had a clear view

of Hermione, the only person who hadn’t rushed over

to them, bent over her work and carefully avoiding

their eyes. Harry and Ron approached her table and

at last, she looked up.

“I got it back,” said Harry, grinning at her and holding

up the Firebolt.

“See, Hermione? There wasn’t anything wrong with

it!” said Ron.

“Well — there might have been!” said Hermione. “I

mean, at least you know now that it’s safe!”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Harry. “I’d better put it

upstairs —”

“I’ll take it!” said Ron eagerly. “I’ve got to give

Scabbers his rat tonic.”

He took the Firebolt and, holding it as if it were made

of glass, carried it away up the boys’ staircase.

“Can I sit down, then?” Harry asked Hermione.

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, moving a great stack

of parchment off a chair.

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Harry looked around at the cluttered table, at the long Arithmancy essay on which the ink was still

glistening, at the even longer Muggle Studies essay

(“Explain Why Muggles Need Electricity”) and at the

rune translation Hermione was now poring over.

“How are you getting through all this stuff?” Harry

asked her.

“Oh, well — you know — working hard,” said

Hermione. Close-up, Harry saw that she looked

almost as tired as Lupin.

“Why don’t you just drop a couple of subjects?” Harry

asked, watching her lifting books as she searched for

her rune dictionary.

“I couldn’t do that!” said Hermione, looking

scandalized.

“Arithmancy looks terrible,” said Harry, picking up a

very complicated-looking number chart.

“Oh no, it’s wonderful!” said Hermione earnestly. “It’s

my favorite subject! It’s —”

But exactly what was wonderful about Arithmancy,

Harry never found out. At that precise moment, a

strangled yell echoed down the boys’ staircase. The

whole common room fell silent, staring, petrified, at

the entrance. Then came hurried footsteps, growing

louder and louder — and then Ron came leaping into

view, dragging with him a bedsheet.

“LOOK!” he bellowed, striding over to Hermione’s

table. “LOOK!” he yelled, shaking the sheets in her

face.

“Ron, what — ?”

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“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!”

Hermione was leaning away from Ron, looking utterly

bewildered. Harry looked down at the sheet Ron was

holding. There was something red on it. Something

that looked horribly like —

“BLOOD!” Ron yelled into the stunned silence. “HE’S

GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE

FLOOR?”

“N — no,” said Hermione in a trembling voice.

Ron threw something down onto Hermione’s rune

translation. Hermione and Harry leaned forward.

Lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several

long, ginger cat hairs.

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GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW

It looked like the end of Ron and Hermione’s

friendship. Each was so angry with the other that

Harry couldn’t see how they’d ever make up.

Ron was enraged that Hermione had never taken

Crookshanks’s attempts to eat Scabbers seriously,

hadn’t bothered to keep a close enough watch on him,

and was still trying to pretend that Crookshanks was

innocent by suggesting that Ron look for Scabbers

under all the boys’ beds. Hermione, meanwhile,

maintained fiercely that Ron had no proof that

Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, that the ginger

hairs might have been there since Christmas, and

that Ron had been prejudiced against her cat ever

since Crookshanks had landed on Ron’s head in the

Magical Menagerie.

Personally, Harry was sure that Crookshanks had

eaten Scabbers, and when he tried to point out to

Hermione that the evidence all pointed that way, she

lost her temper with Harry too.

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“Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would!” she said

shrilly. “First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything’s

my fault, isn’t it! Just leave me alone, Harry, I’ve got a

lot of work to do!”

Ron had taken the loss of his rat very hard indeed.

“Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring

Scabbers was,” said Fred bracingly “And he’s been

off-color for ages, he was wasting away. It was

probably better for him to snuff it quickly — one

swallow — he probably didn’t feel a thing.”

“Fred!” said Ginny indignantly.

“All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said it

yourself,” said George.

“He bit Goyle for us once!” Ron said miserably.

“Remember, Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Harry.

“His finest hour,” said Fred, unable to keep a straight

face. “Let the scar on Goyle’s finger stand as a lasting

tribute to his memory. Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself

down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat, what’s the

point of moaning?”

In a last-ditch attempt to cheer Ron up, Harry

persuaded him to come along to the Gryffindor team’s

final practice before the Ravenclaw match, so that he

could have a ride on the Firebolt after they’d finished.

This did seem to take Ron’s mind off Scabbers for a

moment (“Great! Can I try and shoot a few goals on

it?”) so they set off for the Quidditch field together.

Madam Hooch, who was still overseeing Gryffindor

practices to keep an eye on Harry, was just as

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impressed with the Firebolt as everyone else had

been. She took it in her hands before takeoff and gave

them the benefit of her professional opinion.

“Look at the balance on it! If the Nimbus series has a

fault, it’s a slight list to the tail end — you often find

they develop a drag after a few years. They’ve updated

the handle too, a bit slimmer than the Cleansweeps,

reminds me of the old Silver Arrows — a pity they’ve

stopped making them. I learned to fly on one, and a

very fine old broom it was too. …”

She continued in this vein for some time, until Wood

said, “Er — Madam Hooch? Is it okay if Harry has the

Firebolt back? We need to practice. …”

“Oh — right — here you are, then, Potter,” said

Madam Hooch. “I’ll sit over here with Weasley …”

She and Ron left the field to sit in the stadium, and

the Gryffindor team gathered around Wood for his

final instructions for tomorrow’s match.

“Harry, I’ve just found out who Ravenclaw is playing

as Seeker. It’s Cho Chang. She’s a fourth year, and

she’s pretty good. … I really hoped she wouldn’t be fit,

she’s had some problems with injuries. …” Wood

scowled his displeasure that Cho Chang had made a

full recovery, then said, “On the other hand, she rides

a Comet Two Sixty, which is going to look like a joke

next to the Firebolt.” He gave Harry’s broom a look of

fervent admiration, then said, “Okay, everyone, let’s

go —”

And at long last, Harry mounted his Firebolt, and

kicked off from the ground.

It was better than he’d ever dreamed. The Firebolt

turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his

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thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the field at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-and-gray blur; Harry turned it so sharply that Alicia

Spinnet screamed, then he went into a perfectly

controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes

before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again —

“Harry, I’m letting the Snitch out!” Wood called.

Harry turned and raced a Bludger toward the goal

posts; he outstripped it easily, saw the Snitch dart

out from behind Wood, and within ten seconds had

caught it tightly in his hand.

The team cheered madly. Harry let the Snitch go

again, gave it a minute’s head start, then tore after it,

weaving in and out of the others; he spotted it lurking

near Katie Bell’s knee, looped her easily, and caught

it again.

It was the best practice ever; the team, inspired by

the presence of the Firebolt in their midst, performed

their best moves faultlessly, and by the time they hit

the ground again, Wood didn’t have a single criticism

to make, which, as George Weasley pointed out, was a

first.

“I can’t see what’s going to stop us tomorrow!” said

Wood. “Not unless — Harry, you’ve sorted out your

dementor problem, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, thinking of his feeble Patronus

and wishing it were stronger.

“The dementors won’t turn up again, Oliver.

Dumbledore’d go ballistic,” said Fred confidently.

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“Well, let’s hope not,” said Wood. “Anyway — good

work, everyone. Let’s get back to the tower … turn in

early —”

“I’m staying out for a bit; Ron wants a go on the

Firebolt,” Harry told Wood, and while the rest of the

team headed off to the locker rooms, Harry strode

over to Ron, who vaulted the barrier to the stands

and came to meet him. Madam Hooch had fallen

asleep in her seat.

“Here you go,” said Harry, handing Ron the Firebolt.

Ron, an expression of ecstasy on his face, mounted

the broom and zoomed off into the gathering darkness

while Harry walked around the edge of the field,

watching him. Night had fallen before Madam Hooch

awoke with a start, told Harry and Ron off for not

waking her, and insisted that they go back to the

castle.

Harry shouldered the Firebolt and he and Ron walked

out of the shadowy stadium, discussing the Firebolt’s

superbly smooth action, its phenomenal acceleration,

and its pinpoint turning. They were halfway toward

the castle when Harry, glancing to his left, saw

something that made his heart turn over — a pair of

eyes, gleaming out of the darkness.

Harry stopped dead, his heart banging against his

ribs.

“What’s the matter?” said Ron.

Harry pointed. Ron pulled out his wand and

muttered, “Lumos!”

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A beam of light fell across the grass, hit the bottom of a tree, and illuminated its branches; there, crouching

among the budding leaves, was Crookshanks.

“Get out of here!” Ron roared, and he stooped down

and seized a stone lying on the grass, but before he

could do anything else, Crookshanks had vanished

with one swish of his long ginger tail.

“See?” Ron said furiously, chucking the stone down

again. “She’s still letting him wander about wherever

he wants — probably washing down Scabbers with a

couple of birds now. …”

Harry didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath as

relief seeped through him; he had been sure for a

moment that those eyes had belonged to the Grim.

They set off for the castle once more. Slightly

ashamed of his moment of panic, Harry didn’t say

anything to Ron — nor did he look left or right until

they had reached the well-lit entrance hall.

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning with

the rest of the boys in his dormitory, all of whom

seemed to think the Firebolt deserved a sort of guard

of honor. As Harry entered the Great Hall, heads

turned in the direction of the Firebolt, and there was

a good deal of excited muttering. Harry saw, with

enormous satisfaction, that the Slytherin team were

all looking thunderstruck.

“Did you see his face?” said Ron gleefully, looking

back at Malfoy. “He can’t believe it! This is brilliant!”

Wood, too, was basking in the reflected glory of the

Firebolt.

“Put it here, Harry,” he said, laying the broom in the

middle of the table and carefully turning it so that its

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name faced upward. People from the Ravenclaw and

Hufflepuff tables were soon coming over to look.

Cedric Diggory came over to congratulate Harry on

having acquired such a superb replacement for his

Nimbus, and Percy’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Penelope

Clearwater, asked if she could actually hold the

Firebolt.

“Now, now, Penny, no sabotage!” said Percy heartily

as she examined the Firebolt closely “Penelope and I

have got a bet on,” he told the team. “Ten Galleons on

the outcome of the match!”

Penelope put the Firebolt down again, thanked Harry,

and went back to her table.

“Harry — make sure you win,” said Percy, in an

urgent whisper. “I haven’t got ten Galleons. Yes, I’m coming, Penny!” And he bustled off to join her in a

piece of toast.

“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” said a

cold, drawling voice.

Draco Malfoy had arrived for a closer look, Crabbe

and Goyle right behind him.

“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually.

“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” said Malfoy,

eyes glittering maliciously. “Shame it doesn’t come

with a parachute — in case you get too near a

dementor.”

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.

“Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy,”

said Harry. “Then it could catch the Snitch for you.”

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The Gryffindor team laughed loudly. Malfoy’s pale

eyes narrowed, and he stalked away. They watched

him rejoin the rest of the Slytherin team, who put

their heads together, no doubt asking Malfoy whether

Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt.

At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for

the locker rooms. The weather couldn’t have been

more different from their match against Hufflepuff. It

was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze; there

would be no visibility problems this time, and Harry,

though nervous, was starting to feel the excitement

only a Quidditch match could bring. They could hear

the rest of the school moving into the stadium

beyond. Harry took off his black school robes,

removed his wand from his pocket, and stuck it

inside the T-shirt he was going to wear under his

Quidditch robes. He only hoped he wouldn’t need it.

He wondered suddenly whether Professor Lupin was

in the crowd, watching.

“You know what we’ve got to do,” said Wood as they

prepared to leave the locker rooms. “If we lose this

match, we’re out of the running. Just — just fly like

you did in practice yesterday, and we’ll be okay!”

They walked out onto the field to tumultuous

applause. The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, were

already standing in the middle of the field. Their

Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team.

She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and

Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that

she was extremely pretty. She smiled at Harry as the

teams faced each other behind their captains, and he

felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he

didn’t think had anything to do with nerves.

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“Wood, Davies, shake hands,” Madam Hooch said

briskly, and Wood shook hands with the Ravenclaw

Captain.

“Mount your brooms … on my whistle … three — two

— one —”

Harry kicked off into the air and the Firebolt zoomed

higher and faster than any other broom; he soared

around the stadium and began squinting around for

the Snitch, listening all the while to the commentary,

which was being provided by the Weasley twins’

friend Lee Jordan.

“They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the

Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor.

According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s going to

be the broom of choice for the national teams at this

year’s World Championship —”

“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in

the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of

background information — the Firebolt, incidentally,

has a built-in auto-brake and —”

“Jordan!”

“Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of

Gryffindor heading for goal …”

Harry streaked past Katie in the opposite direction,

gazing around for a glint of gold and noticing that Cho

Chang was tailing him closely. She was undoubtedly

a very good flier — she kept cutting across him,

forcing him to change direction.

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“Show her your acceleration, Harry!” Fred yelled as he whooshed past in pursuit of a Bludger that was

aiming for Alicia.

Harry urged the Firebolt forward as they rounded the

Ravenclaw goal posts and Cho fell behind. Just as

Katie succeeded in scoring the first goal of the match,

and the Gryffindor end of the field went wild, he saw

it — the Snitch was close to the ground, flitting near

one of the barriers.

Harry dived; Cho saw what he was doing and tore

after him — Harry was speeding up, excitement

flooding him; dives were his speciality, he was ten feet

away —

Then a Bludger, hit by one of the Ravenclaw Beaters,

came pelting out of nowhere; Harry veered off course,

avoiding it by an inch, and in those few, crucial

seconds, the Snitch had vanished.

There was a great “Ooooooh” of disappointment from

the Gryffindor supporters, but much applause for

their Beater from the Ravenclaw end. George Weasley

vented his feelings by hitting the second Bludger

directly at the offending Beater, who was forced to roll

right over in midair to avoid it.

“Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at

that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its

paces now, see it turn — Chang’s Comet is just no

match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really

noticeable in these long —”

“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE

FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”

Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored

three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points

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ahead — if Cho got the Snitch before him, Ravenclaw would win. Harry dropped lower, narrowly avoiding a

Ravenclaw Chaser, scanning the field frantically — a

glint of gold, a flutter of tiny wings — the Snitch was

circling the Gryffindor goal post —

Harry accelerated, eyes fixed on the speck of gold

ahead — but just then, Cho appeared out of thin air,

blocking him —

“HARRY, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!”

Wood roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision.

“KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!”

Harry turned and caught sight of Cho; she was

grinning. The Snitch had vanished again. Harry

turned his Firebolt upward and was soon twenty feet

above the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw

Cho following him. … She’d decided to mark him

rather than search for the Snitch herself. … All right,

then … if she wanted to tail him, she’d have to take

the consequences. …

He dived again, and Cho, thinking he’d seen the

Snitch, tried to follow; Harry pulled out of the dive

very sharply; she hurtled downward; he rose fast as a

bullet once more, and then saw it, for the third time

— the Snitch was glittering way above the field at the

Ravenclaw end.

He accelerated; so, many feet below, did Cho. He was

winning, gaining on the Snitch with every second —

then —

“Oh!” screamed Cho, pointing.

Distracted, Harry looked down.

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Three dementors, three tall, black, hooded dementors, were looking up at him.

He didn’t stop to think. Plunging a hand down the

neck of his robes, he whipped out his wand and

roared, “Expecto patronum!”

Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted

from the end of his wand. He knew it had shot

directly at the dementors but didn’t pause to watch;

his mind still miraculously clear, he looked ahead —

he was nearly there. He stretched out the hand still

grasping his wand and just managed to close his

fingers over the small, struggling Snitch.

Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded. Harry turned

around in midair and saw six scarlet blurs bearing

down on him; next moment, the whole team was

hugging him so hard he was nearly pulled off his

broom. Down below he could hear the roars of the

Gryffindors in the crowd.

“That’s my boy!” Wood kept yelling. Alicia, Angelina,

and Katie had all kissed Harry; Fred had him in a grip

so tight Harry felt as though his head would come off.

In complete disarray, the team managed to make its

way back to the ground. Harry got off his broom and

looked up to see a gaggle of Gryffindor supporters

sprinting onto the field, Ron in the lead. Before he

knew it, he had been engulfed by the cheering crowd.

“Yes!” Ron yelled, yanking Harry’s arm into the air.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Well done, Harry!” said Percy, looking delighted. “Ten

Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me —”

“Good for you, Harry!” roared Seamus Finnigan.

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“Ruddy brilliant!” boomed Hagrid over the heads of the milling Gryffindors.

“That was quite some Patronus,” said a voice in

Harry’s ear.

Harry turned around to see Professor Lupin, who

looked both shaken and pleased.

“The dementors didn’t affect me at all!” Harry said

excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!”

“That would be because they — er — weren’t

dementors,” said Professor Lupin. “Come and see —”

He led Harry out of the crowd until they were able to

see the edge of the field.

“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin.

Harry stared. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground

were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the

Slytherin team Captain, all struggling to remove

themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked

as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle’s

shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of

the utmost fury on her face, was Professor

McGonagall.

“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and

cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker!

Detention for all of you, and fifty points from

Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor

Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here

he comes now!”

If anything could have set the seal on Gryffindor’s

victory, it was this. Ron, who had fought his way

through to Harry’s side, doubled up with laughter as

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they watched Malfoy fighting to extricate himself from the robe, Goyle’s head still stuck inside it.

“Come on, Harry!” said George, fighting his way over.

“Party! Gryffindor common room, now!”

“Right,” said Harry, and feeling happier than he had

in ages, he and the rest of the team led the way, still

in their scarlet robes, out of the stadium and back up

to the castle.

It felt as though they had already won the Quidditch

Cup; the party went on all day and well into the night.

Fred and George Weasley disappeared for a couple of

hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of

butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of

Honeydukes sweets.

“How did you do that?” squealed Angelina Johnson as

George started throwing Peppermint Toads into the

crowd.

“With a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and

Prongs,” Fred muttered in Harry’s ear.

Only one person wasn’t joining in the festivities.

Hermione, incredibly, was sitting in a corner,

attempting to read an enormous book entitled Home

Life and Social Habits of British Muggles. Harry broke

away from the table where Fred and George had

started juggling butterbeer bottles and went over to

her.

“Did you even come to the match?” he asked her.

“Of course I did,” said Hermione in a strangely high-

pitched voice, not looking up. “And I’m very glad we

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won, and I think you did really well, but I need to read this by Monday.”

“Come on, Hermione, come and have some food,”

Harry said, looking over at Ron and wondering

whether he was in a good enough mood to bury the

hatchet.

“I can’t, Harry. I’ve still got four hundred and twenty-

two pages to read!” said Hermione, now sounding

slightly hysterical. “Anyway …” She glanced over at

Ron too. “He doesn’t want me to join in.”

There was no arguing with this, as Ron chose that

moment to say loudly, “If Scabbers hadn’t just been

eaten, he could have had some of those Fudge Flies.

He used to really like them —”

Hermione burst into tears. Before Harry could say or

do anything, she tucked the enormous book under

her arm, and, still sobbing, ran toward the staircase

to the girls’ dormitories and out of sight.

“Can’t you give her a break?” Harry asked Ron

quietly.

“No,” said Ron flatly. “If she just acted like she was

sorry — but she’ll never admit she’s wrong, Hermione.

She’s still acting like Scabbers has gone on vacation

or something.”

The Gryffindor party ended only when Professor

McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown

and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they

all go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to

their dormitory, still discussing the match. At last,

exhausted, Harry climbed into bed, twitched the

hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of

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moonlight, lay back, and felt himself almost instantly drifting off to sleep. …

He had a very strange dream. He was walking

through a forest, his Firebolt over his shoulder,

following something silvery-white. It was winding its

way through the trees ahead, and he could only catch

glimpses of it between the leaves. Anxious to catch up

with it, he sped up, but as he moved faster, so did his

quarry. Harry broke into a run, and ahead he heard

hooves gathering speed. Now he was running flat out,

and ahead he could hear galloping. Then he turned a

corner into a clearing and —

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH

! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Harry woke as suddenly as though he’d been hit in

the face. Disoriented in the total darkness, he

fumbled with his hangings — he could hear

movements around him, and Seamus Finnigan’s voice

from the other side of the room: “What’s going on?”

Harry thought he heard the dormitory door slam. At

last finding the divide in his curtains, he ripped them

back, and at the same moment, Dean Thomas lit his

lamp.

Ron was sitting up in bed, the hangings torn from one

side, a look of utmost terror on his face.

“Black! Sirius Black! With a knife!”

“What?”

“Here! Just now! Slashed the curtains! Woke me up!”

“You sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” said Dean.

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“Look at the curtains! I tell you, he was here!”

They all scrambled out of bed; Harry reached the

dormitory door first, and they sprinted back down the

staircase. Doors opened behind them, and sleepy

voices called after them.

“Who shouted?”

“What’re you doing?”

The common room was lit with the glow of the dying

fire, still littered with the debris from the party. It was

deserted.

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?”

“I’m telling you, I saw him!”

“What’s all the noise?”

“Professor McGonagall told us to go to bed!”

A few of the girls had come down their staircase,

pulling on dressing gowns and yawning. Boys, too,

were reappearing.

“Excellent, are we carrying on?” said Fred Weasley

brightly.

“Everyone back upstairs!” said Percy,

hurrying into the common room and pinning his

Head Boy badge to his pajamas as he spoke.

“Perce — Sirius Black!” said Ron faintly. “In our

dormitory! With a knife! Woke me up!”

The common room went very still.

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“Nonsense!” said Percy, looking startled. “You had too much to eat, Ron — had a nightmare —”

“I’m telling you —”

“Now, really, enough’s enough!”

Professor McGonagall was back. She slammed the

portrait behind her as she entered the common room

and stared furiously around.

“I am delighted that Gryffindor won the match, but

this is getting ridiculous! Percy, I expected better of

you!”

“I certainly didn’t authorize this, Professor!” said

Percy, puffing himself up indignantly. “I was just

telling them all to get back to bed! My brother Ron

here had a nightmare —”

“IT WASN’T A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled.

“PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS

STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!”

Professor McGonagall stared at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley, how could he possibly

have gotten through the portrait hole?”

“Ask him!” said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at the

back of Sir Cadogan’s picture. “Ask him if he saw —”

Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall

pushed the portrait back open and went outside. The

whole common room listened with bated breath.

“Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor

Tower?”

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“Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan.

There was a stunned silence, both inside and outside

the common room.

“You — you did?” said Professor McGonagall. “But —

but the password!”

“He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly. “Had the

whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of

paper!”

Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the

portrait hole to face the stunned crowd. She was

white as chalk.

“Which person,” she said, her voice shaking, “which

abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s

passwords and left them lying around?”

There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of

terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from

head to fluffy-slippered toes, raised his hand slowly

into the air.

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SNAPE’S GRUDGE

No one in Gryffindor Tower slept that night. They

knew that the castle was being searched again, and

the whole House stayed awake in the common room,

waiting to hear whether Black had been caught.

Professor McGonagall came back at dawn, to tell

them that he had again escaped.

Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw

signs of tighter security; Professor Flitwick could be

seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large

picture of Sirius Black; Filch was suddenly bustling

up and down the corridors, boarding up everything

from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. Sir

Cadogan had been fired. His portrait had been taken

back to its lonely landing on the seventh floor, and

the Fat Lady was back. She had been expertly

restored, but was still extremely nervous, and had

agreed to return to her job only on condition that she

was given extra protection. A bunch of surly security

trolls had been hired to guard her. They paced the

corridor in a menacing group, talking in grunts and

comparing the size of their clubs.

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Harry couldn’t help noticing that the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor remained unguarded

and unblocked. It seemed that Fred and George had

been right in thinking that they — and now Harry,

Ron, and Hermione — were the only ones who knew

about the hidden passageway within it.

“D’you reckon we should tell someone?” Harry asked

Ron.

“We know he’s not coming in through Honeyduke’s,”

said Ron dismissively “We’d’ve heard if the shop had

been broken into.”

Harry was glad Ron took this view. If the one-eyed

witch was boarded up too, he would never be able to

go into Hogsmeade again.

Ron had become an instant celebrity. For the first

time in his life, people were paying more attention to

him than to Harry, and it was clear that Ron was

rather enjoying the experience. Though still severely

shaken by the night’s events, he was happy to tell

anyone who asked what had happened, with a wealth

of detail.

“… I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I

thought it was in my dream, you know? But then

there was this draft … I woke up and one side of the

hangings on my bed had been pulled down. … I rolled

over … and I saw him standing over me … like a

skeleton, with loads of filthy hair … holding this great

long knife, must’ve been twelve inches … and he

looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled,

and he scampered.

“Why, though?” Ron added to Harry as the group of

second-year girls who had been listening to his

chilling tale departed. “Why did he run?”

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Harry had been wondering the same thing. Why had

Black, having got the wrong bed, not silenced Ron

and proceeded to Harry? Black had proved twelve

years ago that he didn’t mind murdering innocent

people, and this time he had been facing five

unarmed boys, four of whom were asleep.

“He must’ve known he’d have a job getting back out of

the castle once you’d yelled and woken people up,”

said Harry thoughtfully. “He’d’ve had to kill the whole

House to get back through the portrait hole … then

he would’ve met the teachers. …”

Neville was in total disgrace. Professor McGonagall

was so furious with him she had banned him from all

future Hogsmeade visits, given him a detention, and

forbidden anyone to give him the password into the

tower. Poor Neville was forced to wait outside the

common room every night for somebody to let him in,

while the security trolls leered unpleasantly at him.

None of these punishments, however, came close to

matching the one his grandmother had in store for

him. Two days after Black’s break-in, she sent Neville

the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive

over breakfast — a Howler.

The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying

the mail as usual, and Neville choked as a huge barn

owl landed in front of him, a scarlet envelope clutched

in its beak. Harry and Ron, who were sitting opposite

him, recognized the letter as a Howler at once — Ron

had got one from his mother the year before.

“Run for it, Neville,” Ron advised.

Neville didn’t need telling twice. He seized the

envelope, and holding it before him like a bomb,

sprinted out of the hall, while the Slytherin table

exploded with laughter at the sight of him. They

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heard the Howler go off in the entrance hall —

Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to

a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about

how he had brought shame on the whole family.

Harry was too busy feeling sorry for Neville to notice

immediately that he had a letter too. Hedwig got his

attention by nipping him sharply on the wrist.

“Ouch! Oh — thanks, Hedwig.”

Harry tore open the envelope while Hedwig helped

herself to some of Neville’s cornflakes. The note inside

said:

Dear Harry and Ron,

How about having tea with me this afternoon ’round

six?

I’ll come and collect you from the castle.

WAIT FOR ME IN THE ENTRANCE HALL;

YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED OUT ON YOUR OWN.

Cheers,

Hagrid

“He probably wants to hear all about Black!” said

Ron.

So at six o’clock that afternoon, Harry and Ron left

Gryffindor Tower, passed the security trolls at a run,

and headed down to the entrance hall.

Hagrid was already waiting for them.

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“All right, Hagrid!” said Ron. “S’pose you want to hear about Saturday night, do you?”

“I’ve already heard all abou’ it,” said Hagrid, opening

the front doors and leading them outside.

“Oh,” said Ron, looking slightly put out.

The first thing they saw on entering Hagrid’s cabin

was Buckbeak, who was stretched out on top of

Hagrid’s patchwork quilt, his enormous wings folded

tight to his body, enjoying a large plate of dead

ferrets. Averting his eyes from this unpleasant sight,

Harry saw a gigantic, hairy brown suit and a very

horrible yellow-and-orange tie hanging from the top of

Hagrid’s wardrobe door.

“What are they for, Hagrid?” said Harry.

“Buckbeak’s case against the Committee fer the

Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures,” said Hagrid. “This

Friday. Him an’ me’ll be goin’ down ter London

together. I’ve booked two beds on the Knight Bus. …”

Harry felt a nasty pang of guilt. He had completely

forgotten that Buckbeak’s trial was so near, and

judging by the uneasy look on Ron’s face, he had too.

They had also forgotten their promise about helping

him prepare Buckbeak’s defense; the arrival of the

Firebolt had driven it clean out of their minds.

Hagrid poured them tea and offered them a plate of

Bath buns, but they knew better than to accept; they

had had too much experience with Hagrid’s cooking.

“I got somethin’ ter discuss with you two,” said

Hagrid, sitting himself between them and looking

uncharacteristically serious.

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“What?” said Harry.

“Hermione,” said Hagrid.

“What about her?” said Ron.

“She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin comin’

down ter visit me a lot since Chris’mas. Bin feelin’

lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the

Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat —”

“— ate Scabbers!” Ron interjected angrily.

“Because her cat acted like all cats do,” Hagrid

continued doggedly. “She’s cried a fair few times, yeh

know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment.

Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the

work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me

with Buckbeak’s case, mind. … She’s found some

really good stuff fer me … reckon he’ll stand a good

chance now. …”

“Hagrid, we should’ve helped as well — sorry —”

Harry began awkwardly.

“I’m not blamin’ yeh!” said Hagrid, waving Harry’s

apology aside. “Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be

gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry

hour o’ the day an’ night — but I gotta tell yeh, I

thought you two’d value yer friend more’n

broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.”

Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed

yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place,

Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her —”

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“If she’d just get rid of that cat, I’d speak to her again!” Ron said angrily. “But she’s still sticking up

for it! It’s a maniac, and she won’t hear a word

against it!”

“Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,”

said Hagrid wisely. Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few

ferret bones onto Hagrid’s pillow.

They spent the rest of their visit discussing

Gryffindor’s improved chances for the Quidditch Cup.

At nine o’clock, Hagrid walked them back up to the

castle.

A large group of people was bunched around the

bulletin board when they returned to the common

room.

“Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Ron, craning over

the heads to read the new notice. “What d’you

reckon?” he added quietly to Harry as they went to sit

down.

“Well, Filch hasn’t done anything about the passage

into Honeydukes. …” Harry said, even more quietly.

“Harry!” said a voice in his right ear. Harry started

and looked around at Hermione, who was sitting at

the table right behind them and clearing a space in

the wall of books that had been hiding her.

“Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again … I’ll tell

Professor McGonagall about that map!” said

Hermione.

“Can you hear someone talking, Harry?” growled Ron,

not looking at Hermione.

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“Ron, how can you let him go with you? After what

Sirius Black nearly did to you! I mean it, I’ll tell —”

“So now you’re trying to get Harry expelled!” said Ron

furiously. “Haven’t you done enough damage this

year?”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but with a

soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. Hermione

took one frightened look at the expression on Ron’s

face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away

toward the girls’ dormitories.

“So how about it?” Ron said to Harry as though there

had been no interruption. “Come on, last time we

went you didn’t see anything. You haven’t even been

inside Zonko’s yet!”

Harry looked around to check that Hermione was well

out of earshot.

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m taking the Invisibility Cloak

this time.”

On Saturday morning, Harry packed his Invisibility

Cloak in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his

pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone

else. Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down

the table at him, but he avoided her eye and was

careful to let her see him walking back up the marble

staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else

proceeded to the front doors.

“ ’Bye!” Harry called to Ron. “See you when you get

back!”

Ron grinned and winked.

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Harry hurried up to the third floor, slipping the

Marauder’s Map out of his pocket as he went.

Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it

out. A tiny dot was moving in his direction. Harry

squinted at it. The minuscule writing next to it read

Neville Longbottom.

Harry quickly pulled out his wand, muttered,

“Dissendium!” and shoved his bag into the statue, but

before he could climb in himself, Neville came around

the corner.

“Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade

either!”

“Hi, Neville,” said Harry, moving swiftly away from the

statue and pushing the map back into his pocket.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” shrugged Neville. “Want a game of

Exploding Snap?”

“Er — not now — I was going to go to the library and

do that vampire essay for Lupin —”

“I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly. “I haven’t

done it either!”

“Er — hang on — yeah, I forgot, I finished it last

night!”

“Great, you can help me!” said Neville, his round face

anxious. “I don’t understand that thing about the

garlic at all — do they have to eat it, or —”

He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s

shoulder.

It was Snape. Neville took a quick step behind Harry.

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“And what are you two doing here?” said Snape,

coming to a halt and looking from one to the other.

“An odd place to meet —”

To Harry’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes

flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and

then to the one-eyed witch.

“We’re not — meeting here,” said Harry. “We just —

met here.”

“Indeed?” said Snape. “You have a habit of turning up

in unexpected places, Potter, and you are very rarely

there for no good reason. … I suggest the pair of you

return to Gryffindor Tower, where you belong.”

Harry and Neville set off without another word. As

they turned the corner, Harry looked back. Snape was

running one of his hands over the one-eyed witch’s

head, examining it closely.

Harry managed to shake Neville off at the Fat Lady by

telling him the password, then pretending he’d left his

vampire essay in the library and doubling back. Once

out of sight of the security trolls, he pulled out the

map again and held it close to his nose.

The third floor corridor seemed to be deserted. Harry

scanned the map carefully and saw, with a leap of

relief, that the tiny dot labeled Severus Snape was

now back in its office.

He sprinted back to the one-eyed witch, opened her

hump, heaved himself inside, and slid down to meet

his bag at the bottom of the stone chute. He wiped

the Marauder’s Map blank again, then set off at a

run.

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Harry, completely hidden beneath the Invisibility

Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes

and prodded Ron in the back.

“It’s me,” he muttered.

“What kept you?” Ron hissed.

“Snape was hanging around. …”

They set off up the High Street.

“Where are you?” Ron kept muttering out of the

corner of his mouth. “Are you still there? This feels

weird. …”

They went to the post office; Ron pretended to be

checking the price of an owl to Bill in Egypt so that

Harry could have a good look around. The owls sat

hooting softly down at him, at least three hundred of

them; from Great Grays right down to tiny little Scops

owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small

they could have sat in the palm of Harry’s hand.

Then they visited Zonko’s, which was so packed with

students Harry had to exercise great care not to tread

on anyone and cause a panic. There were jokes and

tricks to fulfill even Fred’s and George’s wildest

dreams; Harry gave Ron whispered orders and passed

him some gold from under the cloak. They left

Zonko’s with their money bags considerably lighter

than they had been on entering, but their pockets

bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn

Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece.

The day was fine and breezy, and neither of them felt

like staying indoors, so they walked past the Three

Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the

Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in

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Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with

its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden.

“Even the Hogwarts ghosts avoid it,” said Ron as they

leaned on the fence, looking up at it. “I asked Nearly

Headless Nick … he says he’s heard a very rough

crowd lives here. No one can get in. Fred and George

tried, obviously, but all the entrances are sealed shut.

…”

Harry, feeling hot from their climb, was just

considering taking off the cloak for a few minutes

when they heard voices nearby. Someone was

climbing toward the house from the other side of the

hill; moments later, Malfoy had appeared, followed

closely by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy was speaking.

“… should have an owl from Father any time now. He

had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm …

about how I couldn’t use it for three months. …”

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.

“I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron

trying to defend himself … ‘There’s no ’arm in ’im,

’onest —’ … that hippogriff’s as good as dead —”

Malfoy suddenly caught sight of Ron. His pale face

split in a malevolent grin.

“What are you doing, Weasley?”

Malfoy looked up at the crumbling house behind Ron.

“Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you,

Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom?

I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that

true?”

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Harry seized the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from leaping on Malfoy.

“Leave him to me,” he hissed in Ron’s ear.

The opportunity was too perfect to miss. Harry crept

silently around behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle,

bent down, and scooped a large handful of mud out of

the path.

“We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,” Malfoy

said to Ron. “Just trying to imagine what he’s saying

to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous

Creatures. D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his

hippogriff’s —”

SPLAT.

Malfoy’s head jerked forward as the mud hit him; his

silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck.

“What the — ?”

Ron had to hold onto the fence to keep himself

standing, he was laughing so hard. Malfoy, Crabbe,

and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly

around, Malfoy trying to wipe his hair clean.

“What was that? Who did that?”

“Very haunted up here, isn’t it?” said Ron, with the

air of one commenting on the weather.

Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared. Their bulging

muscles were no use against ghosts. Malfoy was

staring madly around at the deserted landscape.

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Harry sneaked along the path, where a particularly sloppy puddle yielded some foul-smelling, green

sludge.

SPLATTER.

Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time. Goyle

hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of

his small, dull eyes.

“It came from over there!” said Malfoy, wiping his

face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left of

Harry.

Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms

outstretched like a zombie. Harry dodged around him,

picked up a stick, and lobbed it at Crabbe’s back.

Harry doubled up with silent laughter as Crabbe did a

kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had

thrown it. As Ron was the only person Crabbe could

see, it was Ron he started toward, but Harry stuck

out his leg. Crabbe stumbled — and his huge, flat foot

caught the hem of Harry’s cloak. Harry felt a great

tug, then the cloak slid off his face.

For a split second, Malfoy stared at him.

“AAARGH!” he yelled, pointing at Harry’s head. Then

he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back

down the hill, Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

Harry tugged the cloak up again, but the damage was

done.

“Harry!” Ron said, stumbling forward and staring

hopelessly at the point where Harry had disappeared,

“you’d better run for it! If Malfoy tells anyone — you’d

better get back to the castle, quick —”

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“See you later,” said Harry, and without another

word, he tore back down the path toward Hogsmeade.

Would Malfoy believe what he had seen? Would

anyone believe Malfoy? Nobody knew about the

Invisibility Cloak — nobody except Dumbledore.

Harry’s stomach turned over — Dumbledore would

know exactly what had happened, if Malfoy said

anything —

Back into Honeydukes, back down the cellar steps,

across the stone floor, through the trapdoor — Harry

pulled off the cloak, tucked it under his arm, and ran,

flat out, along the passage. … Malfoy would get back

first … how long would it take him to find a teacher?

Panting, a sharp pain in his side, Harry didn’t slow

down until he reached the stone slide. He would have

to leave the cloak where it was, it was too much of a

giveaway in case Malfoy had tipped off a teacher — he

hid it in a shadowy corner, then started to climb, fast

as he could, his sweaty hands slipping on the sides of

the chute. He reached the inside of the witch’s hump,

tapped it with his wand, stuck his head through, and

hoisted himself out; the hump closed, and just as

Harry jumped out from behind the statue, he heard

quick footsteps approaching.

It was Snape. He approached Harry at a swift walk,

his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of

him.

“So,” he said.

There was a look of suppressed triumph about him.

Harry tried to look innocent, all too aware of his

sweaty face and his muddy hands, which he quickly

hid in his pockets.

“Come with me, Potter,” said Snape.

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Harry followed him downstairs, trying to wipe his

hands clean on the inside of his robes without Snape

noticing. They walked down the stairs to the

dungeons and then into Snape’s office.

Harry had been in here only once before, and he had

been in very serious trouble then too. Snape had

acquired a few more slimy horrible things in jars

since last time, all standing on shelves behind his

desk, glinting in the firelight and adding to the

threatening atmosphere.

“Sit,” said Snape.

Harry sat. Snape, however, remained standing.

“Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange

story, Potter,” said Snape.

Harry didn’t say anything.

“He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack

when he ran into Weasley — apparently alone.”

Still, Harry didn’t speak.

“Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to

Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the

back of the head. How do you think that could have

happened?”

Harry tried to look mildly surprised.

“I don’t know, Professor.”

Snape’s eyes were boring into Harry’s. It was exactly

like trying to stare down a hippogriff. Harry tried hard

not to blink.

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“Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition.

Can you imagine what it might have been, Potter?”

“No,” said Harry, now trying to sound innocently

curious.

“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.”

There was a long silence.

“Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry.

“If he’s seeing things like —”

“What would your head have been doing in

Hogsmeade, Potter?” said Snape softly. “Your head is

not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of your body has

permission to be in Hogsmeade.”

“I know that,” said Harry, striving to keep his face free

of guilt or fear. “It sounds like Malfoy’s having

hallucin —”

“Malfoy is not having hallucinations,” snarled Snape,

and he bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry’s

chair, so that their faces were a foot apart. “If your

head was in Hogsmeade, so was the rest of you.”

“I’ve been up in Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry. “Like

you told —”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Harry didn’t say anything. Snape’s thin mouth curled

into a horrible smile.

“So,” he said, straightening up again. “Everyone from

the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to

keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black. But

famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the

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ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for

the consequences.”

Harry stayed silent. Snape was trying to provoke him

into telling the truth. He wasn’t going to do it. Snape

had no proof — yet.

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,”

Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting. “He too was

exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the

Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above

the rest of us too. Strutting around the place with his

friends and admirers … The resemblance between you

is uncanny.”

“My dad didn’t strut, ” said Harry, before he could stop

himself. “And neither do I.”

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,”

Snape went on, pressing his advantage, his thin face

full of malice. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not

Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen —”

“SHUT UP!”

Harry was suddenly on his feet. Rage such as he had

not felt since his last night in Privet Drive was

coursing through him. He didn’t care that Snape’s

face had gone rigid, the black eyes flashing

dangerously.

“What did you say to me, Potter?”

“I told you to shut up about my dad!” Harry yelled. “I

know the truth, all right? He saved your life!

Dumbledore told me! You wouldn’t even be here if it

wasn’t for my dad!”

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Snape’s sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk.

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances

in which your father saved my life?” he whispered.

“Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for

precious Potter’s delicate ears?”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t know what had happened

and didn’t want to admit it — but Snape seemed to

have guessed the truth.

“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of

your father, Potter,” he said, a terrible grin twisting

his face. “Have you been imagining some act of

glorious heroism? Then let me correct you — your

saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing

joke on me that would have resulted in my death if

your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment.

There was nothing brave about what he did. He was

saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke

succeeded, he would have been expelled from

Hogwarts.”

Snape’s uneven, yellowish teeth were bared.

“Turn out your pockets, Potter!” he spat suddenly.

Harry didn’t move. There was a pounding in his ears.

“Turn out your pockets, or we go straight to the

headmaster! Pull them out, Potter!”

Cold with dread, Harry slowly pulled out the bag of

Zonko’s tricks and the Marauder’s Map.

Snape picked up the Zonko’s bag.

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“Ron gave them to me,” said Harry, praying he’d get a chance to tip Ron off before Snape saw him. “He —

brought them back from Hogsmeade last time —”

“Indeed? And you’ve been carrying them around ever

since? How very touching … and what is this?”

Snape had picked up the map. Harry tried with all his

might to keep his face impassive.

“Spare bit of parchment,” he said with a shrug.

Snape turned it over, his eyes on Harry.

“Surely you don’t need such a very old piece of

parchment?” he said. “Why don’t I just — throw this

away?”

His hand moved toward the fire.

“No!” Harry said quickly.

“So!” said Snape, his long nostrils quivering. “Is this

another treasured gift from Mr. Weasley? Or is it —

something else? A letter, perhaps, written in invisible

ink? Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without

passing the dementors?”

Harry blinked. Snape’s eyes gleamed.

“Let me see, let me see … ,” he muttered, taking out

his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk.

“Reveal your secret!” he said, touching the wand to

the parchment.

Nothing happened. Harry clenched his hands to stop

them from shaking.

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“Show yourself!” Snape said, tapping the map

sharply.

It stayed blank. Harry was taking deep, calming

breaths.

“Professor Severus Snape, master of this school,

commands you to yield the information you conceal!”

Snape said, hitting the map with his wand.

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it,

words appeared on the smooth surface of the map.

“Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor

Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large

nose out of other people’s business.”

Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the

message. But the map didn’t stop there. More writing

was appearing beneath the first.

“Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to

add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.”

It would have been very funny if the situation hadn’t

been so serious. And there was more. …

“Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment

that an idiot like that ever became a professor.”

Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he’d opened

them, the map had had its last word.

“Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and

advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.”

Harry waited for the blow to fall.

“So … ,” said Snape softly. “We’ll see about this. …”

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He strode across to his fire, seized a fistful of

glittering powder from a jar on the fireplace, and

threw it into the flames.

“Lupin!” Snape called into the fire. “I want a word!”

Utterly bewildered, Harry stared at the fire. A large

shape had appeared in it, revolving very fast. Seconds

later, Professor Lupin was clambering out of the

fireplace, brushing ash off his shabby robes.

“You called, Severus?” said Lupin mildly.

“I certainly did,” said Snape, his face contorted with

fury as he strode back to his desk. “I have just asked

Potter to empty his pockets. He was carrying this.”

Snape pointed at the parchment, on which the words

of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

were still shining. An odd, closed expression appeared

on Lupin’s face.

“Well?” said Snape.

Lupin continued to stare at the map. Harry had the

impression that Lupin was doing some very quick

thinking.

“Well?” said Snape again. “This parchment is plainly

full of Dark Magic. This is supposed to be your area of

expertise, Lupin. Where do you imagine Potter got

such a thing?”

Lupin looked up and, by the merest half-glance in

Harry’s direction, warned him not to interrupt.

“Full of Dark Magic?” he repeated mildly. “Do you

really think so, Severus? It looks to me as though it is

merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who

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reads it. Childish, but surely not dangerous? I

imagine Harry got it from a joke shop —”

“Indeed?” said Snape. His jaw had gone rigid with

anger. “You think a joke shop could supply him with

such a thing? You don’t think it more likely that he

got it directly from the manufacturers?”

Harry didn’t understand what Snape was talking

about. Nor, apparently, did Lupin.

“You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of these people?”

he said. “Harry, do you know any of these men?”

“No,” said Harry quickly.

“You see, Severus?” said Lupin, turning back to

Snape. “It looks like a Zonko product to me —”

Right on cue, Ron came bursting into the office. He

was completely out of breath, and stopped just short

of Snape’s desk, clutching the stitch in his chest and

trying to speak.

“I — gave — Harry — that — stuff,” he choked.

“Bought — it … in Zonko’s … ages — ago …”

“Well!” said Lupin, clapping his hands together and

looking around cheerfully. “That seems to clear that

up! Severus, I’ll take this back, shall I?” He folded the

map and tucked it inside his robes. “Harry, Ron,

come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay

— excuse us, Severus —”

Harry didn’t dare look at Snape as they left his office.

He, Ron, and Lupin walked all the way back into the

entrance hall before speaking. Then Harry turned to

Lupin.

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“Professor, I —”

“I don’t want to hear explanations,” said Lupin

shortly. He glanced around the empty entrance hall

and lowered his voice. “I happen to know that this

map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago.

Yes, I know it’s a map,” he said as Harry and Ron

looked amazed. “I don’t want to know how it fell into

your possession. I am, however, astounded that you

didn’t hand it in. Particularly after what happened the

last time a student left information about the castle

lying around. And I can’t let you have it back, Harry.”

Harry had expected that, and was too keen for

explanations to protest.

“Why did Snape think I’d got it from the

manufacturers?”

“Because … ,” Lupin hesitated, “because these

mapmakers would have wanted to lure you out of

school. They’d think it extremely entertaining.”

“Do you know them?” said Harry, impressed.

“We’ve met,” he said shortly. He was looking at Harry

more seriously than ever before.

“Don’t expect me to cover up for you again, Harry. I

cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously. But I

would have thought that what you have heard when

the dementors draw near you would have had more of

an effect on you. Your parents gave their lives to keep

you alive, Harry. A poor way to repay them —

gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks.”

He walked away, leaving Harry feeling worse by far

than he had at any point in Snape’s office. Slowly, he

and Ron mounted the marble staircase. As Harry

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passed the one-eyed witch, he remembered the

Invisibility Cloak — it was still down there, but he

didn’t dare go and get it.

“It’s my fault,” said Ron abruptly. “I persuaded you to

go. Lupin’s right, it was stupid, we shouldn’t’ve done

it —”

He broke off; they reached the corridor where the

security trolls were pacing, and Hermione was

walking toward them. One look at her face convinced

Harry that she had heard what had happened. His

heart plummeted — had she told Professor

McGonagall?

“Come to have a good gloat?” said Ron savagely as

she stopped in front of them. “Or have you just been

to tell on us?”

“No,” said Hermione. She was holding a letter in her

hands and her lip was trembling. “I just thought you

ought to know … Hagrid lost his case. Buckbeak is

going to be executed.”

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THE QUIDDITCH FINAL

“He — he sent me this,” Hermione said, holding out

the letter.

Harry took it. The parchment was damp, and

enormous teardrops had smudged the ink so badly in

places that it was very difficult to read.

Dear Hermione,

We lost. I’m allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts.

Execution date to be fixed.

Beaky has enjoyed London.

I won’t forget all the help you gave us.

Hagrid

“They can’t do this,” said Harry. “They can’t.

Buckbeak isn’t dangerous.”

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“Malfoy’s dad’s frightened the Committee into it,” said Hermione, wiping her eyes. “You know what he’s like.

They’re a bunch of doddery old fools, and they were

scared. There’ll be an appeal, though, there always is.

Only I can’t see any hope. … Nothing will have

changed.”

“Yeah, it will,” said Ron fiercely. “You won’t have to do

all the work alone this time, Hermione. I’ll help.”

“Oh, Ron!”

Hermione flung her arms around Ron’s neck and

broke down completely. Ron, looking quite terrified,

patted her very awkwardly on the top of the head.

Finally, Hermione drew away.

“Ron, I’m really, really sorry about Scabbers … ,” she

sobbed.

“Oh — well — he was old,” said Ron, looking

thoroughly relieved that she had let go of him. “And

he was a bit useless. You never know, Mum and Dad

might get me an owl now.”

The safety measures imposed on the students since

Black’s second break-in made it impossible for Harry,

Ron, and Hermione to go and visit Hagrid in the

evenings. Their only chance of talking to him was

during Care of Magical Creatures lessons.

He seemed numb with shock at the verdict.

“S’all my fault. Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin’

there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and

forgettin’ all them dates yeh looked up fer me,

Hermione. An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said

his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he

told ’em. …”

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“There’s still the appeal!” said Ron fiercely. “Don’t give up yet, we’re working on it!”

They were walking back up to the castle with the rest

of the class. Ahead they could see Malfoy, who was

walking with Crabbe and Goyle, and kept looking

back, laughing derisively.

“S’no good, Ron,” said Hagrid sadly as they reached

the castle steps. “That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s

pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s

time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that. …”

Hagrid turned around and hurried back toward his

cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief.

“Look at him blubber!”

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had been standing just

inside the castle doors, listening.

“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” said

Malfoy. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”

Harry and Ron both made furious moves toward

Malfoy, but Hermione got there first — SMACK!

She had slapped Malfoy across the face with all the

strength she could muster. Malfoy staggered. Harry,

Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle stood flabbergasted as

Hermione raised her hand again.

“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul — you

evil —”

“Hermione!” said Ron weakly, and he tried to grab her

hand as she swung it back.

“Get off, Ron!”

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Hermione pulled out her wand. Malfoy stepped

backward. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for

instructions, thoroughly bewildered.

“C’mon,” Malfoy muttered, and in a moment, all three

of them had disappeared into the passageway to the

dungeons.

“Hermione!” Ron said again, sounding both stunned

and impressed.

“Harry, you’d better beat him in the Quidditch final!”

Hermione said shrilly. “You just better had, because I

can’t stand it if Slytherin wins!”

“We’re due in Charms,” said Ron, still goggling at

Hermione. “We’d better go.”

They hurried up the marble staircase toward

Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“You’re late, boys!” said Professor Flitwick reprovingly

as Harry opened the classroom door. “Come along,

quickly, wands out, we’re experimenting with

Cheering Charms today, we’ve already divided into

pairs —”

Harry and Ron hurried to a desk at the back and

opened their bags. Ron looked behind him.

“Where’s Hermione gone?”

Harry looked around too. Hermione hadn’t entered

the classroom, yet Harry knew she had been right

next to him when he had opened the door.

“That’s weird,” said Harry, staring at Ron. “Maybe —

maybe she went to the bathroom or something?”

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But Hermione didn’t turn up all lesson.

“She could’ve done with a Cheering Charm on her

too,” said Ron as the class left for lunch, all grinning

broadly — the Cheering Charms had left them with a

feeling of great contentment.

Hermione wasn’t at lunch either. By the time they

had finished their apple pie, the after-effects of the

Cheering Charms were wearing off, and Harry and

Ron had started to get slightly worried.

“You don’t think Malfoy did something to her?” Ron

said anxiously as they hurried upstairs toward

Gryffindor Tower.

They passed the security trolls, gave the Fat Lady the

password (“Flibbertigibbet”), and scrambled through

the portrait hole into the common room.

Hermione was sitting at a table, fast asleep, her head

resting on an open Arithmancy book. They went to sit

down on either side of her. Harry prodded her awake.

“Wh — what?” said Hermione, waking with a start

and staring wildly around. “Is it time to go? W —

which lesson have we got now?

“Divination, but it’s not for another twenty minutes,”

said Harry. “Hermione, why didn’t you come to

Charms?”

“What? Oh no!” Hermione squeaked. “I forgot to go to

Charms!”

“But how could you forget?” said Harry. “You were

with us till we were right outside the classroom!”

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“I don’t believe it!” Hermione wailed. “Was Professor Flitwick angry? Oh, it was Malfoy, I was thinking

about him and I lost track of things!”

“You know what, Hermione?” said Ron, looking down

at the enormous Arithmancy book Hermione had

been using as a pillow. “I reckon you’re cracking up.

You’re trying to do too much.”

“No, I’m not!” said Hermione, brushing her hair out of

her eyes and staring hopelessly around for her bag. “I

just made a mistake, that’s all! I’d better go and see

Professor Flitwick and say sorry. … I’ll see you in

Divination!”

Hermione joined them at the foot of the ladder to

Professor Trelawney’s classroom twenty minutes later,

looking extremely harassed.

“I can’t believe I missed Cheering Charms! And I bet

they come up in our exams; Professor Flitwick hinted

they might!”

Together they climbed the ladder into the dim, stifling

tower room. Glowing on every little table was a crystal

ball full of pearly white mist. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione sat down together at the same rickety table.

“I thought we weren’t starting crystal balls until next

term,” Ron muttered, casting a wary eye around for

Professor Trelawney, in case she was lurking nearby.

“Don’t complain, this means we’ve finished

palmistry,” Harry muttered back. “I was getting sick

of her flinching every time she looked at my hands.”

“Good day to you!” said the familiar, misty voice, and

Professor Trelawney made her usual dramatic

entrance out of the shadows. Parvati and Lavender

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quivered with excitement, their faces lit by the milky glow of their crystal ball.

“I have decided to introduce the crystal ball a little

earlier than I had planned,” said Professor Trelawney,

sitting with her back to the fire and gazing around.

“The fates have informed me that your examination in

June will concern the Orb, and I am anxious to give

you sufficient practice.”

Hermione snorted.

“Well, honestly … ‘the fates have informed her’ … who

sets the exam? She does! What an amazing

prediction!” she said, not troubling to keep her voice

low. Harry and Ron choked back laughs.

It was hard to tell whether Professor Trelawney had

heard them, as her face was hidden in shadow. She

continued, however, as though she had not.

“Crystal gazing is a particularly refined art,” she said

dreamily. “I do not expect any of you to See when first

you peer into the Orb’s infinite depths. We shall start

by practicing relaxing the conscious mind and

external eyes” — Ron began to snigger uncontrollably

and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stifle the

noise — “so as to clear the Inner Eye and the

superconscious. Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of you

will See before the end of the class.”

And so they began. Harry, at least, felt extremely

foolish, staring blankly at the crystal ball, trying to

keep his mind empty when thoughts such as “this is

stupid” kept drifting across it. It didn’t help that Ron

kept breaking into silent giggles and Hermione kept

tutting.

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“Seen anything yet?” Harry asked them after a

quarter of an hour’s quiet crystal gazing.

“Yeah, there’s a burn on this table,” said Ron,

pointing. “Someone’s spilled their candle.”

“This is such a waste of time,” Hermione hissed. “I

could be practicing something useful. I could be

catching up on Cheering Charms —”

Professor Trelawney rustled past.

“Would anyone like me to help them interpret the

shadowy portents within their Orb?” she murmured

over the clinking of her bangles.

“I don’t need help,” Ron whispered. “It’s obvious what

this means. There’s going to be loads of fog tonight.”

Both Harry and Hermione burst out laughing.

“Now, really!” said Professor Trelawney as everyone’s

heads turned in their direction. Parvati and Lavender

were looking scandalized. “You are disturbing the

clairvoyant vibrations!” She approached their table

and peered into their crystal ball. Harry felt his heart

sinking. He was sure he knew what was coming —

“There is something here!” Professor Trelawney

whispered, lowering her face to the ball, so that it was

reflected twice in her huge glasses. “Something

moving … but what is it?”

Harry was prepared to bet everything he owned,

including his Firebolt, that it wasn’t good news,

whatever it was. And sure enough —

“My dear … ,” Professor Trelawney breathed, gazing

up at Harry. “It is here, plainer than ever before … my

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dear, stalking toward you, growing ever closer … the Gr —”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Hermione loudly. “Not

that ridiculous Grim again!”

Professor Trelawney raised her enormous eyes to

Hermione’s face. Parvati whispered something to

Lavender, and they both glared at Hermione too.

Professor Trelawney stood up, surveying Hermione

with unmistakable anger.

“I am sorry to say that from the moment you have

arrived in this class, my dear, it has been apparent

that you do not have what the noble art of Divination

requires. Indeed, I don’t remember ever meeting a

student whose mind was so hopelessly mundane.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then —

“Fine!” said Hermione suddenly, getting up and

cramming Unfogging the Future back into her bag.

“Fine!” she repeated, swinging the bag over her

shoulder and almost knocking Ron off his chair. “I

give up! I’m leaving!”

And to the whole class’s amazement, Hermione strode

over to the trapdoor, kicked it open, and climbed

down the ladder out of sight.

It took a few minutes for the class to settle down

again. Professor Trelawney seemed to have forgotten

all about the Grim. She turned abruptly from Harry

and Ron’s table, breathing rather heavily as she

tugged her gauzy shawl more closely to her.

“Ooooo!” said Lavender suddenly, making everyone

start. “Oooooo, Professor Trelawney, I’ve just

remembered! You saw her leaving, didn’t you? Didn’t

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you, Professor? ‘ Around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever!’ You said it ages ago, Professor!”

Professor Trelawney gave her a dewy smile.

“Yes, my dear, I did indeed know that Miss Granger

would be leaving us. One hopes, however, that one

might have mistaken the Signs. … The Inner Eye can

be a burden, you know. …”

Lavender and Parvati looked deeply impressed, and

moved over so that Professor Trelawney could join

their table instead.

“Some day Hermione’s having, eh?” Ron muttered to

Harry, looking awed.

“Yeah …”

Harry glanced into the crystal ball but saw nothing

but swirling white mist. Had Professor Trelawney

really seen the Grim again? Would he? The last thing

he needed was another near-fatal accident, with the

Quidditch final drawing ever nearer.

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The

third years had never had so much homework. Neville

Longbottom seemed close to a nervous collapse, and

he wasn’t the only one.

“Call this a holiday!” Seamus Finnigan roared at the

common room one afternoon. “The exams are ages

away, what’re they playing at?”

But nobody had as much to do as Hermione. Even

without Divination, she was taking more subjects

than anybody else. She was usually last to leave the

common room at night, first to arrive at the library

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the next morning; she had shadows like Lupin’s

under her eyes, and seemed constantly close to tears.

Ron had taken over responsibility for Buckbeak’s

appeal. When he wasn’t doing his own work, he was

poring over enormously thick volumes with names

like The Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology and Fowl

or Foul? A Study of Hippogriff Brutality. He was so absorbed, he even forgot to be horrible to

Crookshanks.

Harry, meanwhile, had to fit in his homework around

Quidditch practice every day, not to mention endless

discussions of tactics with Wood. The Gryffindor-

Slytherin match would take place on the first

Saturday after the Easter holidays. Slytherin was

leading the tournament by exactly two hundred

points. This meant (as Wood constantly reminded his

team) that they needed to win the match by more

than that amount to win the Cup. It also meant that

the burden of winning fell largely on Harry, because

capturing the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty

points.

“So you must catch it only if we’re more than fifty points up,” Wood told Harry constantly. “Only if we’re

more than fifty points up, Harry, or we win the match

but lose the Cup. You’ve got that, haven’t you? You

must catch the Snitch only if we’re —”

“I KNOW, OLIVER!” Harry yelled.

The whole of Gryffindor House was obsessed with the

coming match. Gryffindor hadn’t won the Quidditch

Cup since the legendary Charlie Weasley (Ron’s

second oldest brother) had been Seeker. But Harry

doubted whether any of them, even Wood, wanted to

win as much as he did. The enmity between Harry

and Malfoy was at its highest point ever. Malfoy was

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still smarting about the mud-throwing incident in

Hogsmeade and was even more furious that Harry

had somehow wormed his way out of punishment.

Harry hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s attempt to sabotage

him in the match against Ravenclaw, but it was the

matter of Buckbeak that made him most determined

to beat Malfoy in front of the entire school.

Never, in anyone’s memory, had a match approached

in such a highly charged atmosphere. By the time the

holidays were over, tension between the two teams

and their Houses was at the breaking point. A

number of small scuffles broke out in the corridors,

culminating in a nasty incident in which a Gryffindor

fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year ended up in the

hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears.

Harry was having a particularly bad time of it. He

couldn’t walk to class without Slytherins sticking out

their legs and trying to trip him up; Crabbe and Goyle

kept popping up wherever he went, and slouching

away looking disappointed when they saw him

surrounded by people. Wood had given instructions

that Harry should be accompanied everywhere he

went, in case the Slytherins tried to put him out of

action. The whole of Gryffindor House took up the

challenge enthusiastically, so that it was impossible

for Harry to get to classes on time because he was

surrounded by a vast, chattering crowd. Harry was

more concerned for his Firebolt’s safety than his own.

When he wasn’t flying it, he locked it securely in his

trunk and frequently dashed back up to Gryffindor

Tower at break times to check that it was still there.

All usual pursuits were abandoned in the Gryffindor

common room the night before the match. Even

Hermione had put down her books.

“I can’t work, I can’t concentrate,” she said nervously.

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There was a great deal of noise. Fred and George

Weasley were dealing with the pressure by being

louder and more exuberant than ever. Oliver Wood

was crouched over a model of a Quidditch field in the

corner, prodding little figures across it with his wand

and muttering to himself. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie

were laughing at Fred’s and George’s jokes. Harry was

sitting with Ron and Hermione, removed from the

center of things, trying not to think about the next

day, because every time he did, he had the horrible

sensation that something very large was fighting to

get out of his stomach.

“You’re going to be fine,” Hermione told him, though

she looked positively terrified.

“You’ve got a Firebolt!” said Ron.

“Yeah … ,” said Harry, his stomach writhing.

It came as a relief when Wood suddenly stood up and

yelled, “Team! Bed!”

Harry slept badly. First he dreamed that he had

overslept, and that Wood was yelling, “Where were

you? We had to use Neville instead!” Then he dreamed

that Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team arrived

for the match riding dragons. He was flying at

breakneck speed, trying to avoid a spurt of flames

from Malfoy’s steed’s mouth, when he realized he had

forgotten his Firebolt. He fell through the air and

woke with a start.

It was a few seconds before Harry remembered that

the match hadn’t taken place yet, that he was safe in

bed, and that the Slytherin team definitely wouldn’t

be allowed to play on dragons. He was feeling very

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thirsty. Quietly as he could, he got out of his four-poster and went to pour himself some water from the

silver jug beneath the window.

The grounds were still and quiet. No breath of wind

disturbed the treetops in the Forbidden Forest; the

Whomping Willow was motionless and innocent-

looking. It looked as though the conditions for the

match would be perfect.

Harry set down his goblet and was about to turn back

to his bed when something caught his eye. An animal

of some kind was prowling across the silvery lawn.

Harry dashed to his bedside table, snatched up his

glasses, and put them on, then hurried back to the

window. It couldn’t be the Grim — not now — not

right before the match —

He peered out at the grounds again and, after a

minute’s frantic searching, spotted it. It was skirting

the edge of the forest now. … It wasn’t the Grim at all

… it was a cat. … Harry clutched the window ledge in

relief as he recognized the bottlebrush tail. It was only

Crookshanks. …

Or was it only Crookshanks? Harry squinted,

pressing his nose flat against the glass. Crookshanks

seemed to have come to a halt. Harry was sure he

could see something else moving in the shadow of the

trees too.

And just then, it emerged — a gigantic, shaggy black

dog, moving stealthily across the lawn, Crookshanks

trotting at its side. Harry stared. What did this mean?

If Crookshanks could see the dog as well, how could it

be an omen of Harry’s death?

“Ron!” Harry hissed. “Ron! Wake up!”

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“Huh?”

“I need you to tell me if you can see something!”

“S’all dark, Harry,” Ron muttered thickly. “What’re

you on about?”

“Down here —”

Harry looked quickly back out of the window.

Crookshanks and the dog had vanished. Harry

climbed onto the windowsill to look right down into

the shadows of the castle, but they weren’t there.

Where had they gone?

A loud snore told him Ron had fallen asleep again.

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the

Great Hall the next day to enormous applause. Harry

couldn’t help grinning broadly as he saw that both

the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were applauding

them too. The Slytherin table hissed loudly as they

passed. Harry noticed that Malfoy looked even paler

than usual.

Wood spent the whole of breakfast urging his team to

eat, while touching nothing himself. Then he hurried

them off to the field before anyone else had finished,

so they could get an idea of the conditions. As they

left the Great Hall, everyone applauded again.

“Good luck, Harry!” called Cho. Harry felt himself

blushing.

“Okay — no wind to speak of — sun’s a bit bright,

that could impair your vision, watch out for it —

ground’s fairly hard, good, that’ll give us a fast kickoff

—”

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Wood paced the field, staring around with the team behind him. Finally, they saw the front doors of the

castle open in the distance and the rest of the school

spilling onto the lawn.

“Locker rooms,” said Wood tersely.

None of them spoke as they changed into their scarlet

robes. Harry wondered if they were feeling like he

was: as though he’d eaten something extremely

wriggly for breakfast. In what seemed like no time at

all, Wood was saying, “Okay, it’s time, let’s go —”

They walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise.

Three-quarters of the crowd was wearing scarlet

rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the Gryffindor lion

upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like

“GO GRYFFINDOR!” and “LIONS FOR THE CUP!”

Behind the Slytherin goal posts, however, two

hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent

of Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor

Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like

everyone else, and a very grim smile.

“And here are the Gryffindors!” yelled Lee Jordan,

who was acting as commentator as usual. “Potter,

Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood.

Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has

seen in a good few years —”

Lee’s comments were drowned by a tide of “boos” from

the Slytherin end.

“And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain

Flint. He’s made some changes in the lineup and

seems to be going for size rather than skill —”

More boos from the Slytherin crowd. Harry, however,

thought Lee had a point. Malfoy was easily the

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smallest person on the Slytherin team; the rest of them were enormous.

“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch.

Flint and Wood approached each other and grasped

each other’s hand very tightly; it looked as though

each was trying to break the other’s fingers.

“Mount your brooms!” said Madam Hooch. “Three …

two … one …”

The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the

crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Harry felt

his hair fly back off his forehead; his nerves left him

in the thrill of the flight; he glanced around, saw

Malfoy on his tail, and sped off in search of the

Snitch.

“And it’s Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet of

Gryffindor with the Quaffle, heading straight for the

Slytherin goal posts, looking good, Alicia! Argh, no —

Quaffle intercepted by Warrington, Warrington of

Slytherin tearing up the field — WHAM! — nice

Bludger work there by George Weasley, Warrington

drops the Quaffle, it’s caught by — Johnson,

Gryffindor back in possession, come on, Angelina —

nice swerve around Montague — duck, Angelina,

that’s a Bludger! — SHE SCORES! TEN–ZERO TO

GRYFFINDOR!”

Angelina punched the air as she soared around the

end of the field; the sea of scarlet below was

screaming its delight —

“OUCH!”

Angelina was nearly thrown from her broom as

Marcus Flint went smashing into her.

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“Sorry!” said Flint as the crowd below booed. “Sorry, didn’t see her!”

A moment later, Fred Weasley chucked his Beater’s

club at the back of Flint’s head. Flint’s nose smashed

into the handle of his broom and began to bleed.

“That will do!” shrieked Madam Hooch, zooming

between them. “Penalty shot to Gryffindor for an

unprovoked attack on their Chaser! Penalty shot to

Slytherin for deliberate damage to their Chaser!”

“Come off it, Miss!” howled Fred, but Madam Hooch

blew her whistle and Alicia flew forward to take the

penalty.

“Come on, Alicia!” yelled Lee into the silence that had

descended on the crowd. “YES! SHE’S BEATEN THE

KEEPER! TWENTY–ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry turned the Firebolt sharply to watch Flint, still

bleeding freely, fly forward to take the Slytherin

penalty. Wood was hovering in front of the Gryffindor

goal posts, his jaw clenched.

“ ’Course, Wood’s a superb Keeper!” Lee Jordan told

the crowd as Flint waited for Madam Hooch’s whistle.

“Superb! Very difficult to pass — very difficult indeed

— YES! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HE’S SAVED IT!”

Relieved, Harry zoomed away, gazing around for the

Snitch, but still making sure he caught every word of

Lee’s commentary. It was essential that he hold

Malfoy off the Snitch until Gryffindor was more than

fifty points up —

“Gryffindor in possession, no, Slytherin in possession

— no! — Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie

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Bell, Katie Bell for Gryffindor with the Quaffle, she’s streaking up the field — THAT WAS DELIBERATE!”

Montague, a Slytherin Chaser, had swerved in front of

Katie, and instead of seizing the Quaffle had grabbed

her head. Katie cartwheeled in the air, managed to

stay on her broom, but dropped the Quaffle.

Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out again as she soared

over to Montague and began shouting at him. A

minute later, Katie had put another penalty past the

Slytherin Seeker.

“THIRTY–ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING

—”

“Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way

— !”

“I’m telling it like it is, Professor!”

Harry felt a huge jolt of excitement. He had seen the

Snitch — it was shimmering at the foot of one of the

Gryffindor goal posts — but he mustn’t catch it yet —

and if Malfoy saw it —

Faking a look of sudden concentration, Harry pulled

his Firebolt around and sped off toward the Slytherin

end — it worked. Malfoy went haring after him,

clearly thinking Harry had seen the Snitch there. …

WHOOSH.

One of the Bludgers came streaking past Harry’s right

ear, hit by the gigantic Slytherin Beater, Derrick.

Then again —

WHOOSH.

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The second Bludger grazed Harry’s elbow. The other Beater, Bole, was closing in.

Harry had a fleeting glimpse of Bole and Derrick

zooming toward him, clubs raised —

He turned the Firebolt upward at the last second, and

Bole and Derrick collided with a sickening crunch.

“Ha haaa!” yelled Lee Jordan as the Slytherin Beaters

lurched away from each other, clutching their heads.

“Too bad, boys! You’ll need to get up earlier than that

to beat a Firebolt! And it’s Gryffindor in possession

again, as Johnson takes the Quaffle — Flint alongside

her — poke him in the eye, Angelina! — it was a joke,

Professor, it was a joke — oh no — Flint in

possession, Flint flying toward the Gryffindor goal

posts, come on now, Wood, save — !”

But Flint had scored; there was an eruption of cheers

from the Slytherin end, and Lee swore so badly that

Professor McGonagall tried to tug the magical

megaphone away from him.

“Sorry, Professor, sorry! Won’t happen again! So,

Gryffindor in the lead, thirty points to ten, and

Gryffindor in possession —”

It was turning into the dirtiest game Harry had ever

played in. Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an

early lead, the Slytherins were rapidly resorting to any

means to take the Quaffle. Bole hit Alicia with his

club and tried to say he’d thought she was a Bludger.

George Weasley elbowed Bole in the face in

retaliation. Madam Hooch awarded both teams

penalties, and Wood pulled off another spectacular

save, making the score forty-ten to Gryffindor.

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The Snitch had disappeared again. Malfoy was still keeping close to Harry as he soared over the match,

looking around for it — once Gryffindor was fifty

points ahead —

Katie scored. Fifty-ten. Fred and George Weasley were

swooping around her, clubs raised, in case any of the

Slytherins were thinking of revenge. Bole and Derrick

took advantage of Fred’s and George’s absence to aim

both Bludgers at Wood; they caught him in the

stomach, one after the other, and he rolled over in the

air, clutching his broom, completely winded.

Madam Hooch was beside herself.

“YOU DO NOT ATTACK THE KEEPER UNLESS THE

QUAFFLE IS WITHIN THE SCORING AREA!” she

shrieked at Bole and Derrick. “Gryffindor penalty!”

And Angelina scored. Sixty-ten. Moments later, Fred

Weasley pelted a Bludger at Warrington, knocking the

Quaffle out of his hands; Alicia seized it and put it

through the Slytherin goal — seventy-ten.

The Gryffindor crowd below was screaming itself

hoarse — Gryffindor was sixty points in the lead, and

if Harry caught the Snitch now, the Cup was theirs.

Harry could almost feel hundreds of eyes following

him as he soared around the field, high above the rest

of the game, with Malfoy speeding along behind him.

And then he saw it. The Snitch was sparkling twenty

feet above him.

Harry put on a huge burst of speed; the wind was

roaring in his ears; he stretched out his hand, but

suddenly, the Firebolt was slowing down —

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Horrified, he looked around. Malfoy had thrown

himself forward, grabbed hold of the Firebolt’s tail,

and was pulling it back.

“You —”

Harry was angry enough to hit Malfoy, but couldn’t

reach — Malfoy was panting with the effort of holding

onto the Firebolt, but his eyes were sparkling

maliciously. He had achieved what he’d wanted to do

— the Snitch had disappeared again.

“Penalty! Penalty to Gryffindor! I’ve never seen such

tactics!” Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to

where Malfoy was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two

Thousand and One.

“YOU CHEATING SCUM!” Lee Jordan was howling

into the megaphone, dancing out of Professor

McGonagall’s reach. “YOU FILTHY, CHEATING B —”

Professor McGonagall didn’t even bother to tell him

off. She was actually shaking her finger in Malfoy’s

direction, her hat had fallen off, and she too was

shouting furiously.

Alicia took Gryffindor’s penalty, but she was so angry

she missed by several feet. The Gryffindor team was

losing concentration and the Slytherins, delighted by

Malfoy’s foul on Harry, were being spurred on to

greater heights.

“Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for goal —

Montague scores —” Lee groaned. “Seventy-twenty to

Gryffindor. …”

Harry was now marking Malfoy so closely their knees

kept hitting each other. Harry wasn’t going to let

Malfoy anywhere near the Snitch. …

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“Get out of it, Potter!” Malfoy yelled in frustration as he tried to turn and found Harry blocking him.

“Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor,

come on, Angelina, COME ON!”

Harry looked around. Every single Slytherin player

apart from Malfoy was streaking up the pitch toward

Angelina, including the Slytherin Keeper — they were

all going to block her —

Harry wheeled the Firebolt around, bent so low he

was lying flat along the handle, and kicked it forward.

Like a bullet, he shot toward the Slytherins.

“AAAAAAARRRGH!”

They scattered as the Firebolt zoomed toward them;

Angelina’s way was clear.

“SHE SCORES! SHE SCORES! Gryffindor leads by

eighty points to twenty!”

Harry, who had almost pelted headlong into the

stands, skidded to a halt in midair, reversed, and

zoomed back into the middle of the field.

And then he saw something to make his heart stand

still. Malfoy was diving, a look of triumph on his face

— there, a few feet above the grass below, was a tiny,

golden glimmer —

Harry urged the Firebolt downward, but Malfoy was

miles ahead —

“Go! Go! Go!” Harry urged his broom. He was gaining

on Malfoy — Harry flattened himself to the broom

handle as Bole sent a Bludger at him — he was at

Malfoy’s ankles — he was level —

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Harry threw himself forward, took both hands off his broom. He knocked Malfoy’s arm out of the way and

—

“YES!”

He pulled out of his dive, his hand in the air, and the

stadium exploded. Harry soared above the crowd, an

odd ringing in his ears. The tiny golden ball was held

tight in his fist, beating its wings hopelessly against

his fingers.

Then Wood was speeding toward him, half-blinded by

tears; he seized Harry around the neck and sobbed

unrestrainedly into his shoulder. Harry felt two large

thumps as Fred and George hit them; then

Angelina’s, Alicia’s, and Katie’s voices, “We’ve won the

Cup! We’ve won the Cup!” Tangled together in a

many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling

hoarsely, back to earth.

Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring

over the barriers onto the field. Hands were raining

down on their backs. Harry had a confused

impression of noise and bodies pressing in on him.

Then he, and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto

the shoulders of the crowd. Thrust into the light, he

saw Hagrid, plastered with crimson rosettes — “Yeh

beat ’em, Harry, yeh beat ’em! Wait till I tell

Buckbeak!” There was Percy, jumping up and down

like a maniac, all dignity forgotten. Professor

McGonagall was sobbing harder even than Wood,

wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag;

and there, fighting their way toward Harry, were Ron

and Hermione. Words failed them. They simply

beamed as Harry was borne toward the stands, where

Dumbledore stood waiting with the enormous

Quidditch Cup.

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If only there had been a dementor around. … As a

sobbing Wood passed Harry the Cup, as he lifted it

into the air, Harry felt he could have produced the

world’s best Patronus.

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PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY’S

PREDICTION

Harry’s euphoria at finally winning the Quidditch Cup

lasted at least a week. Even the weather seemed to be

celebrating; as June approached, the days became

cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing

was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on

the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice,

perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or

watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across

the surface of the lake.

But they couldn’t. Exams were nearly upon them, and

instead of lazing around outside, the students were

forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their

brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of

summer air drifted in through the windows. Even

Fred and George Weasley had been spotted working;

they were about to take their O.W.L.s (Ordinary

Wizarding Levels). Percy was getting ready to take his

N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests), the

highest qualification Hogwarts offered. As Percy

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hoped to enter the Ministry of Magic, he needed top grades. He was becoming increasingly edgy, and gave

very severe punishments to anybody who disturbed

the quiet of the common room in the evenings. In fact,

the only person who seemed more anxious than Percy

was Hermione.

Harry and Ron had given up asking her how she was

managing to attend several classes at once, but they

couldn’t restrain themselves when they saw the exam

schedule she had drawn up for herself. The first

column read:

Monday

9 o’clock, Arithmancy

9 o’clock, Transfiguration

Lunch

1 o’clock, Charms

1 o’clock, Ancient Runes

“Hermione?” Ron said cautiously, because she was

liable to explode when interrupted these days. “Er —

are you sure you’ve copied down these times right?”

“What?” snapped Hermione, picking up the exam

schedule and examining it. “Yes, of course I have.”

“Is there any point asking how you’re going to sit for

two exams at once?” said Harry.

“No,” said Hermione shortly. “Have either of you seen

my copy of Numerology and Gramatica?”

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“Oh, yeah, I borrowed it for a bit of bedtime reading,”

said Ron, but very quietly. Hermione started shifting

heaps of parchment around on her table, looking for

the book. Just then, there was a rustle at the window

and Hedwig fluttered through it, a note clutched tight

in her beak.

“It’s from Hagrid,” said Harry, ripping the note open.

“Buckbeak’s appeal — it’s set for the sixth.”

“That’s the day we finish our exams,” said Hermione,

still looking everywhere for her Arithmancy book.

“And they’re coming up here to do it,” said Harry, still

reading from the letter. “Someone from the Ministry of

Magic and — and an executioner.”

Hermione looked up, startled.

“They’re bringing the executioner to the appeal! But

that sounds as though they’ve already decided!”

“Yeah, it does,” said Harry slowly.

“They can’t!” Ron howled. “I’ve spent ages reading up

on stuff for him; they can’t just ignore it all!”

But Harry had a horrible feeling that the Committee

for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures had had its

mind made up for it by Mr. Malfoy. Draco, who had

been noticeably subdued since Gryffindor’s triumph

in the Quidditch final, seemed to regain some of his

old swagger over the next few days. From sneering

comments Harry overheard, Malfoy was certain

Buckbeak was going to be killed, and seemed

thoroughly pleased with himself for bringing it about.

It was all Harry could do to stop himself imitating

Hermione and hitting Malfoy in the face on these

occasions. And the worst thing of all was that they

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had no time or opportunity to go and see Hagrid,

because the strict new security measures had not

been lifted, and Harry didn’t dare retrieve his

Invisibility Cloak from below the one-eyed witch.

* * *

Exam week began and an unnatural hush fell over

the castle. The third years emerged from

Transfiguration at lunchtime on Monday, limp and

ashen-faced, comparing results and bemoaning the

difficulty of the tasks they had been set, which had

included turning a teapot into a tortoise. Hermione

irritated the rest by fussing about how her tortoise

had looked more like a turtle, which was the least of

everyone else’s worries.

“Mine still had a spout for a tail, what a nightmare.

…”

“Were the tortoises supposed to breathe steam?”

“It still had a willow-patterned shell, d’you think

that’ll count against me?”

Then, after a hasty lunch, it was straight back

upstairs for the Charms exam. Hermione had been

right; Professor Flitwick did indeed test them on

Cheering Charms. Harry slightly overdid his out of

nerves and Ron, who was partnering him, ended up

in fits of hysterical laughter and had to be led away to

a quiet room for an hour before he was ready to

perform the charm himself. After dinner, the students

hurried back to their common rooms, not to relax,

but to start studying for Care of Magical Creatures,

Potions, and Astronomy.

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Hagrid presided over the Care of Magical Creatures exam the following morning with a very preoccupied

air indeed; his heart didn’t seem to be in it at all. He

had provided a large tub of fresh flobberworms for the

class, and told them that to pass the test, their

flobberworm had to still be alive at the end of one

hour. As flobberworms flourished best if left to their

own devices, it was the easiest exam any of them had

ever taken, and also gave Harry, Ron, and Hermione

plenty of opportunity to speak to Hagrid.

“Beaky’s gettin’ a bit depressed,” Hagrid told them,

bending low on the pretense of checking that Harry’s

flobberworm was still alive. “Bin cooped up too long.

But still … we’ll know day after tomorrow — one way

or the other —”

They had Potions that afternoon, which was an

unqualified disaster. Try as Harry might, he couldn’t

get his Confusing Concoction to thicken, and Snape,

standing watch with an air of vindictive pleasure,

scribbled something that looked suspiciously like a

zero onto his notes before moving away.

Then came Astronomy at midnight, up on the tallest

tower; History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in

which Harry scribbled everything Florean Fortescue

had ever told him about medieval witch-hunts, while

wishing he could have had one of Fortescue’s choco-

nut sundaes with him in the stifling classroom.

Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the

greenhouses under a baking-hot sun; then back to

the common room once more, with sunburnt necks,

thinking longingly of this time next day, when it

would all be over.

Their second to last exam, on Thursday morning, was

Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin had

compiled the most unusual exam any of them had

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ever taken; a sort of obstacle course outside in the sun, where they had to wade across a deep paddling

pool containing a grindylow, cross a series of potholes

full of Red Caps, squish their way across a patch of

marsh while ignoring misleading directions from a

hinkypunk, then climb into an old trunk and battle

with a new boggart.

“Excellent, Harry,” Lupin muttered as Harry climbed

out of the trunk, grinning. “Full marks.”

Flushed with his success, Harry hung around to

watch Ron and Hermione. Ron did very well until he

reached the hinkypunk, which successfully confused

him into sinking waist-high into the quagmire.

Hermione did everything perfectly until she reached

the trunk with the boggart in it. After about a minute

inside it, she burst out again, screaming.

“Hermione!” said Lupin, startled. “What’s the matter?”

“P — P — Professor McGonagall!” Hermione gasped,

pointing into the trunk. “Sh — she said I’d failed

everything!”

It took a little while to calm Hermione down. When at

last she had regained a grip on herself, she, Harry,

and Ron went back to the castle. Ron was still slightly

inclined to laugh at Hermione’s boggart, but an

argument was averted by the sight that met them on

the top of the steps.

Cornelius Fudge, sweating slightly in his pinstriped

cloak, was standing there staring out at the grounds.

He started at the sight of Harry.

“Hello there, Harry!” he said. “Just had an exam, I

expect? Nearly finished?”

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“Yes,” said Harry. Hermione and Ron, not being on

speaking terms with the Minister of Magic, hovered

awkwardly in the background.

“Lovely day,” said Fudge, casting an eye over the lake.

“Pity … pity …”

He sighed deeply and looked down at Harry.

“I’m here on an unpleasant mission, Harry. The

Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures

required a witness to the execution of a mad

hippogriff. As I needed to visit Hogwarts to check on

the Black situation, I was asked to step in.”

“Does that mean the appeal’s already happened?” Ron

interrupted, stepping forward.

“No, no, it’s scheduled for this afternoon,” said Fudge,

looking curiously at Ron.

“Then you might not have to witness an execution at

all!” said Ron stoutly. “The hippogriff might get off!”

Before Fudge could answer, two wizards came

through the castle doors behind him. One was so

ancient he appeared to be withering before their very

eyes; the other was tall and strapping, with a thin

black mustache. Harry gathered that they were

representatives of the Committee for the Disposal of

Dangerous Creatures, because the very old wizard

squinted toward Hagrid’s cabin and said in a feeble

voice, “Dear, dear, I’m getting too old for this. … Two

o’clock, isn’t it, Fudge?”

The black-mustached man was fingering something in

his belt; Harry looked and saw that he was running

one broad thumb along the blade of a shining axe.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but

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Hermione nudged him hard in the ribs and jerked her head toward the entrance hall.

“Why’d you stop me?” said Ron angrily as they

entered the Great Hall for lunch. “Did you see them?

They’ve even got the axe ready! This isn’t justice!”

“Ron, your dad works for the Ministry, you can’t go

saying things like that to his boss!” said Hermione,

but she too looked very upset. “As long as Hagrid

keeps his head this time, and argues his case

properly, they can’t possibly execute Buckbeak. …”

But Harry could tell Hermione didn’t really believe

what she was saying. All around them, people were

talking excitedly as they ate their lunch, happily

anticipating the end of the exams that afternoon, but

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, lost in worry about Hagrid

and Buckbeak, didn’t join in.

Harry’s and Ron’s last exam was Divination;

Hermione’s, Muggle Studies. They walked up the

marble staircase together; Hermione left them on the

first floor and Harry and Ron proceeded all the way

up to the seventh, where many of their class were

sitting on the spiral staircase to Professor Trelawney’s

classroom, trying to cram in a bit of last-minute

studying.

“She’s seeing us all separately,” Neville informed them

as they went to sit down next to him. He had his copy

of Unfogging the Future open on his lap at the pages

devoted to crystal gazing. “Have either of you ever

seen anything in a crystal ball?” he asked them

unhappily.

“Nope,” said Ron in an offhand voice. He kept

checking his watch; Harry knew that he was counting

down the time until Buckbeak’s appeal started.

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The line of people outside the classroom shortened very slowly. As each person climbed back down the

silver ladder, the rest of the class hissed, “What did

she ask? Was it okay?”

But they all refused to say.

“She says the crystal ball’s told her that if I tell you,

I’ll have a horrible accident!” squeaked Neville as he

clambered back down the ladder toward Harry and

Ron, who had now reached the landing.

“That’s convenient,” snorted Ron. “You know, I’m

starting to think Hermione was right about her” — he

jabbed his thumb toward the trapdoor overhead —

“she’s a right old fraud.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking at his own watch. It was

now two o’clock. “Wish she’d hurry up …”

Parvati came back down the ladder glowing with

pride.

“She says I’ve got all the makings of a true Seer,” she

informed Harry and Ron. “I saw loads of stuff. … Well,

good luck!”

She hurried off down the spiral staircase toward

Lavender.

“Ronald Weasley,” said the familiar, misty voice from

over their heads. Ron grimaced at Harry and climbed

the silver ladder out of sight. Harry was now the only

person left to be tested. He settled himself on the floor

with his back against the wall, listening to a fly

buzzing in the sunny window, his mind across the

grounds with Hagrid.

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Finally, after about twenty minutes, Ron’s large feet reappeared on the ladder.

“How’d it go?” Harry asked him, standing up.

“Rubbish,” said Ron. “Couldn’t see a thing, so I made

some stuff up. Don’t think she was convinced,

though. …”

“Meet you in the common room,” Harry muttered as

Professor Trelawney’s voice called, “Harry Potter!”

The tower room was hotter than ever before; the

curtains were closed, the fire was alight, and the

usual sickly scent made Harry cough as he stumbled

through the clutter of chairs and tables to where

Professor Trelawney sat waiting for him before a large

crystal ball.

“Good day, my dear,” she said softly. “If you would

kindly gaze into the Orb. … Take your time, now …

then tell me what you see within it. …”

Harry bent over the crystal ball and stared, stared as

hard as he could, willing it to show him something

other than swirling white fog, but nothing happened.

“Well?” Professor Trelawney prompted delicately.

“What do you see?”

The heat was overpowering and his nostrils were

stinging with the perfumed smoke wafting from the

fire beside them. He thought of what Ron had just

said, and decided to pretend.

“Er —” said Harry, “a dark shape … um …”

“What does it resemble?” whispered Professor

Trelawney. “Think, now …”

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Harry cast his mind around and it landed on

Buckbeak.

“A hippogriff,” he said firmly.

“Indeed!” whispered Professor Trelawney, scribbling

keenly on the parchment perched upon her knees.

“My boy, you may well be seeing the outcome of poor

Hagrid’s trouble with the Ministry of Magic! Look

closer. … Does the hippogriff appear to … have its

head?”

“Yes,” said Harry firmly.

“Are you sure?” Professor Trelawney urged him. “Are

you quite sure, dear? You don’t see it writhing on the

ground, perhaps, and a shadowy figure raising an axe

behind it?”

“No!” said Harry, starting to feel slightly sick.

“No blood? No weeping Hagrid?”

“No!” said Harry again, wanting more than ever to

leave the room and the heat. “It looks fine, it’s —

flying away. …”

Professor Trelawney sighed.

“Well, dear, I think we’ll leave it there. … A little

disappointing … but I’m sure you did your best.”

Relieved, Harry got up, picked up his bag and turned

to go, but then a loud, harsh voice spoke behind him.

“It will happen tonight.”

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Harry wheeled around. Professor Trelawney had gone rigid in her armchair; her eyes were unfocused and

her mouth sagging.

“S — sorry?” said Harry.

But Professor Trelawney didn’t seem to hear him. Her

eyes started to roll. Harry sat there in a panic. She

looked as though she was about to have some sort of

seizure. He hesitated, thinking of running to the

hospital wing — and then Professor Trelawney spoke

again, in the same harsh voice, quite unlike her own:

“The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned

by his followers. His servant has been chained these

twelve years. Tonight, before midnight … the servant

will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The

Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid,

greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight …

before midnight … the servant … will set out … to

rejoin … his master. …”

Professor Trelawney’s head fell forward onto her

chest. She made a grunting sort of noise. Harry sat

there, staring at her. Then, quite suddenly, Professor

Trelawney’s head snapped up again.

“I’m so sorry, dear boy,” she said dreamily, “the heat

of the day, you know … I drifted off for a moment. …”

Harry sat there, staring at her.

“Is there anything wrong, my dear?”

“You — you just told me that the — the Dark Lord’s

going to rise again … that his servant’s going to go

back to him. …”

Professor Trelawney looked thoroughly startled.

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“The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? My

dear boy, that’s hardly something to joke about. …

Rise again, indeed —”

“But you just said it! You said the Dark Lord —”

“I think you must have dozed off too, dear!” said

Professor Trelawney. “I would certainly not presume

to predict anything quite as far-fetched as that!”

Harry climbed back down the ladder and the spiral

staircase, wondering … had he just heard Professor

Trelawney make a real prediction? Or had that been

her idea of an impressive end to the test?

Five minutes later he was dashing past the security

trolls outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower,

Professor Trelawney’s words still resounding in his

head. People were striding past him in the opposite

direction, laughing and joking, heading for the

grounds and a bit of long-awaited freedom; by the

time he had reached the portrait hole and entered the

common room, it was almost deserted. Over in the

corner, however, sat Ron and Hermione.

“Professor Trelawney,” Harry panted, “just told me —”

But he stopped abruptly at the sight of their faces.

“Buckbeak lost,” said Ron weakly. “Hagrid’s just sent

this.”

Hagrid’s note was dry this time, no tears had

splattered it, yet his hand seemed to have shaken so

much as he wrote that it was hardly legible.

Lost appeal. They’re going to execute at sunset.

Nothing you can do. Don’t come down.

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I don’t want you to see it.

Hagrid

“We’ve got to go,” said Harry at once. “He can’t just sit

there on his own, waiting for the executioner!”

“Sunset, though,” said Ron, who was staring out the

window in a glazed sort of way. “We’d never be

allowed … ’specially you, Harry. …”

Harry sank his head into his hands, thinking.

“If we only had the Invisibility Cloak. …”

“Where is it?” said Hermione.

Harry told her about leaving it in the passageway

under the one-eyed witch.

“… if Snape sees me anywhere near there again, I’m

in serious trouble,” he finished.

“That’s true,” said Hermione, getting to her feet. “If he

sees you. … How do you open the witch’s hump

again?”

“You — you tap it and say, ‘ Dissendium, ’ ” said Harry.

“But —”

Hermione didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence; she

strode across the room, pushed open the Fat Lady’s

portrait and vanished from sight.

“She hasn’t gone to get it?” Ron said, staring after

her.

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She had. Hermione returned a quarter of an hour

later with the silvery cloak folded carefully under her

robes.

“Hermione, I don’t know what’s gotten into you

lately!” said Ron, astounded. “First you hit Malfoy,

then you walk out on Professor Trelawney —”

Hermione looked rather flattered.

They went down to dinner with everybody else, but

did not return to Gryffindor Tower afterward. Harry

had the cloak hidden down the front of his robes; he

had to keep his arms folded to hide the lump. They

skulked in an empty chamber off the entrance hall,

listening, until they were sure it was deserted. They

heard a last pair of people hurrying across the hall

and a door slamming. Hermione poked her head

around the door.

“Okay,” she whispered, “no one there — cloak on —”

Walking very close together so that nobody would see

them, they crossed the hall on tiptoe beneath the

cloak, then walked down the stone front steps into

the grounds. The sun was already sinking behind the

Forbidden Forest, gilding the top branches of the

trees.

They reached Hagrid’s cabin and knocked. He was a

minute in answering, and when he did, he looked all

around for his visitor, pale-faced and trembling.

“It’s us,” Harry hissed. “We’re wearing the Invisibility

Cloak. Let us in and we can take it off.”

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered, but he

stood back, and they stepped inside. Hagrid shut the

door quickly and Harry pulled off the cloak.

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Hagrid was not crying, nor did he throw himself upon their necks. He looked like a man who did not know

where he was or what to do. This helplessness was

worse to watch than tears.

“Wan’ some tea?” he said. His great hands were

shaking as he reached for the kettle.

“Where’s Buckbeak, Hagrid?” said Hermione

hesitantly.

“I — I took him outside,” said Hagrid, spilling milk all

over the table as he filled up the jug. “He’s tethered in

me pumpkin patch. Thought he oughta see the trees

an’ — an’ smell fresh air — before —”

Hagrid’s hand trembled so violently that the milk jug

slipped from his grasp and shattered all over the

floor.

“I’ll do it, Hagrid,” said Hermione quickly, hurrying

over and starting to clean up the mess.

“There’s another one in the cupboard,” Hagrid said,

sitting down and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

Harry glanced at Ron, who looked back hopelessly.

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do, Hagrid?” Harry

asked fiercely, sitting down next to him. “Dumbledore

—”

“He’s tried,” said Hagrid. “He’s got no power ter

overrule the Committee. He told ’em Buckbeak’s all

right, but they’re scared. … Yeh know what Lucius

Malfoy’s like … threatened ’em, I expect … an’ the

executioner, Macnair, he’s an old pal o’ Malfoy’s …

but it’ll be quick an’ clean … an’ I’ll be beside him. …”

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Hagrid swallowed. His eyes were darting all over the cabin as though looking for some shred of hope or

comfort.

“Dumbledore’s gonna come down while it — while it

happens. Wrote me this mornin’. Said he wants ter —

ter be with me. Great man, Dumbledore. …”

Hermione, who had been rummaging in Hagrid’s

cupboard for another milk jug, let out a small, quickly

stifled sob. She straightened up with the new jug in

her hands, fighting back tears.

“We’ll stay with you too, Hagrid,” she began, but

Hagrid shook his shaggy head.

“Yeh’re ter go back up ter the castle. I told yeh, I don’

wan’ yeh watchin’. An’ yeh shouldn’ be down here

anyway. … If Fudge an’ Dumbledore catch yeh out

without permission, Harry, yeh’ll be in big trouble.”

Silent tears were now streaming down Hermione’s

face, but she hid them from Hagrid, bustling around

making tea. Then, as she picked up the milk bottle to

pour some into the jug, she let out a shriek.

“Ron! I — I don’t believe it — it’s Scabbers!”

Ron gaped at her.

“What are you talking about?”

Hermione carried the milk jug over to the table and

turned it upside down. With a frantic squeak, and

much scrambling to get back inside, Scabbers the rat

came sliding out onto the table.

“Scabbers!” said Ron blankly. “Scabbers, what are

you doing here?”

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He grabbed the struggling rat and held him up to the light. Scabbers looked dreadful. He was thinner than

ever, large tufts of hair had fallen out leaving wide

bald patches, and he writhed in Ron’s hands as

though desperate to free himself.

“It’s okay, Scabbers!” said Ron. “No cats! There’s

nothing here to hurt you!”

Hagrid suddenly stood up, his eyes fixed on the

window. His normally ruddy face had gone the color

of parchment.

“They’re comin’. …”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione whipped around. A group

of men was walking down the distant castle steps. In

front was Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard

gleaming in the dying sun. Next to him trotted

Cornelius Fudge. Behind them came the feeble old

Committee member and the executioner, Macnair.

“Yeh gotta go,” said Hagrid. Every inch of him was

trembling. “They mustn’ find yeh here. … Go now. …”

Ron stuffed Scabbers into his pocket and Hermione

picked up the cloak.

“I’ll let yeh out the back way,” said Hagrid.

They followed him to the door into his back garden.

Harry felt strangely unreal, and even more so when

he saw Buckbeak a few yards away, tethered to a tree

behind Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. Buckbeak seemed to

know something was happening. He turned his sharp

head from side to side and pawed the ground

nervously.

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“It’s okay, Beaky,” said Hagrid softly. “It’s okay …” He turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Go on,” he

said. “Get goin’.”

But they didn’t move.

“Hagrid, we can’t —”

“We’ll tell them what really happened —”

“They can’t kill him —”

“Go!” said Hagrid fiercely. “It’s bad enough without

you lot in trouble an’ all!”

They had no choice. As Hermione threw the cloak

over Harry and Ron, they heard voices at the front of

the cabin. Hagrid looked at the place where they had

just vanished from sight.

“Go quick,” he said hoarsely. “Don’ listen. …”

And he strode back into his cabin as someone

knocked at the front door.

Slowly, in a kind of horrified trance, Harry, Ron, and

Hermione set off silently around Hagrid’s house. As

they reached the other side, the front door closed with

a sharp snap.

“Please, let’s hurry,” Hermione whispered. “I can’t

stand it, I can’t bear it. …”

They started up the sloping lawn toward the castle.

The sun was sinking fast now; the sky had turned to

a clear, purple-tinged grey, but to the west there was

a ruby-red glow.

Ron stopped dead.

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“Oh, please, Ron,” Hermione began.

“It’s Scabbers — he won’t — stay put —”

Ron was bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his

pocket, but the rat was going berserk; squeaking

madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth

into Ron’s hand.

“Scabbers, it’s me, you idiot, it’s Ron,” Ron hissed.

They heard a door open behind them and men’s

voices.

“Oh, Ron, please let’s move, they’re going to do it!”

Hermione breathed.

“Okay — Scabbers, stay put —”

They walked forward; Harry, like Hermione, was

trying not to listen to the rumble of voices behind

them. Ron stopped again.

“I can’t hold him — Scabbers, shut up, everyone’ll

hear us —”

The rat was squealing wildly, but not loudly enough

to cover up the sounds drifting from Hagrid’s garden.

There was a jumble of indistinct male voices, a

silence, and then, without warning, the unmistakable

swish and thud of an axe.

Hermione swayed on the spot.

“They did it!” she whispered to Harry. “I d — don’t

believe it — they did it!”

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CAT, RAT, AND DOG

Harry’s mind had gone blank with shock. The three of

them stood transfixed with horror under the

Invisibility Cloak. The very last rays of the setting sun

were casting a bloody light over the long-shadowed

grounds. Then, behind them, they heard a wild

howling.

“Hagrid,” Harry muttered. Without thinking about

what he was doing, he made to turn back, but both

Ron and Hermione seized his arms.

“We can’t,” said Ron, who was paper-white. “He’ll be

in worse trouble if they know we’ve been to see him.

…”

Hermione’s breathing was shallow and uneven.

“How — could — they?” she choked. “How could

they?”

“Come on,” said Ron, whose teeth seemed to be

chattering.

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They set off back toward the castle, walking slowly to keep themselves hidden under the cloak. The light

was fading fast now. By the time they reached open

ground, darkness was settling like a spell around

them.

“Scabbers, keep still,” Ron hissed, clamping his hand

over his chest. The rat was wriggling madly. Ron

came to a sudden halt, trying to force Scabbers

deeper into his pocket. “What’s the matter with you,

you stupid rat? Stay still — OUCH! He bit me!”

“Ron, be quiet!” Hermione whispered urgently.

“Fudge’ll be out here in a minute —”

“He won’t — stay — put —”

Scabbers was plainly terrified. He was writhing with

all his might, trying to break free of Ron’s grip.

“What’s the matter with him?”

But Harry had just seen — slinking toward them, his

body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting

eerily in the darkness — Crookshanks. Whether he

could see them or was following the sound of

Scabbers’s squeaks, Harry couldn’t tell.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione moaned. “No, go away,

Crookshanks! Go away!”

But the cat was getting nearer —

“Scabbers — NO!”

Too late — the rat had slipped between Ron’s

clutching fingers, hit the ground, and scampered

away. In one bound, Crookshanks sprang after him,

and before Harry or Hermione could stop him, Ron

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had thrown the Invisibility Cloak off himself and

pelted away into the darkness.

“Ron!” Hermione moaned.

She and Harry looked at each other, then followed at

a sprint; it was impossible to run full out under the

cloak; they pulled it off and it streamed behind them

like a banner as they hurtled after Ron; they could

hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts

at Crookshanks.

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come

here —”

There was a loud thud.

“Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat —”

Harry and Hermione almost fell over Ron; they

skidded to a stop right in front of him. He was

sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers was back in

his pocket; he had both hands held tight over the

quivering lump.

“Ron — come on — back under the cloak —”

Hermione panted. “Dumbledore — the Minister —

they’ll be coming back out in a minute —”

But before they could cover themselves again, before

they could even catch their breath, they heard the

soft pounding of gigantic paws. … Something was

bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow — an

enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Harry reached for his wand, but too late — the dog

had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit

him on the chest; he keeled over backward in a whirl

of hair; he felt its hot breath, saw inch-long teeth —

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But the force of its leap had carried it too far; it rolled off him. Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were

broken, Harry tried to stand up; he could hear it

growling as it skidded around for a new attack.

Ron was on his feet. As the dog sprang back toward

them he pushed Harry aside; the dog’s jaws fastened

instead around Ron’s outstretched arm. Harry lunged

forward, he seized a handful of the brute’s hair, but it

was dragging Ron away as easily as though he were a

rag doll —

Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard

across the face he was knocked off his feet again. He

heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too.

Harry groped for his wand, blinking blood out of his

eyes —

“Lumos!” he whispered.

The wandlight showed him the trunk of a thick tree;

they had chased Scabbers into the shadow of the

Whomping Willow and its branches were creaking as

though in a high wind, whipping backward and

forward to stop them going nearer.

And there, at the base of the trunk, was the dog,

dragging Ron backward into a large gap in the roots

— Ron was fighting furiously, but his head and torso

were slipping out of sight —

“Ron!” Harry shouted, trying to follow, but a heavy

branch whipped lethally through the air and he was

forced backward again.

All they could see now was one of Ron’s legs, which

he had hooked around a root in an effort to stop the

dog from pulling him farther underground — but a

P a g e | 373 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

horrible crack cut the air like a gunshot; Ron’s leg had broken, and a moment later, his foot vanished

from sight.

“Harry — we’ve got to go for help —” Hermione

gasped; she was bleeding too; the Willow had cut her

across the shoulder.

“No! That thing’s big enough to eat him; we haven’t

got time —”

“Harry — we’re never going to get through without

help —”

Another branch whipped down at them, twigs

clenched like knuckles.

“If that dog can get in, we can,” Harry panted, darting

here and there, trying to find a way through the

vicious, swishing branches, but he couldn’t get an

inch nearer to the tree roots without being in range of

the tree’s blows.

“Oh, help, help,” Hermione whispered frantically,

dancing uncertainly on the spot, “please …”

Crookshanks darted forward. He slithered between

the battering branches like a snake and placed his

front paws upon a knot on the trunk.

Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to

marble, it stopped moving. Not a leaf twitched or

shook.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione whispered uncertainly. She

now grasped Harry’s arm painfully hard. “How did he

know — ?”

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“He’s friends with that dog,” said Harry grimly. “I’ve seen them together. Come on — and keep your wand

out —”

They covered the distance to the trunk in seconds,

but before they had reached the gap in the roots,

Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his

bottlebrush tail. Harry went next; he crawled forward,

headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the

bottom of a very low tunnel. Crookshanks was a little

way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry’s

wand. Seconds later, Hermione slithered down beside

him.

“Where’s Ron?” she whispered in a terrified voice.

“This way,” said Harry, setting off, bent-backed, after

Crookshanks.

“Where does this tunnel come out?” Hermione asked

breathlessly from behind him.

“I don’t know. … It’s marked on the Marauder’s Map

but Fred and George said no one’s ever gotten into it.

… It goes off the edge of the map, but it looked like it

was heading for Hogsmeade. …”

They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double;

ahead of them, Crookshanks’s tail bobbed in and out

of view. On and on went the passage; it felt at least as

long as the one to Honeydukes. … All Harry could

think of was Ron and what the enormous dog might

be doing to him. … He was drawing breath in sharp,

painful gasps, running at a crouch. …

And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it

twisted, and Crookshanks had gone. Instead, Harry

could see a patch of dim light through a small

opening.

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He and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging forward. Both raised their wands to see what lay

beyond.

It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper

was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over

the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as

though somebody had smashed it. The windows were

all boarded up.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked very

frightened but nodded.

Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around.

The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood

open, leading to a shadowy hallway. Hermione

suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm again. Her wide eyes

were traveling around the boarded windows.

“Harry,” she whispered, “I think we’re in the Shrieking

Shack.”

Harry looked around. His eyes fell on a wooden chair

near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it; one

of the legs had been ripped off entirely.

“Ghosts didn’t do that,” he said slowly.

At that moment, there was a creak overhead.

Something had moved upstairs. Both of them looked

up at the ceiling. Hermione’s grip on Harry’s arm was

so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers. He raised

his eyebrows at her; she nodded again and let go.

Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and

up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered

in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where a wide

shiny stripe had been made by something being

dragged upstairs.

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They reached the dark landing.

“Nox, ” they whispered together, and the lights at the

end of their wands went out. Only one door was open.

As they crept toward it, they heard movement from

behind it; a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring.

They exchanged a last look, a last nod.

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicked the door

wide open.

On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings

lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them.

On the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which

stuck out at a strange angle, was Ron.

Harry and Hermione dashed across to him.

“Ron — are you okay?”

“Where’s the dog?”

“Not a dog,” Ron moaned. His teeth were gritted with

pain. “Harry, it’s a trap —”

“What —”

“He’s the dog … he’s an Animagus. …”

Ron was staring over Harry’s shoulder. Harry wheeled

around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closed

the door behind them.

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If

eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark

sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin

was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it

looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a

grin. It was Sirius Black.

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“Expelliarmus!” he croaked, pointing Ron’s wand at them.

Harry’s and Hermione’s wands shot out of their

hands, high in the air, and Black caught them. Then

he took a step closer. His eyes were fixed on Harry.

“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he said

hoarsely. His voice sounded as though he had long

since lost the habit of using it. “Your father would

have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run

for a teacher. I’m grateful … it will make everything

much easier. …”

The taunt about his father rang in Harry’s ears as

though Black had bellowed it. A boiling hate erupted

in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first

time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand,

not to defend himself, but to attack … to kill. Without

knowing what he was doing, he started forward, but

there was a sudden movement on either side of him

and two pairs of hands grabbed him and held him

back. … “No, Harry!” Hermione gasped in a petrified

whisper; Ron, however, spoke to Black.

“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”

he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright

was draining him of still more color, and he swayed

slightly as he spoke.

Something flickered in Black’s shadowed eyes.

“Lie down,” he said quietly to Ron. “You will damage

that leg even more.”

“Did you hear me?” Ron said weakly, though he was

clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. “You’ll

have to kill all three of us!”

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“There’ll be only one murder here tonight,” said Black, and his grin widened.

“Why’s that?” Harry spat, trying to wrench himself

free of Ron and Hermione. “Didn’t care last time, did

you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those Muggles to

get at Pettigrew. … What’s the matter, gone soft in

Azkaban?”

“Harry!” Hermione whimpered. “Be quiet!”

“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!” Harry roared, and

with a huge effort he broke free of Hermione’s and

Ron’s restraint and lunged forward —

He had forgotten about magic — he had forgotten that

he was short and skinny and thirteen, whereas Black

was a tall, full-grown man — all Harry knew was that

he wanted to hurt Black as badly as he could and

that he didn’t care how much he got hurt in return —

Perhaps it was the shock of Harry doing something so

stupid, but Black didn’t raise the wands in time —

one of Harry’s hands fastened over his wasted wrist,

forcing the wand tips away; the knuckles of Harry’s

other hand collided with the side of Black’s head and

they fell, backward, into the wall —

Hermione was screaming; Ron was yelling; there was

a blinding flash as the wands in Black’s hand sent a

jet of sparks into the air that missed Harry’s face by

inches; Harry felt the shrunken arm under his fingers

twisting madly, but he clung on, his other hand

punching every part of Black it could find.

But Black’s free hand had found Harry’s throat —

“No,” he hissed, “I’ve waited too long —”

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The fingers tightened, Harry choked, his glasses

askew.

Then he saw Hermione’s foot swing out of nowhere.

Black let go of Harry with a grunt of pain; Ron had

thrown himself on Black’s wand hand and Harry

heard a faint clatter —

He fought free of the tangle of bodies and saw his own

wand rolling across the floor; he threw himself toward

it but —

“Argh!”

Crookshanks had joined the fray; both sets of front

claws had sunk themselves deep into Harry’s arm;

Harry threw him off, but Crookshanks now darted

toward Harry’s wand —

“NO YOU DON’T!” roared Harry, and he aimed a kick

at Crookshanks that made the cat leap aside,

spitting; Harry snatched up his wand and turned —

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Ron and

Hermione.

They didn’t need telling twice. Hermione, gasping for

breath, her lip bleeding, scrambled aside, snatching

up her and Ron’s wands. Ron crawled to the four-

poster and collapsed onto it, panting, his white face

now tinged with green, both hands clutching his

broken leg.

Black was sprawled at the bottom of the wall. His thin

chest rose and fell rapidly as he watched Harry

walking slowly nearer, his wand pointing straight at

Black’s heart.

“Going to kill me, Harry?” he whispered.

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Harry stopped right above him, his wand still pointing at Black’s chest, looking down at him. A livid bruise

was rising around Black’s left eye and his nose was

bleeding.

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking

slightly, but his wand hand quite steady.

Black stared up at him out of those sunken eyes.

“I don’t deny it,” he said very quietly. “But if you knew

the whole story.”

“The whole story?” Harry repeated, a furious

pounding in his ears. “You sold them to Voldemort.

That’s all I need to know.”

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Black said, and there was

a note of urgency in his voice now. “You’ll regret it if

you don’t. … You don’t understand. …”

“I understand a lot better than you think,” said Harry,

and his voice shook more than ever. “You never heard

her, did you? My mum … trying to stop Voldemort

killing me … and you did that … you did it. …”

Before either of them could say another word,

something ginger streaked past Harry; Crookshanks

leapt onto Black’s chest and settled himself there,

right over Black’s heart. Black blinked and looked

down at the cat.

“Get off,” he murmured, trying to push Crookshanks

off him.

But Crookshanks sank his claws into Black’s robes

and wouldn’t shift. He turned his ugly, squashed face

to Harry and looked up at him with those great yellow

eyes. To his right, Hermione gave a dry sob.

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Harry stared down at Black and Crookshanks, his

grip tightening on the wand. So what if he had to kill

the cat too? It was in league with Black. … If it was

prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t

Harry’s business. … If Black wanted to save it, that

only proved he cared more for Crookshanks than for

Harry’s parents. …

Harry raised the wand. Now was the moment to do it.

Now was the moment to avenge his mother and

father. He was going to kill Black. He had to kill

Black. This was his chance. …

The seconds lengthened. And still Harry stood frozen

there, wand poised, Black staring up at him,

Crookshanks on his chest. Ron’s ragged breathing

came from near the bed; Hermione was quite silent.

And then came a new sound —

Muffled footsteps were echoing up through the floor

— someone was moving downstairs.

“WE’RE UP HERE!” Hermione screamed suddenly.

“WE’RE UP HERE — SIRIUS BLACK — QUICK!”

Black made a startled movement that almost

dislodged Crookshanks; Harry gripped his wand

convulsively — Do it now! said a voice in his head —

but the footsteps were thundering up the stairs and

Harry still hadn’t done it.

The door of the room burst open in a shower of red

sparks and Harry wheeled around as Professor Lupin

came hurtling into the room, his face bloodless, his

wand raised and ready. His eyes flickered over Ron,

lying on the floor, over Hermione, cowering next to the

door, to Harry, standing there with his wand covering

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Black, and then to Black himself, crumpled and

bleeding at Harry’s feet.

“Expelliarmus!” Lupin shouted.

Harry’s wand flew once more out of his hand; so did

the two Hermione was holding. Lupin caught them all

deftly, then moved into the room, staring at Black,

who still had Crookshanks lying protectively across

his chest.

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty. He hadn’t

done it. His nerve had failed him. Black was going to

be handed back to the dementors.

Then Lupin spoke, in a very tense voice.

“Where is he, Sirius?”

Harry looked quickly at Lupin. He didn’t understand

what Lupin meant. Who was Lupin talking about? He

turned to look at Black again.

Black’s face was quite expressionless. For a few

seconds, he didn’t move at all. Then, very slowly, he

raised his empty hand and pointed straight at Ron.

Mystified, Harry glanced around at Ron, who looked

bewildered.

“But then … ,” Lupin muttered, staring at Black so

intently it seemed he was trying to read his mind, “…

why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless” —

Lupin’s eyes suddenly widened, as though he was

seeing something beyond Black, something none of

the rest could see, “— unless he was the one …

unless you switched … without telling me?”

Very slowly, his sunken gaze never leaving Lupin’s

face, Black nodded.

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“Professor,” Harry interrupted loudly, “what’s going on — ?”

But he never finished the question, because what he

saw made his voice die in his throat. Lupin was

lowering his wand, gazing fixedly at Black. The

Professor walked to Black’s side, seized his hand,

pulled him to his feet so that Crookshanks fell to the

floor, and embraced Black like a brother.

Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of

his stomach.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” Hermione screamed.

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her. She had

raised herself off the floor and was pointing at Lupin,

wild-eyed. “You — you —”

“Hermione —”

“ — you and him!”

“Hermione, calm down —”

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Hermione shrieked. “I’ve been

covering up for you —”

“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Lupin shouted. “I

can explain —”

Harry could feel himself shaking, not with fear, but

with a fresh wave of fury.

“I trusted you,” he shouted at Lupin, his voice

wavering out of control, “and all the time you’ve been

his friend!”

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“You’re wrong,” said Lupin. “I haven’t been Sirius’s friend, but I am now — Let me explain. …”

“NO!” Hermione screamed. “Harry, don’t trust him,

he’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants

you dead too — he’s a werewolf!”

There was a ringing silence. Everyone’s eyes were now

on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather

pale.

“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione,” he

said. “Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have not

been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly

don’t want Harry dead. …” An odd shiver passed over

his face. “But I won’t deny that I am a werewolf.”

Ron made a valiant effort to get up again but fell back

with a whimper of pain. Lupin made toward him,

looking concerned, but Ron gasped,

“Get away from me, werewolf!”

Lupin stopped dead. Then, with an obvious effort, he

turned to Hermione and said, “How long have you

known?”

“Ages,” Hermione whispered. “Since I did Professor

Snape’s essay. …”

“He’ll be delighted,” said Lupin coolly. “He assigned

that essay hoping someone would realize what my

symptoms meant. … Did you check the lunar chart

and realize that I was always ill at the full moon? Or

did you realize that the boggart changed into the

moon when it saw me?”

“Both,” Hermione said quietly.

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Lupin forced a laugh.

“You’re the cleverest witch of your age I’ve ever met,

Hermione.”

“I’m not,” Hermione whispered. “If I’d been a bit

cleverer, I’d have told everyone what you are!”

“But they already know,” said Lupin. “At least, the

staff do.”

“Dumbledore hired you when he knew you were a

werewolf?” Ron gasped. “Is he mad?”

“Some of the staff thought so,” said Lupin. “He had to

work very hard to convince certain teachers that I’m

trustworthy —”

“AND HE WAS WRONG!” Harry yelled. “YOU’VE BEEN

HELPING HIM ALL THE TIME!” He was pointing at

Black, who suddenly crossed to the four-poster bed

and sank onto it, his face hidden in one shaking

hand. Crookshanks leapt up beside him and stepped

onto his lap, purring. Ron edged away from both of

them, dragging his leg.

“I have not been helping Sirius,” said Lupin. “If you’ll

give me a chance, I’ll explain. Look —”

He separated Harry’s, Ron’s and Hermione’s wands

and threw each back to its owner; Harry caught his,

stunned.

“There,” said Lupin, sticking his own wand back into

his belt. “You’re armed, we’re not. Now will you

listen?”

Harry didn’t know what to think. Was it a trick?

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“If you haven’t been helping him,” he said, with a furious glance at Black, “how did you know he was

here?”

“The map,” said Lupin. “The Marauder’s Map. I was in

my office examining it —”

“You know how to work it?” Harry said suspiciously.

“Of course I know how to work it,” said Lupin, waving

his hand impatiently. “I helped write it. I’m Moony —

that was my friends’ nickname for me at school.”

“You wrote — ?”

“The important thing is, I was watching it carefully

this evening, because I had an idea that you, Ron,

and Hermione might try and sneak out of the castle to

visit Hagrid before his hippogriff was executed. And I

was right, wasn’t I?”

He had started to pace up and down, looking at them.

Little patches of dust rose at his feet.

“You might have been wearing your father’s old cloak,

Harry —”

“How d’you know about the cloak?”

“The number of times I saw James disappearing

under it… ,” said Lupin, waving an impatient hand

again. “The point is, even if you’re wearing an

Invisibility Cloak, you still show up on the Marauder’s

Map. I watched you cross the grounds and enter

Hagrid’s hut. Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid,

and set off back toward the castle. But you were now

accompanied by somebody else.”

“What?” said Harry. “No, we weren’t!”

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“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said Lupin, still pacing, and ignoring Harry’s interruption. “I thought the map

must be malfunctioning. How could he be with you?”

“No one was with us!” said Harry.

“And then I saw another dot, moving fast toward you,

labeled Sirius Black. … I saw him collide with you; I

watched as he pulled two of you into the Whomping

Willow —”

“One of us!” Ron said angrily.

“No, Ron,” said Lupin. “Two of you.”

He had stopped his pacing, his eyes moving over Ron.

“Do you think I could have a look at the rat?” he said

evenly.

“What?” said Ron. “What’s Scabbers got to do with

it?”

“Everything,” said Lupin. “Could I see him, please?”

Ron hesitated, then put a hand inside his robes.

Scabbers emerged, thrashing desperately; Ron had to

seize his long bald tail to stop him escaping.

Crookshanks stood up on Black’s leg and made a soft

hissing noise.

Lupin moved closer to Ron. He seemed to be holding

his breath as he gazed intently at Scabbers.

“What?” Ron said again, holding Scabbers close to

him, looking scared. “What’s my rat got to do with

anything?”

“That’s not a rat,” croaked Sirius Black suddenly.

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“What d’you mean — of course he’s a rat —”

“No, he’s not,” said Lupin quietly. “He’s a wizard.”

“An Animagus,” said Black, “by the name of Peter

Pettigrew.”

P a g e | 389 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J.K. Rowling

MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND

PRONGS

It took a few seconds for the absurdity of this

statement to sink in. Then Ron voiced what Harry

was thinking.

“You’re both mental.”

“Ridiculous!” said Hermione faintly.

“Peter Pettigrew’s dead!” said Harry. “He killed him twelve years ago!” He pointed at Black, whose face

twitched convulsively.

“I meant to,” he growled, his yellow teeth bared, “but

little Peter got the better of me … not this time,

though!”

And Crookshanks was thrown to the floor as Black

lunged at Scabbers; Ron yelled with pain as Black’s

weight fell on his broken leg.

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“Sirius, NO!” Lupin yelled, launching himself forwards and dragging Black away from Ron again, “WAIT! You

can’t do it just like that — they need to understand —

we’ve got to explain —”

“We can explain afterwards!” snarled Black, trying to

throw Lupin off. One hand was still clawing the air as

it tried to reach Scabbers, who was squealing like a

piglet, scratching Ron’s face and neck as he tried to

escape.

“They’ve — got — a — right — to — know —

everything!” Lupin panted, still trying to restrain

Black. “Ron’s kept him as a pet! There are parts of it

even I don’t understand! And Harry — you owe Harry

the truth, Sirius!”

Black stopped struggling, though his hollowed eyes

were still fixed on Scabbers, who was clamped tightly

under Ron’s bitten, scratched, and bleeding hands.

“All right, then,” Black said, without taking his eyes

off the rat. “Tell them whatever you like. But make it

quick, Remus. I want to commit the murder I was

imprisoned for. …”

“You’re nutters, both of you,” said Ron shakily,

looking round at Harry and Hermione for support.

“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”

He tried to heave himself up on his good leg, but

Lupin raised his wand again, pointing it at Scabbers.

“You’re going to hear me out, Ron,” he said quietly.

“Just keep a tight hold on Peter while you listen.”

“HE’S NOT PETER, HE’S SCABBERS!” Ron yelled,

trying to force the rat back into his front pocket, but

Scabbers was fighting too hard; Ron swayed and

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overbalanced, and Harry caught him and pushed him

back down to the bed. Then, ignoring Black, Harry

turned to Lupin.

“There were witnesses who saw Pettigrew die,” he

said. “A whole street full of them …”

“They didn’t see what they thought they saw!” said

Black savagely, still watching Scabbers struggling in

Ron’s hands.

“Everyone thought Sirius killed Peter,” said Lupin,

nodding. “I believed it myself — until I saw the map

tonight. Because the Marauder’s map never lies …

Peter’s alive. Ron’s holding him, Harry.”

Harry looked down at Ron, and as their eyes met,

they agreed, silently: Black and Lupin were both out

of their minds. Their story made no sense whatsoever.

How could Scabbers be Peter Pettigrew? Azkaban

must have unhinged Black after all — but why was

Lupin playing along with him?

Then Hermione spoke, in a trembling, would-be calm

sort of voice, as though trying to will Professor Lupin

to talk sensibly.

“But Professor Lupin … Scabbers can’t be Pettigrew

… it just can’t be true, you know it can’t …”

“Why can’t it be true?” Lupin said calmly, as though

they were in class, and Hermione had simply spotted

a problem in an experiment with grindylows.

“Because … because people would know if Peter

Pettigrew had been an Animagus. We did Animagi in

class with Professor McGonagall. And I looked them

up when I did my homework — the Ministry of Magic

keeps tabs on witches and wizards who can become

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animals; there’s a register showing what animal they become, and their markings and things … and I went

and looked Professor McGonagall up on the register,

and there have been only seven Animagi this century,

and Pettigrew’s name wasn’t on the list —”

Harry had barely had time to marvel inwardly at the

effort Hermione put into her homework, when Lupin

started to laugh. “Right again, Hermione!” he said.

“But the Ministry never knew that there used to be

three unregistered Animagi running around

Hogwarts.”

“If you’re going to tell them the story, get a move on,

Remus,” snarled Black, who was still watching

Scabbers’s every desperate move. “I’ve waited twelve

years, I’m not going to wait much longer.”

“All right … but you’ll need to help me, Sirius,” said

Lupin, “I only know how it began …”

Lupin broke off. There had been a loud creak behind

him. The bedroom door had opened of its own accord.

All five of them stared at it. Then Lupin strode toward

it and looked out into the landing.

“No one there …”

“This place is haunted!” said Ron.

“It’s not,” said Lupin, still looking at the door in a

puzzled way. “The Shrieking Shack was never

haunted. … The screams and howls the villagers used

to hear were made by me.”

He pushed his graying hair out of his eyes, thought

for a moment, then said, “That’s where all of this

starts — with my becoming a werewolf. None of this

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could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten … and if I hadn’t been so foolhardy. …”

He looked sober and tired. Ron started to interrupt,

but Hermione said, “Shh!” She was watching Lupin

very intently.

“I was a very small boy when I received the bite. My

parents tried everything, but in those days there was

no cure. The potion that Professor Snape has been

making for me is a very recent discovery. It makes me

safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week

preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I

transform. … I am able to curl up in my office, a

harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again.

“Before the Wolfsbane Potion was discovered,

however, I became a fully fledged monster once a

month. It seemed impossible that I would be able to

come to Hogwarts. Other parents weren’t likely to

want their children exposed to me.

“But then Dumbledore became Headmaster, and he

was sympathetic. He said that as long as we took

certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t

come to school. …” Lupin sighed, and looked directly

at Harry. “I told you, months ago, that the Whomping

Willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The

truth is that it was planted because I came to

Hogwarts. This house” — Lupin looked miserably

around the room, — “the tunnel that leads to it —

they were built for my use. Once a month, I was

smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to

transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth

to stop anyone coming across me while I was

dangerous.”

Harry couldn’t see where this story was going, but he

was listening raptly all the same. The only sound

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apart from Lupin’s voice was Scabbers’s frightened squeaking.

“My transformations in those days were — were

terrible. It is very painful to turn into a werewolf. I

was separated from humans to bite, so I bit and

scratched myself instead. The villagers heard the

noise and the screaming and thought they were

hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore

encouraged the rumor. … Even now, when the house

has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare

approach it. …

“But apart from my transformations, I was happier

than I had ever been in my life. For the first time ever,

I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black …

Peter Pettigrew … and, of course, your father, Harry

— James Potter.

“Now, my three friends could hardly fail to notice that

I disappeared once a month. I made up all sorts of

stories. I told them my mother was ill, and that I had

to go home to see her. … I was terrified they would

desert me the moment they found out what I was. But

of course, they, like you, Hermione, worked out the

truth. …

“And they didn’t desert me at all. Instead, they did

something for me that would make my

transformations not only bearable, but the best times

of my life. They became Animagi.”

“My dad too?” said Harry, astounded.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lupin. “It took them the best part

of three years to work out how to do it. Your father

and Sirius here were the cleverest students in the

school, and lucky they were, because the Animagus

transformation can go horribly wrong — one reason

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the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from

James and Sirius. Finally, in our fifth year, they

managed it. They could each turn into a different

animal at will.”

“But how did that help you?” said Hermione,

sounding puzzled.

“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they

kept me company as animals,” said Lupin. “A

werewolf is only a danger to people. They sneaked out

of the castle every month under James’s Invisibility

Cloak. They transformed … Peter, as the smallest,

could slip beneath the Willow’s attacking branches

and touch the knot that freezes it. They would then

slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their

influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still

wolfish, but my mind seemed to become less so while

I was with them.”

“Hurry up, Remus,” snarled Black, who was still

watching Scabbers with a horrible sort of hunger on

his face.

“I’m getting there, Sirius, I’m getting there … well,

highly exciting possibilities were open to us now that

we could all transform. Soon we were leaving the

Shrieking Shack and roaming the school grounds and

the village by night. Sirius and James transformed

into such large animals, they were able to keep a

werewolf in check. I doubt whether any Hogwarts

students ever found out more about the Hogwarts

grounds and Hogsmeade than we did. … And that’s

how we came to write the Marauder’s Map, and sign it

with our nicknames. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is

Wormtail. James was Prongs.”

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“What sort of animal — ?” Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

“That was still really dangerous! Running around in

the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the

others the slip, and bitten somebody?”

“A thought that still haunts me,” said Lupin heavily.

“And there were near misses, many of them. We

laughed about them afterwards. We were young,

thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.”

“I sometimes felt guilty about betraying Dumbledore’s

trust, of course … he had admitted me to Hogwarts

when no other headmaster would have done so, and

he had no idea I was breaking the rules he had set

down for my own and others’ safety. He never knew I

had led three fellow students into becoming Animagi

illegally. But I always managed to forget my guilty

feelings every time we sat down to plan our next

month’s adventure. And I haven’t changed …”

Lupin’s face had hardened, and there was self-disgust

in his voice. “All this year, I have been battling with

myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore

that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why?

Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant

admitting that I’d betrayed his trust while I was at

school, admitting that I’d led others along with me …

and Dumbledore’s trust has meant everything to me.

He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a

job when I have been shunned all my adult life,

unable to find paid work because of what I am. And

so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the

school using dark arts he learned from Voldemort,

that being an Animagus had nothing to do with it …

so, in a way, Snape’s been right about me all along.”

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“Snape?” said Black harshly, taking his eyes off

Scabbers for the first time in minutes and looking up

at Lupin. “What’s Snape got to do with it?”

“He’s here, Sirius,” said Lupin heavily. “He’s teaching

here as well.” He looked up at Harry, Ron, and

Hermione.

“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought

very hard against my appointment to the Defense

Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling

Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He

has his reasons … you see, Sirius here played a trick

on him which nearly killed him, a trick which

involved me —”

Black made a derisive noise.

“It served him right,” he sneered. “Sneaking around,

trying to find out what we were up to … hoping he

could get us expelled. …”

“Severus was very interested in where I went every

month.” Lupin told Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “We

were in the same year, you know, and we — er —

didn’t like each other very much. He especially

disliked James. Jealous, I think, of James’s talent on

the Quidditch field … anyway Snape had seen me

crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey one

evening as she led me toward the Whomping Willow

to transform. Sirius thought it would be — er —

amusing, to tell Snape all he had to do was prod the

knot on the tree trunk with a long stick, and he’d be

able to get in after me. Well, of course, Snape tried it

— if he’d got as far as this house, he’d have met a

fully grown werewolf — but your father, who’d heard

what Sirius had done, went after Snape and pulled

him back, at great risk to his life … Snape glimpsed

me, though, at the end of the tunnel. He was

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forbidden by Dumbledore to tell anybody, but from

that time on he knew what I was. …”

“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” said Harry

slowly, “because he thought you were in on the joke?”

“That’s right,” sneered a cold voice from the wall

behind Lupin.

Severus Snape was pulling off the Invisibility Cloak,

his wand pointing directly at Lupin.

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THE SERVANT OF LORD

VOLDERMORT

Hermione screamed. Black leapt to his feet. Harry felt

as though he’d received a huge electric shock.

“I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow,”

said Snape, throwing the cloak aside, careful to keep

this wand pointing directly at Lupin’s chest. “Very

useful, Potter, I thank you. …”

Snape was slightly breathless, but his face was full of

suppressed triumph. “You’re wondering, perhaps,

how I knew you were here?” he said, his eyes

glittering. “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You

forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful

along. And very lucky I did … lucky for me, I mean.

Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at

it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running

along this passageway and out of sight.”

“Severus —” Lupin began, but Snape overrode him.

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“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin,

and here’s the proof. Not even I dreamed you would

have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout

—”

“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” said Lupin

urgently. “You haven’t heard everything — I can

explain — Sirius is not here to kill Harry —”

“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” said Snape, his eyes

now gleaming fanatically. “I shall be interested to see

how Dumbledore takes this. … He was quite

convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin … a

tame werewolf —”

“You fool,” said Lupin softly. “Is a schoolboy grudge

worth putting an innocent man back inside

Azkaban?”

BANG! Thin, snakelike cords burst from the end of

Snape’s wand and twisted themselves around Lupin’s

mouth, wrists, and ankles; he overbalanced and fell

to the floor, unable to move. With a roar of rage,

Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his

wand straight between Black’s eyes.

“Give me a reason,” he whispered. “Give me a reason

to do it, and I swear I will.”

Black stopped dead. It would have been impossible to

say which face showed more hatred.

Harry stood there, paralyzed, not knowing what to do

or whom to believe. He glanced around at Ron and

Hermione. Ron looked just as confused as he did, still

fighting to keep hold on the struggling Scabbers.

Hermione, however, took an uncertain step toward

Snape and said, in a very breathless voice, “Professor

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Snape — it — it wouldn’t hurt to hear what they’ve got to say, w — would it?”

“Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension

from this school,” Snape spat. “You, Potter, and

Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a

convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your

life, hold your tongue. ”

“But if — if there was a mistake —”

“KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!” Snape shouted,

looking suddenly quite deranged. “DON’T TALK

ABOUT WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” A few

sparks shot out of the end of his wand, which was

still pointed at Black’s face. Hermione fell silent.

“Vengeance is very sweet,” Snape breathed at Black.

“How I hoped I would be the one to catch you. …”

“The joke’s on you again, Severus,” Black snarled. “As

long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle” — he

jerked his head at Ron — “I’ll come quietly. …”

“Up to the castle?” said Snape silkily. “I don’t think

we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the

dementors once we get out of the Willow. They’ll be

very pleased to see you, Black … pleased enough to

give you a little kiss, I daresay. …”

What little color there was in Black’s face left it.

“You — you’ve got to hear me out,” he croaked. “The

rat — look at the rat —”

But there was a mad glint in Snape’s eyes that Harry

had never seen before. He seemed beyond reason.

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“Come on, all of you,” he said. He clicked his fingers, and the ends of the cords that bound Lupin flew to

his hands. “I’ll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the

dementors will have a kiss for him too —”

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had crossed

the room in three strides and blocked the door.

“Get out of the way, Potter, you’re in enough trouble

already,” snarled Snape. “If I hadn’t been here to save

your skin —”

“Professor Lupin could have killed me about a

hundred times this year,” Harry said. “I’ve been alone

with him loads of times, having defense lessons

against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why

didn’t he just finish me off then?”

“Don’t ask me to fathom the way a werewolf’s mind

works,” hissed Snape. “Get out of the way, Potter.”

“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” Harry yelled. “JUST BECAUSE

THEY MADE A FOOL OF YOU AT SCHOOL YOU

WON’T EVEN LISTEN —”

“SILENCE! I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!”

Snape shrieked, looking madder than ever. “Like

father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck;

you should be thanking me on bended knee! You

would have been well served if he’d killed you! You’d

have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you

might be mistaken in Black — now get out of the way,

or I will make you. GET OUT OF THE WAY, POTTER!”

Harry made up his mind in a split second. Before

Snape could take even one step toward him, he had

raised his wand.

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“Expelliarmus!” he yelled — except that his wasn’t the only voice that shouted. There was a blast that made

the door rattle on its hinges; Snape was lifted off his

feet and slammed into the wall, then slid down it to

the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from under his hair.

He had been knocked out.

Harry looked around. Both Ron and Hermione had

tried to disarm Snape at exactly the same moment.

Snape’s wand soared in a high arc and landed on the

bed next to Crookshanks.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Black, looking at

Harry. “You should have left him to me. …”

Harry avoided Black’s eyes. He wasn’t sure, even now,

that he’d done the right thing.

“We attacked a teacher. … We attacked a teacher … ,”

Hermione whimpered, staring at the lifeless Snape

with frightened eyes. “Oh, we’re going to be in so

much trouble —”

Lupin was struggling against his bonds. Black bent

down quickly and untied him. Lupin straightened up,

rubbing his arms where the ropes had cut into them.

“Thank you, Harry,” he said.

“I’m still not saying I believe you,” he told Lupin.

“Then it’s time we offered you some proof,” said

Lupin. “You, boy — give me Peter, please. Now.”

Ron clutched Scabbers closer to his chest.

“Come off it,” he said weakly. “Are you trying to say

he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on

Scabbers? I mean …” He looked up at Harry and

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Hermione for support, “Okay, say Pettigrew could

turn into a rat — there are millions of rats — how’s he

supposed to know which one he’s after if he was

locked up in Azkaban?”

“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” said Lupin,

turning to Black and frowning slightly. “How did you

find out where he was?”

Black put one of his clawlike hands inside his robes

and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he

smoothed flat and held out to show the others.

It was the photograph of Ron and his family that had

appeared in the Daily Prophet the previous summer,

and there, on Ron’s shoulder, was Scabbers.

“How did you get this?” Lupin asked Black,

thunderstruck.

“Fudge,” said Black. “When he came to inspect

Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there

was Peter, on the front page … on this boy’s shoulder.

… I knew him at once … how many times had I seen

him transform? And the caption said the boy would

be going back to Hogwarts … to where Harry was. …”

“My God,” said Lupin softly, staring from Scabbers to

the picture in the paper and back again. “His front

paw …”

“What about it?” said Ron defiantly.

“He’s got a toe missing,” said Black.

“Of course,” Lupin breathed. “So simple … so brilliant

… he cut it off himself?”

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“Just before he transformed,” said Black. “When I

cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear

that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could

curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand

behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of

himself — and sped down into the sewer with the

other rats. …”

“Didn’t you ever hear, Ron?” said Lupin. “The biggest

bit of Peter they found was his finger.”

“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat

or something! He’s been in my family for ages, right —

”

“Twelve years, in fact,” said Lupin. “Didn’t you ever

wonder why he was living so long?”

“We — we’ve been taking good care of him!” said Ron.

“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?”

said Lupin. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever

since he heard Sirius was on the loose again. …”

“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” said Ron, nodding

toward Crookshanks, who was still purring on the

bed.

But that wasn’t right, Harry thought suddenly. …

Scabbers had been looking ill before he met

Crookshanks … ever since Ron’s return from Egypt …

since the time when Black had escaped. …

“This cat isn’t mad,” said Black hoarsely. He reached

out a bony hand and stroked Crookshanks’s fluffy

head. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever

met. He recognized Peter for what he was right away.

And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. It was a

while before he trusted me. … Finally, I managed to

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communicate to him what I was after, and he’s been helping me. …”

“What do you mean?” breathed Hermione.

“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t … so he

stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower for me. …

As I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside

table. …”

Harry’s brain seemed to be sagging under the weight

of what he was hearing. It was absurd … and yet …

“But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for

it. …” croaked Black. “This cat — Crookshanks, did

you call him? — told me Peter had left blood on the

sheets. … I supposed he bit himself. … Well, faking

his own death had worked once. …”

These words jolted Harry to his senses.

“And why did he fake his death?” he said furiously.

“Because he knew you were about to kill him like you

killed my parents!”

“No,” said Lupin, “Harry —”

“And now you’ve come to finish him off!”

“Yes, I have,” said Black, with an evil look at

Scabbers.

“Then I should’ve let Snape take you!” Harry shouted.

“Harry,” said Lupin hurriedly, “don’t you see? All this

time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and

Peter tracked him down — but it was the other way

around, don’t you see? Peter betrayed your mother

and father — Sirius tracked Peter down —”

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“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry yelled. “HE WAS THEIR

SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU

TURNED UP. HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!”

He was pointing at Black, who shook his head slowly;

the sunken eyes were suddenly overbright.

“Harry … I as good as killed them,” he croaked. “I

persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the

last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-

Keeper instead of me. … I’m to blame, I know it. …

The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter,

make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his

hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a

struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for

your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw

their house, destroyed, and their bodies … I realized

what Peter must’ve done … what I’d done. …”

His voice broke. He turned away.

“Enough of this,” said Lupin, and there was a steely

note in his voice Harry had never heard before.

“There’s one certain way to prove what really

happened. Ron, give me that rat. ”

“What are you going to do with him if I give him to

you?” Ron asked Lupin tensely.

“Force him to show himself,” said Lupin. “If he really

is a rat, it won’t hurt him.”

Ron hesitated. Then at long last, he held out

Scabbers and Lupin took him. Scabbers began to

squeak without stopping, twisting and turning, his

tiny black eyes bulging in his head.

“Ready, Sirius?” said Lupin.

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Black had already retrieved Snape’s wand from the

bed. He approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and

his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his

face.

“Together?” he said quietly.

“I think so,” said Lupin, holding Scabbers tightly in

one hand and his wand in the other. “On the count of

three. One — two — THREE!”

A flash of blue-white light erupted from both wands;

for a moment, Scabbers was frozen in midair, his

small gray form twisting madly — Ron yelled — the

rat fell and hit the floor. There was another blinding

flash of light and then —

It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing

tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground;

limbs were sprouting; a moment later, a man was

standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and

wringing his hands. Crookshanks was spitting and

snarling on the bed; the hair on his back was

standing up.

He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry

and Hermione. His thin, colorless hair was unkempt

and there was a large bald patch on top. He had the

shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a

lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby,

almost like Scabbers’s fur, and something of the rat

lingered around his pointed nose and his very small,

watery eyes. He looked around at them all, his

breathing fast and shallow. Harry saw his eyes dart to

the door and back again.

“Well, hello, Peter,” said Lupin pleasantly, as though

rats frequently erupted into old school friends around

him. “Long time, no see.”

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“S — Sirius … R — Remus …” Even Pettigrew’s voice

was squeaky. Again, his eyes darted toward the door.

“My friends … my old friends …”

Black’s wand arm rose, but Lupin seized him around

the wrist, gave him a warning look, then turned again

to Pettigrew, his voice light and casual.

“We’ve been having a little chat, Peter, about what

happened the night Lily and James died. You might

have missed the finer points while you were

squeaking around down there on the bed —”

“Remus,” gasped Pettigrew, and Harry could see

beads of sweat breaking out over his pasty face, “you

don’t believe him, do you… ? He tried to kill me,

Remus. …”

“So we’ve heard,” said Lupin, more coldly. “I’d like to

clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if

you’d be so —”

“He’s come to try and kill me again!” Pettigrew

squeaked suddenly, pointing at Black, and Harry saw

that he used his middle finger, because his index was

missing. “He killed Lily and James and now he’s going

to kill me too. … You’ve got to help me, Remus. …”

Black’s face looked more skull-like than ever as he

stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes.

“No one’s going to try and kill you until we’ve sorted a

few things out,” said Lupin.

“Sorted things out?” squealed Pettigrew, looking

wildly about him once more, eyes taking in the

boarded windows and, again, the only door. “I knew

he’d come after me! I knew he’d be back for me! I’ve

been waiting for this for twelve years!”

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“You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?”

said Lupin, his brow furrowed. “When nobody has

ever done it before?”

“He’s got dark powers the rest of us can only dream

of!” Pettigrew shouted shrilly. “How else did he get out

of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

taught him a few tricks!”

Black started to laugh, a horrible, mirthless laugh

that filled the whole room.

“Voldemort, teach me tricks?” he said.

Pettigrew flinched as though Black had brandished a

whip at him.

“What, scared to hear your old master’s name?” said

Black. “I don’t blame you, Peter. His lot aren’t very

happy with you, are they?”

“Don’t know what you mean, Sirius —” muttered

Pettigrew, his breathing faster than ever. His whole

face was shining with sweat now.

“You haven’t been hiding from me for twelve years,”

said Black. “You’ve been hiding from Voldemort’s old

supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter. … They

all think you’re dead, or you’d have to answer to

them. … I’ve heard them screaming all sorts of things

in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-

crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the

Potters’ on your information … and Voldemort met his

downfall there. And not all Voldemort’s supporters

ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty

out here, biding their time, pretending they’ve seen

the error of their ways. … If they ever got wind that

you were still alive, Peter —”

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“Don’t know … what you’re talking about… ,” said

Pettigrew again, more shrilly than ever. He wiped his

face on his sleeve and looked up at Lupin. “You don’t

believe this — this madness, Remus —”

“I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty in

understanding why an innocent man would want to

spend twelve years as a rat,” said Lupin evenly.

“Innocent, but scared!” squealed Pettigrew. “If

Voldemort’s supporters were after me, it was because

I put one of their best men in Azkaban — the spy,

Sirius Black!”

Black’s face contorted.

“How dare you,” he growled, sounding suddenly like

the bear-sized dog he had been. “I, a spy for

Voldemort? When did I ever sneak around people who

were stronger and more powerful than myself? But

you, Peter — I’ll never understand why I didn’t see

you were the spy from the start. You always liked big

friends who’d look after you, didn’t you? It used to be

us … me and Remus … and James. …”

Pettigrew wiped his face again; he was almost panting

for breath.

“Me, a spy … must be out of your mind … never …

don’t know how you can say such a —”

“Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper

because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously

that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was

the perfect plan … a bluff. … Voldemort would be

sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use

a weak, talentless thing like you. … It must have been

the finest moment of your miserable life, telling

Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”

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Pettigrew was muttering distractedly; Harry caught words like “far-fetched” and “lunacy,” but he couldn’t

help paying more attention to the ashen color of

Pettigrew’s face and the way his eyes continued to

dart toward the windows and door.

“Professor Lupin?” said Hermione timidly. “Can — can

I say something?”

“Certainly, Hermione,” said Lupin courteously.

“Well — Scabbers — I mean, this — this man — he’s

been sleeping in Harry’s dormitory for three years. If

he’s working for You-Know-Who, how come he never

tried to hurt Harry before now?”

“There!” said Pettigrew shrilly, pointing at Ron with

his maimed hand. “Thank you! You see, Remus? I

have never hurt a hair of Harry’s head! Why should

I?”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Black. “Because you never did

anything for anyone unless you could see what was in

it for you. Voldemort’s been in hiding for fifteen years,

they say he’s half dead. You weren’t about to commit

murder right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose, for a

wreck of a wizard who’d lost all of his power, were

you? You’d want to be quite sure he was the biggest

bully in the playground before you went back to him,

wouldn’t you? Why else did you find a wizard family

to take you in? Keeping an ear out for news, weren’t

you, Peter? Just in case your old protector regained

strength, and it was safe to rejoin him. …”

Pettigrew opened his mouth and closed it several

times. He seemed to have lost the ability to talk.

“Er — Mr. Black — Sirius?” said Hermione.

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Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything

quite like her.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how — how did you get

out of Azkaban, if you didn’t use Dark Magic?”

“Thank you!” gasped Pettigrew, nodding frantically at

her. “Exactly! Precisely what I —”

But Lupin silenced him with a look. Black was

frowning slightly at Hermione, but not as though he

were annoyed with her. He seemed to be pondering

his answer.

“I don’t know how I did it,” he said slowly. “I think the

only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was

innocent. That wasn’t a happy thought, so the

dementors couldn’t suck it out of me … but it kept me

sane and knowing who I am … helped me keep my

powers … so when it all became … too much … I

could transform in my cell … become a dog.

Dementors can’t see, you know. …” He swallowed.

“They feel their way toward people by feeding off their

emotions. … They could tell that my feelings were less

— less human, less complex when I was a dog … but

they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind

like everyone else in there, so it didn’t trouble them.

But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of

driving them away from me without a wand. …

“But then I saw Peter in that picture … I realized he

was at Hogwarts with Harry … perfectly positioned to

act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side

was gathering strength again. …”

Pettigrew was shaking his head, mouthing

noiselessly, but staring all the while at Black as

though hypnotized.

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“… ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of allies … and to deliver the last Potter to them. If he

gave them Harry, who’d dare say he’d betrayed Lord

Voldemort? He’d be welcomed back with honors. …

“So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one

who knew Peter was still alive. …”

Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley had told Mrs.

Weasley. “The guards say he’s been talking in his

sleep … always the same words … ‘ He’s at Hogwarts. ’

”

“It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and

the dementors couldn’t destroy it. … It wasn’t a

happy feeling … it was an obsession … but it gave me

strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they

opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as

a dog. … It’s so much harder for them to sense

animal emotions that they were confused. … I was

thin, very thin … thin enough to slip through the

bars. … I swam as a dog back to the mainland. … I

journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts

grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest ever

since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of

course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry. …”

He looked at Harry, who did not look away.

“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, Harry. I

never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died

before I betrayed them.”

And at long last, Harry believed him. Throat too tight

to speak, he nodded.

“No!”

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Pettigrew had fallen to his knees as though Harry’s nod had been his own death sentence. He shuffled

forward on his knees, groveling, his hands clasped in

front of him as though praying.

“Sirius — it’s me … it’s Peter … your friend … you

wouldn’t …”

Black kicked out and Pettigrew recoiled.

“There’s enough filth on my robes without you

touching them,” said Black.

“Remus!” Pettigrew squeaked, turning to Lupin

instead, writhing imploringly in front of him. “You

don’t believe this … wouldn’t Sirius have told you

they’d changed the plan?”

“Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter,” said Lupin. “I

assume that’s why you didn’t tell me, Sirius?” he said

casually over Pettigrew’s head.

“Forgive me, Remus,” said Black.

“Not at all, Padfoot, old friend,” said Lupin, who was

now rolling up his sleeves. “And will you, in turn,

forgive me for believing you were the spy?”

“Of course,” said Black, and the ghost of a grin flitted

across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his

sleeves. “Shall we kill him together?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Lupin grimly.

“You wouldn’t … you won’t… ,” gasped Pettigrew. And

he scrambled around to Ron.

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“Ron … haven’t I been a good friend … a good pet?

You won’t let them kill me, Ron, will you … you’re on

my side, aren’t you?”

But Ron was staring at Pettigrew with the utmost

revulsion.

“I let you sleep in my bed!” he said.

“Kind boy … kind master …” Pettigrew crawled toward

Ron, “you won’t let them do it. … I was your rat. … I

was a good pet. …”

“If you made a better rat than a human, it’s not much

to boast about, Peter,” said Black harshly. Ron, going

still paler with pain, wrenched his broken leg out of

Pettigrew’s reach. Pettigrew turned on his knees,

staggered forward, and seized the hem of Hermione’s

robes.

“Sweet girl … clever girl … you — you won’t let them.

… Help me. …”

Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew’s

clutching hands and backed away against the wall,

looking horrified.

Pettigrew knelt, trembling uncontrollably, and turned

his head slowly toward Harry.

“Harry … Harry … you look just like your father …

just like him. …”

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?” roared Black.

“HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK

ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?”

“Harry,” whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward him,

hands outstretched. “Harry, James wouldn’t have

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wanted me killed. … James would have understood,

Harry … he would have shown me mercy. …”

Both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized

Pettigrew’s shoulders, and threw him backward onto

the floor. He sat there, twitching with terror, staring

up at them.

“You sold Lily and James to Voldemort,” said Black,

who was shaking too. “Do you deny it?”

Pettigrew burst into tears. It was horrible to watch,

like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.

“Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark

Lord … you have no idea … he has weapons you can’t

imagine. … I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave

like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to

happen. … He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me —

”

“DON’T LIE!” bellowed Black. “YOU’D BEEN PASSING

INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY

AND JAMES DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!”

“He — he was taking over everywhere!” gasped

Pettigrew. “Wh — what was there to be gained by

refusing him?”

“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil

wizard who has ever existed?” said Black, with a

terribly fury in his face. “Only innocent lives, Peter!”

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would

have killed me, Sirius!”

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black.

“DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS

WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”

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Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, wands

raised.

“You should have realized,” said Lupin quietly, “if

Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter.”

Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned

to the wall.

“NO!” Harry yelled. He ran forward, placing himself in

front of Pettigrew, facing the wands. “You can’t kill

him,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t.”

Black and Lupin both looked staggered.

“Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no

parents,” Black snarled. “This cringing bit of filth

would have seen you die too, without turning a hair.

You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to

him than your whole family.”

“I know,” Harry panted. “We’ll take him up to the

castle. We’ll hand him over to the dementors. … He

can go to Azkaban … but don’t kill him.”

“Harry!” gasped Pettigrew, and he flung his arms

around Harry’s knees. “You — thank you — it’s more

than I deserve — thank you —”

“Get off me,” Harry spat, throwing Pettigrew’s hands

off him in disgust. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m

doing it because — I don’t reckon my dad would’ve

wanted them to become killers — just for you.”

No one moved or made a sound except Pettigrew,

whose breath was coming in wheezes as he clutched

his chest. Black and Lupin were looking at each

other. Then, with one movement, they lowered their

wands.

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“You’re the only person who has the right to decide, Harry,” said Black. “But think … think what he did.

…”

“He can go to Azkaban,” Harry repeated. “If anyone

deserves that place, he does. …”

Pettigrew was still wheezing behind him.

“Very well,” said Lupin. “Stand aside, Harry.”

Harry hesitated.

“I’m going to tie him up,” said Lupin. “That’s all, I

swear.”

Harry stepped out of the way. Thin cords shot from

Lupin’s wand this time, and next moment, Pettigrew

was wriggling on the floor, bound and gagged.

“But if you transform, Peter,” growled Black, his own

wand pointing at Pettigrew too, “we will kill you. You

agree, Harry?”

Harry looked down at the pitiful figure on the floor

and nodded so that Pettigrew could see him.

“Right,” said Lupin, suddenly businesslike. “Ron, I

can’t mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey,

so I think it’s best if we just strap your leg up until we

can get you to the hospital wing.”

He hurried over to Ron, bent down, tapped Ron’s leg

with his wand, and muttered, “Ferula. ” Bandages

spun up Ron’s leg, strapping it tightly to a splint.

Lupin helped him to his feet; Ron put his weight

gingerly on the leg and didn’t wince.

“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”

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“What about Professor Snape?” said Hermione in a

small voice, looking down at Snape’s prone figure.

“There’s nothing seriously wrong with him,” said

Lupin, bending over Snape and checking his pulse.

“You were just a little — overenthusiastic. Still out

cold. Er — perhaps it will be best if we don’t revive

him until we’re safely back in the castle. We can take

him like this. …”

He muttered, “Mobilicorpus. ” As though invisible

strings were tied to Snape’s wrists, neck, and knees,

he was pulled into a standing position, head still

lolling unpleasantly, like a grotesque puppet. He hung

a few inches above the ground, his limp feet dangling.

Lupin picked up the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it

safely into his pocket.

“And two of us should be chained to this,” said Black,

nudging Pettigrew with his toe. “Just to make sure.”

“I’ll do it,” said Lupin.

“And me,” said Ron savagely, limping forward.

Black conjured heavy manacles from thin air; soon

Pettigrew was upright again, left arm chained to

Lupin’s right, right arm to Ron’s left. Ron’s face was

set. He seemed to have taken Scabbers’s true identity

as a personal insult. Crookshanks leapt lightly off the

bed and led the way out of the room, his bottlebrush

tail held jauntily high.

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THE DEMENTOR’S KISS

Harry had never been part of a stranger group.

Crookshanks led the way down the stairs; Lupin,

Pettigrew, and Ron went next, looking like entrants in

a six-legged race. Next came Professor Snape, drifting

creepily along, his toes hitting each stair as they

descended, held up by his own wand, which was

being pointed at him by Sirius. Harry and Hermione

brought up the rear.

Getting back into the tunnel was difficult. Lupin,

Pettigrew, and Ron had to turn sideways to manage

it; Lupin still had Pettigrew covered with his wand.

Harry could see them edging awkwardly along the

tunnel in single file. Crookshanks was still in the

lead. Harry went right after Black, who was still

making Snape drift along ahead of them; he kept

bumping his lolling head on the low ceiling. Harry

had the impression Black was making no effort to

prevent this.

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“You know what this means?” Black said abruptly to Harry as they made their slow progress along the

tunnel. “Turning Pettigrew in?”

“You’re free,” said Harry.

“Yes … ,” said Black. “But I’m also — I don’t know if

anyone ever told you — I’m your godfather.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” said Harry.

“Well … your parents appointed me your guardian,”

said Black stiffly. “If anything happened to them …”

Harry waited. Did Black mean what he thought he

meant?

“I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with

your aunt and uncle,” said Black. “But … well …

think about it. Once my name’s cleared … if you

wanted a … a different home …”

Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Harry’s

stomach.

“What — live with you?” he said, accidentally cracking

his head on a bit of rock protruding from the ceiling.

“Leave the Dursleys?”

“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” said

Black quickly. “I understand, I just thought I’d —”

“Are you insane?” said Harry, his voice easily as

croaky as Black’s. “Of course I want to leave the

Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move

in?”

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Black turned right around to look at him; Snape’s

head was scraping the ceiling but Black didn’t seem

to care.

“You want to?” he said. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it!” said Harry.

Black’s gaunt face broke into the first true smile

Harry had seen upon it. The difference it made was

startling, as though a person ten years younger were

shining through the starved mask; for a moment, he

was recognizable as the man who had laughed at

Harry’s parents’ wedding.

They did not speak again until they had reached the

end of the tunnel. Crookshanks darted up first; he

had evidently pressed his paw to the knot on the

trunk, because Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambered

upward without any sound of savaging branches.

Black saw Snape up through the hole, then stood

back for Harry and Hermione to pass. At last, all of

them were out.

The grounds were very dark now; the only light came

from the distant windows of the castle. Without a

word, they set off. Pettigrew was still wheezing and

occasionally whimpering. Harry’s mind was buzzing.

He was going to leave the Dursleys. He was going to

live with Sirius Black, his parents’ best friend. … He

felt dazed. … What would happen when he told the

Dursleys he was going to live with the convict they’d

seen on television… !

“One wrong move, Peter,” said Lupin threateningly

ahead. His wand was still pointed sideways at

Pettigrew’s chest.

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Silently they tramped through the grounds, the castle lights growing slowly larger. Snape was still drifting

weirdly ahead of Black, his chin bumping on his

chest. And then —

A cloud shifted. There were suddenly dim shadows on

the ground. Their party was bathed in moonlight.

Snape collided with Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron, who

had stopped abruptly. Black froze. He flung out one

arm to make Harry and Hermione stop.

Harry could see Lupin’s silhouette. He had gone rigid.

Then his limbs began to shake.

“Oh, my —” Hermione gasped. “He didn’t take his

potion tonight! He’s not safe!”

“Run,” Black whispered. “Run. Now.”

But Harry couldn’t run. Ron was chained to Pettigrew

and Lupin. He leapt forward but Black caught him

around the chest and threw him back.

“Leave it to me — RUN!”

There was a terrible snarling noise. Lupin’s head was

lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were

hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and

hands, which were curling into clawed paws.

Crookshanks’s hair was on end again; he was backing

away —

As the werewolf reared, snapping its long jaws, Sirius

disappeared from Harry’s side. He had transformed.

The enormous, bearlike dog bounded forward. As the

werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding

it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it

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backward, away from Ron and Pettigrew. They were

locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other —

Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon

the battle to notice anything else. It was Hermione’s

scream that alerted him —

Pettigrew had dived for Lupin’s dropped wand. Ron,

unsteady on his bandaged leg, fell. There was a bang,

a burst of light — and Ron lay motionless on the

ground. Another bang — Crookshanks flew into the

air and back to the earth in a heap.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry yelled, pointing his own wand

at Pettigrew; Lupin’s wand flew high into the air and

out of sight. “Stay where you are!” Harry shouted,

running forward.

Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his

bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron’s

outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the

grass.

There was a howl and a rumbling growl; Harry turned

to see the werewolf taking flight; it was galloping into

the forest —

“Sirius, he’s gone, Pettigrew transformed!” Harry

yelled.

Black was bleeding; there were gashes across his

muzzle and back, but at Harry’s words he scrambled

up again, and in an instant, the sound of his paws

faded to silence as he pounded away across the

grounds.

Harry and Hermione dashed over to Ron.

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“What did he do to him?” Hermione whispered. Ron’s eyes were only half-closed, his mouth hung open; he

was definitely alive, they could hear him breathing,

but he didn’t seem to recognize them.

“I don’t know. …”

Harry looked desperately around. Black and Lupin

both gone … they had no one but Snape for company,

still hanging, unconscious, in midair.

“We’d better get them up to the castle and tell

someone,” said Harry, pushing his hair out of his

eyes, trying to think straight. Come —”

But then, from beyond the range of their vision, they

heard a yelping, a whining: a dog in pain. …

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, staring into the darkness.

He had a moment’s indecision, but there was nothing

they could do for Ron at the moment, and by the

sound of it, Black was in trouble —

Harry set off at a run, Hermione right behind him.

The yelping seemed to be coming from the ground

near the edge of the lake. They pelted toward it, and

Harry, running flat out, felt the cold without realizing

what it must mean —

The yelping stopped abruptly. As they reached the

lakeshore, they saw why — Sirius had turned back

into a man. He was crouched on all fours, his hands

over his head.

“Nooo, ” he moaned. “Noooo … please. …”

And then Harry saw them. Dementors, at least a

hundred of them, gliding in a black mass around the

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lake toward them. He spun around, the familiar, icy cold penetrating his insides, fog starting to obscure

his vision; more were appearing out of the darkness

on every side; they were encircling them. …

“Hermione, think of something happy!” Harry yelled,

raising his wand, blinking furiously to try and clear

his vision, shaking his head to rid it of the faint

screaming that had started inside it —

I’m going to live with my godfather. I’m leaving the

Dursleys.

He forced himself to think of Black, and only Black,

and began to chant: “Expecto patronum! Expecto

patronum!”

Black gave a shudder, rolled over, and lay motionless

on the ground, pale as death.

He’ll be all right. I’m going to go and live with him.

“Expecto patronum! Hermione, help me! Expecto

patronum!”

“Expecto —” Hermione whispered, “expecto — expecto

—”

But she couldn’t do it. The dementors were closing in,

barely ten feet from them. They formed a solid wall

around Harry and Hermione, and were getting closer.

…

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry yelled, trying to blot

the screaming from his ears. “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A thin wisp of silver escaped his wand and hovered

like mist before him. At the same moment, Harry felt

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Hermione collapse next to him. He was alone …

completely alone. …

“Expecto — expecto patronum —”

Harry felt his knees hit the cold grass. Fog was

clouding his eyes. With a huge effort, he fought to

remember — Sirius was innocent — innocent — We’ll

be okay — I’m going to live with him —

“Expecto patronum!” he gasped.

By the feeble light of his formless Patronus, he saw a

dementor halt, very close to him. It couldn’t walk

through the cloud of silver mist Harry had conjured.

A dead, slimy hand slid out from under the cloak. It

made a gesture as though to sweep the Patronus

aside.

“No — no —” Harry gasped. “He’s innocent … expecto

— expecto patronum —”

He could feel them watching him, hear their rattling

breath like an evil wind around him. The nearest

dementor seemed to be considering him. Then it

raised both its rotting hands — and lowered its hood.

Where there should have been eyes, there was only

thin, gray scabbed skin, stretched blankly over empty

sockets. But there was a mouth … a gaping,

shapeless hole, sucking the air with the sound of a

death rattle.

A paralyzing terror filled Harry so that he couldn’t

move or speak. His Patronus flickered and died.

White fog was blinding him. He had to fight … expecto

patronum … he couldn’t see … and in the distance, he

heard the familiar screaming … expecto patronum …

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he groped in the mist for Sirius, and found his arm …

they weren’t going to take him. …

But a pair of strong, clammy hands suddenly

attached themselves around Harry’s neck. They were

forcing his face upward. … He could feel its breath. …

It was going to get rid of him first. … He could feel its

putrid breath. … His mother was screaming in his

ears. … She was going to be the last thing he ever

heard —

And then, through the fog that was drowning him, he

thought he saw a silvery light growing brighter and

brighter. … He felt himself fall forward onto the grass.

… Facedown, too weak to move, sick and shaking,

Harry opened his eyes. The dementor must have

released him. The blinding light was illuminating the

grass around him. … The screaming had stopped, the

cold was ebbing away. …

Something was driving the dementors back. … It was

circling around him and Black and Hermione. … They

were leaving. … The air was warm again. …

With every ounce of strength he could muster, Harry

raised his head a few inches and saw an animal amid

the light, galloping away across the lake. … Eyes

blurred with sweat, Harry tried to make out what it

was. … It was as bright as a unicorn. … Fighting to

stay conscious, Harry watched it canter to a halt as it

reached the opposite shore. For a moment, Harry

saw, by its brightness, somebody welcoming it back

… raising his hand to pat it … someone who looked

strangely familiar … but it couldn’t be …

Harry didn’t understand. He couldn’t think anymore.

He felt the last of his strength leave him, and his head

hit the ground as he fainted.

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HERMIONE’S SECRET

“Shocking business … shocking … miracle none of

them died … never heard the like … by thunder, it

was lucky you were there, Snape. …”

“Thank you, Minister.”

“Order of Merlin, Second Class, I’d say. First Class, if

I can wangle it!”

“Thank you very much indeed, Minister.”

“Nasty cut you’ve got there. … Black’s work, I

suppose?”

“As a matter of fact, it was Potter, Weasley, and

Granger, Minister. …”

“No!”

“Black had bewitched them, I saw it immediately. A

Confundus Charm, to judge by their behavior. They

seemed to think there was a possibility he was

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innocent. They weren’t responsible for their actions.

On the other hand, their interference might have

permitted Black to escape. … They obviously thought

they were going to catch Black single-handed. They’ve

got away with a great deal before now. … I’m afraid

it’s given them a rather high opinion of themselves …

and of course Potter has always been allowed an

extraordinary amount of license by the headmaster —

”

“Ah, well, Snape … Harry Potter, you know … we’ve

all got a bit of a blind spot where he’s concerned.”

“And yet — is it good for him to be given so much

special treatment? Personally, I try and treat him like

any other student. And any other student would be

suspended — at the very least — for leading his

friends into such danger. Consider, Minister —

against all school rules — after all the precautions

put in place for his protection — out-of-bounds, at

night, consorting with a werewolf and a murderer —

and I have reason to believe he has been visiting

Hogsmeade illegally too —”

“Well, well … we shall see, Snape, we shall see. … The

boy has undoubtedly been foolish. …”

Harry lay listening with his eyes tight shut. He felt

very groggy. The words he was hearing seemed to be

traveling very slowly from his ears to his brain, so

that it was difficult to understand. … His limbs felt

like lead; his eyelids too heavy to lift. … He wanted to

lie here, on this comfortable bed, forever. …

“What amazes me most is the behavior of the

dementors … you’ve really no idea what made them

retreat, Snape?”

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“No, Minister … by the time I had come ’round they were heading back to their positions at the entrances.

…”

“Extraordinary. And yet Black, and Harry, and the girl

—”

“All unconscious by the time I reached them. I bound

and gagged Black, naturally, conjured stretchers, and

brought them all straight back to the castle.”

There was a pause. Harry’s brain seemed to be

moving a little faster, and as it did, a gnawing

sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. …

He opened his eyes.

Everything was slightly blurred. Somebody had

removed his glasses. He was lying in the dark hospital

wing. At the very end of the ward, he could make out

Madam Pomfrey with her back to him, bending over a

bed. Harry squinted. Ron’s red hair was visible

beneath Madam Pomfrey’s arm.

Harry moved his head over on the pillow. In the bed

to his right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling

across her bed. Her eyes were open too. She looked

petrified, and when she saw that Harry was awake,

pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed to the

hospital wing door. It was ajar, and the voices of

Cornelius Fudge and Snape were coming through it

from the corridor outside.

Madam Pomfrey now came walking briskly up the

dark ward to Harry’s bed. He turned to look at her.

She was carrying the largest block of chocolate he

had ever seen in his life. It looked like a small

boulder.

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“Ah, you’re awake!” she said briskly. She placed the chocolate on Harry’s bedside table and began

breaking it apart with a small hammer.

“How’s Ron?” said Harry and Hermione together.

“He’ll live,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly. “As for you

two … you’ll be staying here until I’m satisfied you’re

— Potter, what do you think you’re doing?”

Harry was sitting up, putting his glasses back on, and

picking up his wand.

“I need to see the headmaster,” he said.

“Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey soothingly, “it’s all

right. They’ve got Black. He’s locked away upstairs.

The dementors will be performing the kiss any

moment now —”

“WHAT?”

Harry jumped up out of bed; Hermione had done the

same. But his shout had been heard in the corridor

outside; next second, Cornelius Fudge and Snape had

entered the ward.

“Harry, Harry, what’s this?” said Fudge, looking

agitated. “You should be in bed — has he had any

chocolate?” he asked Madam Pomfrey anxiously.

“Minister, listen!” Harry said. “Sirius Black’s innocent!

Peter Pettigrew faked his own death! We saw him

tonight! You can’t let the dementors do that thing to

Sirius, he’s —”

But Fudge was shaking his head with a small smile

on his face.

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“Harry, Harry, you’re very confused, you’ve been

through a dreadful ordeal, lie back down, now, we’ve

got everything under control. …”

“YOU HAVEN’T!” Harry yelled. “YOU’VE GOT THE

WRONG MAN!”

“Minister, listen, please,” Hermione said; she had

hurried to Harry’s side and was gazing imploringly

into Fudge’s face. “I saw him too. It was Ron’s rat,

he’s an Animagus, Pettigrew, I mean, and —”

“You see, Minister?” said Snape. “Confunded, both of

them. … Black’s done a very good job on them. …”

“WE’RE NOT CONFUNDED!” Harry roared.

“Minister! Professor!” said Madam Pomfrey angrily. “I

must insist that you leave. Potter is my patient, and

he should not be distressed!”

“I’m not distressed, I’m trying to tell them what

happened!” Harry said furiously. “If they’d just listen

—”

But Madam Pomfrey suddenly stuffed a large chunk

of chocolate into Harry’s mouth; he choked, and she

seized the opportunity to force him back onto the bed.

“Now, please, Minister, these children need care.

Please leave —”

The door opened again. It was Dumbledore. Harry

swallowed his mouthful of chocolate with great

difficulty and got up again.

“Professor Dumbledore, Sirius Black —”

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“For heaven’s sake!” said Madam Pomfrey

hysterically. “Is this a hospital wing or not?

Headmaster, I must insist —”

“My apologies, Poppy, but I need a word with Mr.

Potter and Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore calmly. “I

have just been talking to Sirius Black —”

“I suppose he’s told you the same fairy tale he’s

planted in Potter’s mind?” spat Snape. “Something

about a rat, and Pettigrew being alive —”

“That, indeed, is Black’s story,” said Dumbledore,

surveying Snape closely through his half-moon

spectacles.

“And does my evidence count for nothing?” snarled

Snape. “Peter Pettigrew was not in the Shrieking

Shack, nor did I see any sign of him on the grounds.”

“That was because you were knocked out, Professor!”

said Hermione earnestly. “You didn’t arrive in time to

hear —”

“Miss Granger, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!”

“Now, Snape,” said Fudge, startled, “the young lady is

disturbed in her mind, we must make allowances —”

“I would like to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,”

said Dumbledore abruptly. “Cornelius, Severus,

Poppy — please leave us.”

“Headmaster!” sputtered Madam Pomfrey “They need

treatment, they need rest —”

“This cannot wait,” said Dumbledore. “I must insist.”

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Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and strode away into her office at the end of the ward, slamming the door

behind her. Fudge consulted the large gold pocket

watch dangling from his waistcoat.

“The dementors should have arrived by now,” he said.

“I’ll go and meet them. Dumbledore, I’ll see you

upstairs.”

He crossed to the door and held it open for Snape,

but Snape hadn’t moved.

“You surely don’t believe a word of Black’s story?”

Snape whispered, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore’s

face.

“I wish to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,”

Dumbledore repeated.

Snape took a step toward Dumbledore.

“Sirius Black showed he was capable of murder at the

age of sixteen,” he breathed. “You haven’t forgotten

that, Headmaster? You haven’t forgotten that he once

tried to kill me?”

“My memory is as good as it ever was, Severus,” said

Dumbledore quietly.

Snape turned on his heel and marched through the

door Fudge was still holding. It closed behind them,

and Dumbledore turned to Harry and Hermione. They

both burst into speech at the same time.

“Professor, Black’s telling the truth — we saw

Pettigrew —”

“— he escaped when Professor Lupin turned into a

werewolf —”

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“— he’s a rat —”

“— Pettigrew’s front paw, I mean, finger, he cut it off

—”

“— Pettigrew attacked Ron, it wasn’t Sirius —”

But Dumbledore held up his hand to stem the flood of

explanations.

“It is your turn to listen, and I beg you will not

interrupt me, because there is very little time,” he

said quietly. “There is not a shred of proof to support

Black’s story, except your word — and the word of

two thirteen-year-old wizards will not convince

anybody. A street full of eyewitnesses swore they saw

Sirius murder Pettigrew. I myself gave evidence to the

Ministry that Sirius had been the Potters’ Secret-

Keeper.”

“Professor Lupin can tell you —” Harry said, unable to

stop himself.

“Professor Lupin is currently deep in the forest,

unable to tell anyone anything. By the time he is

human again, it will be too late, Sirius will be worse

than dead. I might add that werewolves are so

mistrusted by most of our kind that his support will

count for very little — and the fact that he and Sirius

are old friends —”

“But —”

“Listen to me, Harry. It is too late, you understand

me? You must see that Professor Snape’s version of

events is far more convincing than yours.”

“He hates Sirius,” Hermione said desperately. “All

because of some stupid trick Sirius played on him —”

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“Sirius has not acted like an innocent man. The

attack on the Fat Lady — entering Gryffindor Tower

with a knife — without Pettigrew, alive or dead, we

have no chance of overturning Sirius’s sentence.”

“But you believe us. ”

“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore quietly. “But I have no

power to make other men see the truth, or to overrule

the Minister of Magic. …”

Harry stared up into the grave face and felt as though

the ground beneath him were falling sharply away. He

had grown used to the idea that Dumbledore could

solve anything. He had expected Dumbledore to pull

some amazing solution out of the air. But no … their

last hope was gone.

“What we need,” said Dumbledore slowly, and his

light blue eyes moved from Harry to Hermione, “is

more time. ”

“But —” Hermione began. And then her eyes became

very round. “OH!”

“Now, pay attention,” said Dumbledore, speaking very

low, and very clearly. “Sirius is locked in Professor

Flitwick’s office on the seventh floor. Thirteenth

window from the right of the West Tower. If all goes

well, you will be able to save more than one innocent

life tonight. But remember this, both of you: you must

not be seen. Miss Granger, you know the law — you

know what is at stake. … You — must — not — be —

seen. ”

Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Dumbledore had turned on his heel and looked back

as he reached the door.

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“I am going to lock you in. It is —” he consulted his watch, “five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three

turns should do it. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” Harry repeated as the door closed

behind Dumbledore. “Three turns? What’s he talking

about? What are we supposed to do?”

But Hermione was fumbling with the neck of her

robes, pulling from beneath them a very long, very

fine gold chain.

“Harry, come here,” she said urgently. “Quick!”

Harry moved toward her, completely bewildered. She

was holding the chain out. He saw a tiny, sparkling

hourglass hanging from it.

“Here —”

She had thrown the chain around his neck too.

“Ready?” she said breathlessly.

“What are we doing?” Harry said, completely lost.

Hermione turned the hourglass over three times.

The dark ward dissolved. Harry had the sensation

that he was flying very fast, backward. A blur of

colors and shapes rushed past him, his ears were

pounding, he tried to yell but couldn’t hear his own

voice —

And then he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and

everything came into focus again —

He was standing next to Hermione in the deserted

entrance hall and a stream of golden sunlight was

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falling across the paved floor from the open front doors. He looked wildly around at Hermione, the

chain of the hourglass cutting into his neck.

“Hermione, what — ?”

“In here!” Hermione seized Harry’s arm and dragged

him across the hall to the door of a broom closet; she

opened it, pushed him inside among the buckets and

mops, then slammed the door behind them.

“What — how — Hermione, what happened?”

“We’ve gone back in time,” Hermione whispered,

lifting the chain off Harry’s neck in the darkness.

“Three hours back …”

Harry found his own leg and gave it a very hard

pinch. It hurt a lot, which seemed to rule out the

possibility that he was having a very bizarre dream.

“But —”

“Shh! Listen! Someone’s coming! I think — I think it

might be us!”

Hermione had her ear pressed against the cupboard

door.

“Footsteps across the hall … yes, I think it’s us going

down to Hagrid’s!”

“Are you telling me,” Harry whispered, “that we’re

here in this cupboard and we’re out there too?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, her ear still glued to the

cupboard door. “I’m sure it’s us. It doesn’t sound like

more than three people … and we’re walking slowly

because we’re under the Invisibility Cloak —”

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She broke off, still listening intently.

“We’ve gone down the front steps. …”

Hermione sat down on an upturned bucket, looking

desperately anxious, but Harry wanted a few

questions answered.

“Where did you get that hourglass thing?”

“It’s called a Time-Turner,” Hermione whispered, “and

I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day

back. I’ve been using it all year to get to all my

lessons. Professor McGonagall made me swear I

wouldn’t tell anyone. She had to write all sorts of

letters to the Ministry of Magic so I could have one.

She had to tell them that I was a model student, and

that I’d never, ever use it for anything except my

studies. … I’ve been turning it back so I could do

hours over again, that’s how I’ve been doing several

lessons at once, see? But …

“Harry, I don’t understand what Dumbledore wants us

to do. Why did he tell us to go back three hours?

How’s that going to help Sirius?”

Harry stared at her shadowy face.

“There must be something that happened around now

he wants us to change,” he said slowly. “What

happened? We were walking down to Hagrid’s three

hours ago. …”

“This is three hours ago, and we are walking down to Hagrid’s,” said Hermione. “We just heard ourselves

leaving. …”

Harry frowned; he felt as though he were screwing up

his whole brain in concentration.

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“Dumbledore just said — just said we could save

more than one innocent life. …” And then it hit him.

“Hermione, we’re going to save Buckbeak!”

“But — how will that help Sirius?”

“Dumbledore said — he just told us where the

window is — the window of Flitwick’s office! Where

they’ve got Sirius locked up! We’ve got to fly

Buckbeak up to the window and rescue Sirius! Sirius

can escape on Buckbeak — they can escape together!”

From what Harry could see of Hermione’s face, she

looked terrified.

“If we manage that without being seen, it’ll be a

miracle!”

“Well, we’ve got to try, haven’t we?” said Harry. He

stood up and pressed his ear against the door.

“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s there. … Come on, let’s

go. …”

Harry pushed open the closet door. The entrance hall

was deserted. As quietly and quickly as they could,

they darted out of the closet and down the stone

steps. The shadows were already lengthening, the

tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest gilded once

more with gold.

“If anyone’s looking out of the window —” Hermione

squeaked, looking up at the castle behind them.

“We’ll run for it,” said Harry determinedly. “Straight

into the forest, all right? We’ll have to hide behind a

tree or something and keep a lookout —”

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“Okay, but we’ll go around by the greenhouses!” said Hermione breathlessly. “We need to keep out of sight

of Hagrid’s front door, or we’ll see us! We must be

nearly at Hagrid’s by now!”

Still working out what she meant, Harry set off at a

sprint, Hermione behind him. They tore across the

vegetable gardens to the greenhouses, paused for a

moment behind them, then set off again, fast as they

could, skirting around the Whomping Willow, tearing

toward the shelter of the forest. …

Safe in the shadows of the trees, Harry turned

around; seconds later, Hermione arrived beside him,

panting.

“Right,” she gasped. “We need to sneak over to

Hagrid’s. … Keep out of sight, Harry. …”

They made their way silently through the trees,

keeping to the very edge of the forest. Then, as they

glimpsed the front of Hagrid’s house, they heard a

knock upon his door. They moved quickly behind a

wide oak trunk and peered out from either side.

Hagrid had appeared in his doorway, shaking and

white, looking around to see who had knocked. And

Harry heard his own voice.

“It’s us. We’re wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Let us in

and we can take it off.”

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered. He stood

back, then shut the door quickly.

“This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” Harry

said fervently.

“Let’s move along a bit,” Hermione whispered. “We

need to get nearer to Buckbeak!”

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They crept through the trees until they saw the

nervous hippogriff, tethered to the fence around

Hagrid’s pumpkin patch.

“Now?” Harry whispered.

“No!” said Hermione. “If we steal him now, those

Committee people will think Hagrid set him free!

We’ve got to wait until they’ve seen he’s tied outside!”

“That’s going to give us about sixty seconds,” said

Harry. This was starting to seem impossible.

At that moment, there was a crash of breaking china

from inside Hagrid’s cabin.

“That’s Hagrid breaking the milk jug,” Hermione

whispered. “I’m going to find Scabbers in a moment —

”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, they heard

Hermione’s shriek of surprise.

“Hermione,” said Harry suddenly, “what if we — we

just run in there and grab Pettigrew —”

“No!” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Don’t you

understand? We’re breaking one of the most

important wizarding laws! Nobody’s supposed to

change time, nobody! You heard Dumbledore, if we’re

seen —”

“We’d only be seen by ourselves and Hagrid!”

“Harry, what do you think you’d do if you saw

yourself bursting into Hagrid’s house?” said

Hermione.

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“I’d — I’d think I’d gone mad,” said Harry, “or I’d think there was some Dark Magic going on —”

“Exactly! You wouldn’t understand, you might even

attack yourself! Don’t you see? Professor McGonagall

told me what awful things have happened when

wizards have meddled with time. … Loads of them

ended up killing their past or future selves by

mistake!”

“Okay!” said Harry. “It was just an idea, I just thought

—”

But Hermione nudged him and pointed toward the

castle. Harry moved his head a few inches to get a

clear view of the distant front doors. Dumbledore,

Fudge, the old Committee member, and Macnair the

executioner were coming down the steps.

“We’re about to come out!” Hermione breathed.

And sure enough, moments later, Hagrid’s back door

opened, and Harry saw himself, Ron, and Hermione

walking out of it with Hagrid. It was, without a doubt,

the strangest sensation of his life, standing behind

the tree, and watching himself in the pumpkin patch.

“It’s okay, Beaky, it’s okay … ,” Hagrid said to

Buckbeak. Then he turned to Harry, Ron, and

Hermione. “Go on. Get goin’.”

“Hagrid, we can’t —”

“We’ll tell them what really happened —”

“They can’t kill him —”

“Go! It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’

all!”

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Harry watched the Hermione in the pumpkin patch

throw the Invisibility Cloak over him and Ron.

“Go quick. Don’ listen. …”

There was a knock on Hagrid’s front door. The

execution party had arrived. Hagrid turned around

and headed back into his cabin, leaving the back door

ajar. Harry watched the grass flatten in patches all

around the cabin and heard three pairs of feet

retreating. He, Ron, and Hermione had gone … but

the Harry and Hermione hidden in the trees could

now hear what was happening inside the cabin

through the back door.

“Where is the beast?” came the cold voice of Macnair.

“Out — outside,” Hagrid croaked.

Harry pulled his head out of sight as Macnair’s face

appeared at Hagrid’s window, staring out at

Buckbeak. Then they heard Fudge.

“We — er — have to read you the official notice of

execution, Hagrid. I’ll make it quick. And then you

and Macnair need to sign it. Macnair, you’re

supposed to listen too, that’s procedure —”

Macnair’s face vanished from the window. It was now

or never.

“Wait here,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I’ll do it.”

As Fudge’s voice started again, Harry darted out from

behind his tree, vaulted the fence into the pumpkin

patch, and approached Buckbeak.

“It is the decision of the Committee for the Disposal of

Dangerous Creatures that the hippogriff Buckbeak,

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hereafter called the condemned, shall be executed on the sixth of June at sundown —”

Careful not to blink, Harry stared up into Buckbeak’s

fierce orange eyes once more and bowed. Buckbeak

sank to his scaly knees and then stood up again.

Harry began to fumble with the knot of rope tying

Buckbeak to the fence.

“… sentenced to execution by beheading, to be carried

out by the Committee’ s appointed executioner, Walden

Macnair …”

“Come on, Buckbeak,” Harry murmured, “come on,

we’re going to help you. Quietly … quietly …”

“… as witnessed below. Hagrid, you sign here. …”

Harry threw all his weight onto the rope, but

Buckbeak had dug in his front feet.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” said the reedy voice of

the Committee member from inside Hagrid’s cabin.

“Hagrid, perhaps it will be better if you stay inside —”

“No, I — I wan’ ter be with him. … I don’ wan’ him ter

be alone —”

Footsteps echoed from within the cabin.

“Buckbeak, move!” Harry hissed.

Harry tugged harder on the rope around Buckbeak’s

neck. The hippogriff began to walk, rustling its wings

irritably. They were still ten feet away from the forest,

in plain view of Hagrid’s back door.

“One moment, please, Macnair,” came Dumbledore’s

voice. “You need to sign too.” The footsteps stopped.

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Harry heaved on the rope. Buckbeak snapped his

beak and walked a little faster.

Hermione’s white face was sticking out from behind a

tree.

“Harry, hurry!” she mouthed.

Harry could still hear Dumbledore’s voice talking from

within the cabin. He gave the rope another wrench.

Buckbeak broke into a grudging trot. They had

reached the trees. …

“Quick! Quick!” Hermione moaned, darting out from

behind her tree, seizing the rope too and adding her

weight to make Buckbeak move faster. Harry looked

over his shoulder; they were now blocked from sight;

they couldn’t see Hagrid’s garden at all.

“Stop!” he whispered to Hermione. “They might hear

us —”

Hagrid’s back door had opened with a bang. Harry,

Hermione, and Buckbeak stood quite still; even the

hippogriff seemed to be listening intently.

Silence … then —

“Where is it?” said the reedy voice of the Committee

member. “Where is the beast?”

“It was tied here!” said the executioner furiously. “I

saw it! Just here!”

“How extraordinary,” said Dumbledore. There was a

note of amusement in his voice.

“Beaky!” said Hagrid huskily.

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There was a swishing noise, and the thud of an axe.

The executioner seemed to have swung it into the

fence in anger. And then came the howling, and this

time they could hear Hagrid’s words through his sobs.

“Gone! Gone! Bless his little beak, he’s gone! Musta

pulled himself free! Beaky, yeh clever boy!”

Buckbeak started to strain against the rope, trying to

get back to Hagrid. Harry and Hermione tightened

their grip and dug their heels into the forest floor to

stop him.

“Someone untied him!” the executioner was snarling.

“We should search the grounds, the forest —”

“Macnair, if Buckbeak has indeed been stolen, do you

really think the thief will have led him away on foot?”

said Dumbledore, still sounding amused. “Search the

skies, if you will. … Hagrid, I could do with a cup of

tea. Or a large brandy.”

“O’ — o’ course, Professor,” said Hagrid, who sounded

weak with happiness. “Come in, come in. …”

Harry and Hermione listened closely. They heard

footsteps, the soft cursing of the executioner, the

snap of the door, and then silence once more.

“Now what?” whispered Harry, looking around.

“We’ll have to hide in here,” said Hermione, who

looked very shaken. “We need to wait until they’ve

gone back to the castle. Then we wait until it’s safe to

fly Buckbeak up to Sirius’s window. He won’t be there

for another couple of hours. … Oh, this is going to be

difficult. …”

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She looked nervously over her shoulder into the

depths of the forest. The sun was setting now.

“We’re going to have to move,” said Harry, thinking

hard. “We’ve got to be able to see the Whomping

Willow, or we won’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” said Hermione, getting a firmer grip on

Buckbeak’s rope. “But we’ve got to keep out of sight,

Harry, remember. …”

They moved around the edge of the forest, darkness

falling thickly around them, until they were hidden

behind a clump of trees through which they could

make out the Willow.

“There’s Ron!” said Harry suddenly.

A dark figure was sprinting across the lawn and its

shout echoed through the still night air.

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come

here —”

And then they saw two more figures materialize out of

nowhere. Harry watched himself and Hermione

chasing after Ron. Then he saw Ron dive.

“Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat —”

“There’s Sirius!” said Harry. The great shape of the

dog had bounded out from the roots of the Willow.

They saw him bowl Harry over, then seize Ron. …

“Looks even worse from here, doesn’t it?” said Harry,

watching the dog pulling Ron into the roots. “Ouch —

look, I just got walloped by the tree — and so did you

— this is weird —”

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The Whomping Willow was creaking and lashing out

with its lower branches; they could see themselves

darting here and there, trying to reach the trunk. And

then the tree froze.

“That was Crookshanks pressing the knot,” said

Hermione.

“And there we go … ,” Harry muttered. “We’re in.”

The moment they disappeared, the tree began to move

again. Seconds later, they heard footsteps quite close

by. Dumbledore, Macnair, Fudge, and the old

Committee member were making their way up to the

castle.

“Right after we’d gone down into the passage!” said

Hermione. “If only Dumbledore had come with us …”

“Macnair and Fudge would’ve come too,” said Harry

bitterly. “I bet you anything Fudge would’ve told

Macnair to murder Sirius on the spot. …”

They watched the four men climb the castle steps and

disappear from view. For a few minutes the scene was

deserted. Then —

“Here comes Lupin!” said Harry as they saw another

figure sprinting down the stone steps and haring

toward the Willow. Harry looked up at the sky. Clouds

were obscuring the moon completely.

They watched Lupin seize a broken branch from the

ground and prod the knot on the trunk. The tree

stopped fighting, and Lupin, too, disappeared into the

gap in its roots.

“If he’d only grabbed the cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just

lying there. …”

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He turned to Hermione.

“If I just dashed out now and grabbed it, Snape’d

never be able to get it and —”

“Harry, we mustn’t be seen!”

“How can you stand this?” he asked Hermione

fiercely. “Just standing here and watching it happen?”

He hesitated. “I’m going to grab the cloak!”

“Harry, no!”

Hermione seized the back of Harry’s robes not a

moment too soon. Just then, they heard a burst of

song. It was Hagrid, making his way up to the castle,

singing at the top of his voice, and weaving slightly as

he walked. A large bottle was swinging from his

hands.

“See?” Hermione whispered. “See what would have

happened? We’ve got to keep out of sight! No,

Buckbeak!”

The hippogriff was making frantic attempts to get to

Hagrid again; Harry seized his rope too, straining to

hold Buckbeak back. They watched Hagrid meander

tipsily up to the castle. He was gone. Buckbeak

stopped fighting to get away. His head drooped sadly.

Barely two minutes later, the castle doors flew open

yet again, and Snape came charging out of them,

running toward the Willow.

Harry’s fists clenched as they watched Snape skid to

a halt next to the tree, looking around. He grabbed

the cloak and held it up.

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

“Shh!”

Snape seized the branch Lupin had used to freeze the

tree, prodded the knot, and vanished from view as he

put on the cloak.

“So that’s it,” said Hermione quietly. “We’re all down

there … and now we’ve just got to wait until we come

back up again. …”

She took the end of Buckbeak’s rope and tied it

securely around the nearest tree, then sat down on

the dry ground, arms around her knees.

“Harry, there’s something I don’t understand. … Why

didn’t the dementors get Sirius? I remember them

coming, and then I think I passed out … there were

so many of them. …”

Harry sat down too. He explained what he’d seen;

how, as the nearest dementor had lowered its mouth

to Harry’s, a large silver something had come

galloping across the lake and forced the dementors to

retreat.

Hermione’s mouth was slightly open by the time

Harry had finished.

“But what was it?”

“There’s only one thing it could have been, to make

the dementors go,” said Harry. “A real Patronus. A

powerful one.”

“But who conjured it?”

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Harry didn’t say anything. He was thinking back to the person he’d seen on the other bank of the lake. He

knew who he thought it had been … but how could it

have been?

“Didn’t you see what they looked like?” said Hermione

eagerly. “Was it one of the teachers?”

“No,” said Harry. “He wasn’t a teacher.”

“But it must have been a really powerful wizard, to

drive all those dementors away. … If the Patronus

was shining so brightly, didn’t it light him up?

Couldn’t you see — ?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” said Harry slowly. “But … maybe I

imagined it. … I wasn’t thinking straight. … I passed

out right afterward. …”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I think —” Harry swallowed, knowing how strange

this was going to sound. “I think it was my dad.”

Harry glanced up at Hermione and saw that her

mouth was fully open now. She was gazing at him

with a mixture of alarm and pity.

“Harry, your dad’s — well — dead, ” she said quietly.

“I know that,” said Harry quickly.

“You think you saw his ghost?”

“I don’t know … no … he looked solid. …”

“But then —”

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“Maybe I was seeing things,” said Harry. “But … from what I could see … it looked like him. … I’ve got

photos of him. …”

Hermione was still looking at him as though worried

about his sanity.

“I know it sounds crazy,” said Harry flatly. He turned

to look at Buckbeak, who was digging his beak into

the ground, apparently searching for worms. But he

wasn’t really watching Buckbeak.

He was thinking about his father and about his

father’s three oldest friends … Moony, Wormtail,

Padfoot, and Prongs. … Had all four of them been out

on the grounds tonight? Wormtail had reappeared

this evening when everyone had thought he was dead.

… Was it so impossible his father had done the same?

Had he been seeing things across the lake? The figure

had been too far away to see distinctly … yet he had

felt sure, for a moment, before he’d lost

consciousness. …

The leaves overhead rustled faintly in the breeze. The

moon drifted in and out of sight behind the shifting

clouds. Hermione sat with her face turned toward the

Willow, waiting.

And then, at last, after over an hour …

“Here we come!” Hermione whispered.

She and Harry got to their feet. Buckbeak raised his

head. They saw Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambering

awkwardly out of the hole in the roots … followed by

the unconscious Snape, drifting weirdly upward. Next

came Harry, Hermione, and Black. They all began to

walk toward the castle.

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Harry’s heart was starting to beat very fast. He

glanced up at the sky. Any moment now, that cloud

was going to move aside and show the moon. …

“Harry,” Hermione muttered as though she knew

exactly what he was thinking, “we’ve got to stay put.

We mustn’t be seen. There’s nothing we can do. …”

“So we’re just going to let Pettigrew escape all over

again. …” said Harry quietly.

“How do you expect to find a rat in the dark?”

snapped Hermione. “There’s nothing we can do! We

came back to help Sirius; we’re not supposed to be

doing anything else!”

“All right!”

The moon slid out from behind its cloud. They saw

the tiny figures across the grounds stop. Then they

saw movement —

“There goes Lupin,” Hermione whispered. “He’s

transforming —”

“Hermione!” said Harry suddenly. “We’ve got to move!”

“We mustn’t, I keep telling you —”

“Not to interfere! Lupin’s going to run into the forest,

right at us!”

Hermione gasped.

“Quick!” she moaned, dashing to untie Buckbeak.

“Quick! Where are we going to go? Where are we going

to hide? The dementors will be coming any moment —

”

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“Back to Hagrid’s!” Harry said. “It’s empty now —

come on!”

They ran as fast as they could, Buckbeak cantering

along behind them. They could hear the werewolf

howling behind them. …

The cabin was in sight; Harry skidded to the door,

wrenched it open, and Hermione and Buckbeak

flashed past him; Harry threw himself in after them

and bolted the door. Fang the boarhound barked

loudly.

“Shh, Fang, it’s us!” said Hermione, hurrying over and

scratching his ears to quieten him. “That was really

close!” she said to Harry.

“Yeah …”

Harry was looking out of the window. It was much

harder to see what was going on from here. Buckbeak

seemed very happy to find himself back inside

Hagrid’s house. He lay down in front of the fire, folded

his wings contentedly, and seemed ready for a good

nap.

“I think I’d better go outside again, you know,” said

Harry slowly. “I can’t see what’s going on — we won’t

know when it’s time —”

Hermione looked up. Her expression was suspicious.

“I’m not going to try and interfere,” said Harry

quickly. “But if we don’t see what’s going on, how’re

we going to know when it’s time to rescue Sirius?”

“Well … okay, then … I’ll wait here with Buckbeak …

but Harry, be careful — there’s a werewolf out there

— and the dementors —”

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Harry stepped outside again and edged around the

cabin. He could hear yelping in the distance. That

meant the dementors were closing in on Sirius. … He

and Hermione would be running to him any moment.

…

Harry stared out toward the lake, his heart doing a

kind of drumroll in his chest. … Whoever had sent

that Patronus would be appearing at any moment. …

For a fraction of a second he stood, irresolute, in front

of Hagrid’s door. You must not be seen. But he didn’t

want to be seen. He wanted to do the seeing. … He

had to know. …

And there were the dementors. They were emerging

out of the darkness from every direction, gliding

around the edges of the lake. … They were moving

away from where Harry stood, to the opposite bank.

… He wouldn’t have to get near them. …

Harry began to run. He had no thought in his head

except his father. … If it was him … if it really was

him … he had to know, had to find out. …

The lake was coming nearer and nearer, but there

was no sign of anybody. On the opposite bank, he

could see tiny glimmers of silver — his own attempts

at a Patronus —

There was a bush at the very edge of the water. Harry

threw himself behind it, peering desperately through

the leaves. On the opposite bank, the glimmers of

silver were suddenly extinguished. A terrified

excitement shot through him — any moment now —

“Come on!” he muttered, staring about. “Where are

you? Dad, come on —”

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But no one came. Harry raised his head to look at the circle of dementors across the lake. One of them was

lowering its hood. It was time for the rescuer to

appear — but no one was coming to help this time —

And then it hit him — he understood. He hadn’t seen

his father — he had seen himself —

Harry flung himself out from behind the bush and

pulled out his wand.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” he yelled.

And out of the end of his wand burst, not a shapeless

cloud of mist, but a blinding, dazzling, silver animal.

He screwed up his eyes, trying to see what it was. It

looked like a horse. It was galloping silently away

from him, across the black surface of the lake. He

saw it lower its head and charge at the swarming

dementors. … Now it was galloping around and

around the black shapes on the ground, and the

dementors were falling back, scattering, retreating

into the darkness. … They were gone.

The Patronus turned. It was cantering back toward

Harry across the still surface of the water. It wasn’t a

horse. It wasn’t a unicorn, either. It was a stag. It was

shining brightly as the moon above … it was coming

back to him. …

It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on

the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large,

silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its antlered head. And

Harry realized …

“Prongs,” he whispered.

But as his trembling fingertips stretched toward the

creature, it vanished.

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Harry stood there, hand still outstretched. Then, with a great leap of his heart, he heard hooves behind him

— he whirled around and saw Hermione dashing

toward him, dragging Buckbeak behind her.

“What did you do?” she said fiercely. “You said you

were only going to keep a lookout!”

“I just saved all our lives … ,” said Harry. “Get behind

here — behind this bush — I’ll explain.”

Hermione listened to what had just happened with

her mouth open yet again.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Yes, haven’t you been listening? I saw me but I

thought I was my dad! It’s okay!”

“Harry, I can’t believe it. … You conjured up a

Patronus that drove away all those dementors! That’s

very, very advanced magic. …”

“I knew I could do it this time,” said Harry, “because

I’d already done it. … Does that make sense?”

“I don’t know — Harry, look at Snape!”

Together they peered around the bush at the other

bank. Snape had regained consciousness. He was

conjuring stretchers and lifting the limp forms of

Harry, Hermione, and Black onto them. A fourth

stretcher, no doubt bearing Ron, was already floating

at his side. Then, wand held out in front of him, he

moved them away toward the castle.

“Right, it’s nearly time,” said Hermione tensely,

looking at her watch. “We’ve got about forty-five

minutes until Dumbledore locks the door to the

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hospital wing. We’ve got to rescue Sirius and get back into the ward before anybody realizes we’re missing.

…”

They waited, watching the moving clouds reflected in

the lake, while the bush next to them whispered in

the breeze. Buckbeak, bored, was ferreting for worms

again.

“D’ you reckon he’s up there yet?” said Harry,

checking his watch. He looked up at the castle and

began counting the windows to the right of the West

Tower.

“Look!” Hermione whispered. “Who’s that? Someone’s

coming back out of the castle!”

Harry stared through the darkness. The man was

hurrying across the grounds, toward one of the

entrances. Something shiny glinted in his belt.

“Macnair!” said Harry. “The executioner! He’s gone to

get the dementors! This is it, Hermione —”

Hermione put her hands on Buckbeak’s back and

Harry gave her a leg up. Then he placed his foot on

one of the lower branches of the bush and climbed up

in front of her. He pulled Buckbeak’s rope back over

his neck and tied it to the other side of his collar like

reins.

“Ready?” he whispered to Hermione. “You’d better

hold on to me —”

He nudged Buckbeak’s sides with his heels.

Buckbeak soared straight into the dark air. Harry

gripped his flanks with his knees, feeling the great

wings rising powerfully beneath them. Hermione was

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holding Harry very tight around the waist; he could hear her muttering, “Oh, no — I don’t like this — oh, I

really don’t like this —”

Harry urged Buckbeak forward. They were gliding

quietly toward the upper floors of the castle. … Harry

pulled hard on the left-hand side of the rope, and

Buckbeak turned. Harry was trying to count the

windows flashing past —

“Whoa!” he said, pulling backward as hard as he

could.

Buckbeak slowed down and they found themselves at

a stop, unless you counted the fact that they kept

rising up and down several feet as the hippogriff beat

his wings to remain airborne.

“He’s there!” Harry said, spotting Sirius as they rose

up beside the window. He reached out, and as

Buckbeak’s wings fell, was able to tap sharply on the

glass.

Black looked up. Harry saw his jaw drop. He leapt

from his chair, hurried to the window and tried to

open it, but it was locked.

“Stand back!” Hermione called to him, and she took

out her wand, still gripping the back of Harry’s robes

with her left hand.

“Alohomora!”

The window sprang open.

“How — how — ?” said Black weakly, staring at the

hippogriff.

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“Get on — there’s not much time,” said Harry,

gripping Buckbeak firmly on either side of his sleek

neck to hold him steady. “You’ve got to get out of here

— the dementors are coming — Macnair’s gone to get

them.”

Black placed a hand on either side of the window

frame and heaved his head and shoulders out of it. It

was very lucky he was so thin. In seconds, he had

managed to fling one leg over Buckbeak’s back and

pull himself onto the hippogriff behind Hermione.

“Okay, Buckbeak, up!” said Harry, shaking the rope.

“Up to the tower — come on!”

The hippogriff gave one sweep of its mighty wings and

they were soaring upward again, high as the top of

the West Tower. Buckbeak landed with a clatter on

the battlements, and Harry and Hermione slid off him

at once.

“Sirius, you’d better go, quick,” Harry panted. “They’ll

reach Flitwick’s office any moment, they’ll find out

you’re gone.”

Buckbeak pawed the ground, tossing his sharp head.

“What happened to the other boy? Ron?” croaked

Sirius.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s still out of it, but Madam

Pomfrey says she’ll be able to make him better. Quick

— go —”

But Black was still staring down at Harry.

“How can I ever thank —”

“GO!” Harry and Hermione shouted together.

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Black wheeled Buckbeak around, facing the open sky.

“We’ll see each other again,” he said. “You are — truly

your father’s son, Harry. …”

He squeezed Buckbeak’s sides with his heels. Harry

and Hermione jumped back as the enormous wings

rose once more. … The hippogriff took off into the air.

… He and his rider became smaller and smaller as

Harry gazed after them … then a cloud drifted across

the moon. … They were gone.

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OWL POST AGAIN

“Harry!”

Hermione was tugging at his sleeve, staring at her

watch. “We’ve got exactly ten minutes to get back

down to the hospital wing without anybody seeing us

— before Dumbledore locks the door —”

“Okay,” said Harry, wrenching his gaze from the sky,

“let’s go. …”

They slipped through the doorway behind them and

down a tightly spiraling stone staircase. As they

reached the bottom of it, they heard voices. They

flattened themselves against the wall and listened. It

sounded like Fudge and Snape. They were walking

quickly along the corridor at the foot of the staircase.

“… only hope Dumbledore’s not going to make

difficulties,” Snape was saying. “The Kiss will be

performed immediately?”

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“As soon as Macnair returns with the dementors. This whole Black affair has been highly embarrassing. I

can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to

informing the Daily Prophet that we’ve got him at last.

… I daresay they’ll want to interview you, Snape …

and once young Harry’s back in his right mind, I

expect he’ll want to tell the Prophet exactly how you

saved him. …”

Harry clenched his teeth. He caught a glimpse of

Snape’s smirk as he and Fudge passed Harry and

Hermione’s hiding place. Their footsteps died away.

Harry and Hermione waited a few moments to make

sure they’d really gone, then started to run in the

opposite direction. Down one staircase, then another,

along a new corridor — then they heard a cackling

ahead.

“Peeves!” Harry muttered, grabbing Hermione’s wrist.

“In here!”

They tore into a deserted classroom to their left just

in time. Peeves seemed to be bouncing along the

corridor in boisterous good spirits, laughing his head

off.

“Oh, he’s horrible,” whispered Hermione, her ear to

the door. “I bet he’s all excited because the dementors

are going to finish off Sirius. …” She checked her

watch. “Three minutes, Harry!”

They waited until Peeves’s gloating voice had faded

into the distance, then slid back out of the room and

broke into a run again.

“Hermione — what’ll happen — if we don’t get back

inside — before Dumbledore locks the door?” Harry

panted.

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“I don’t want to think about it!” Hermione moaned, checking her watch again. “One minute!”

They had reached the end of the corridor with the

hospital wing entrance. “Okay — I can hear

Dumbledore,” said Hermione tensely. “Come on,

Harry!”

They crept along the corridor. The door opened.

Dumbledore’s back appeared.

“I am going to lock you in,” they heard him saying. “It

is five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns

should do it. Good luck.”

Dumbledore backed out of the room, closed the door,

and took out his wand to magically lock it. Panicking,

Harry and Hermione ran forward. Dumbledore looked

up, and a wide smile appeared under the long silver

mustache. “Well?” he said quietly.

“We did it!” said Harry breathlessly. “Sirius has gone,

on Buckbeak. …”

Dumbledore beamed at them.

“Well done. I think —” He listened intently for any

sound within the hospital wing. “Yes, I think you’ve

gone too — get inside — I’ll lock you in —”

Harry and Hermione slipped back inside the

dormitory. It was empty except for Ron, who was still

lying motionless in the end bed. As the lock clicked

behind them, Harry and Hermione crept back to their

own beds, Hermione tucking the Time-Turner back

under her robes. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey

came striding back out of her office.

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“Did I hear the headmaster leaving? Am I allowed to look after my patients now?”

She was in a very bad mood. Harry and Hermione

thought it best to accept their chocolate quietly.

Madam Pomfrey stood over them, making sure they

ate it. But Harry could hardly swallow. He and

Hermione were waiting, listening, their nerves

jangling. … And then, as they both took a fourth piece

of chocolate from Madam Pomfrey, they heard a

distant roar of fury echoing from somewhere above

them. …

“What was that?” said Madam Pomfrey in alarm.

Now they could hear angry voices, growing louder and

louder. Madam Pomfrey was staring at the door.

“Really — they’ll wake everybody up! What do they

think they’re doing?”

Harry was trying to hear what the voices were saying.

They were drawing nearer —

“He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should

have left somebody in the room with him. When this

gets out —”

“HE DIDN’T DISAPPARATE!” Snape roared, now very

close at hand. “YOU CAN’T APPARATE OR

DISAPPARATE INSIDE THIS CASTLE! THIS — HAS —

SOMETHING — TO — DO — WITH — POTTER!”

“Severus — be reasonable — Harry has been locked

up —”

BAM.

The door of the hospital wing burst open.

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Fudge, Snape, and Dumbledore came striding into the ward. Dumbledore alone looked calm. Indeed, he

looked as though he was quite enjoying himself.

Fudge appeared angry. But Snape was beside himself.

“OUT WITH IT, POTTER!” he bellowed. “WHAT DID

YOU DO?”

“Professor Snape!” shrieked Madam Pomfrey. “Control

yourself!”

“See here, Snape, be reasonable,” said Fudge. “This

door’s been locked, we just saw —”

“THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape

howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was

twisted; spit was flying from his mouth.

“Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking

nonsense!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE

DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT —”

“That will do, Severus,” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Think about what you are saying. This door has been

locked since I left the ward ten minutes ago. Madam

Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?”

“Of course not!” said Madam Pomfrey, bristling. “I

would have heard them!”

“Well, there you have it, Severus,” said Dumbledore

calmly. “Unless you are suggesting that Harry and

Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I’m

afraid I don’t see any point in troubling them further.”

Snape stood there, seething, staring from Fudge, who

looked thoroughly shocked at his behavior, to

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Dumbledore, whose eyes were twinkling behind his

glasses. Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind

him, and stormed out of the ward.

“Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring

after him. “I’d watch out for him if I were you,

Dumbledore.”

“Oh, he’s not unbalanced,” said Dumbledore quietly.

“He’s just suffered a severe disappointment.”

“He’s not the only one!” puffed Fudge. “The Daily

Prophet’s going to have a field day! We had Black

cornered and he slipped through our fingers yet

again! All it needs now is for the story of that

hippogriff’s escape to get out, and I’ll be a

laughingstock! Well … I’d better go and notify the

Ministry. …”

“And the dementors?” said Dumbledore. “They’ll be

removed from the school, I trust?”

“Oh yes, they’ll have to go,” said Fudge, running his

fingers distractedly through his hair. “Never dreamed

they’d attempt to administer the Kiss on an innocent

boy. … Completely out of control … no, I’ll have them

packed off back to Azkaban tonight. … Perhaps we

should think about dragons at the school entrance.

…”

“Hagrid would like that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at

Harry and Hermione. As he and Fudge left the

dormitory, Madam Pomfrey hurried to the door and

locked it again. Muttering angrily to herself, she

headed back to her office.

There was a low moan from the other end of the ward.

Ron had woken up. They could see him sitting up,

rubbing his head, looking around.

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“What — what happened?” he groaned. “Harry? Why

are we in here? Where’s Sirius? Where’s Lupin?

What’s going on?”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“You explain,” said Harry, helping himself to some

more chocolate.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the hospital

wing at noon the next day, it was to find an almost

deserted castle. The sweltering heat and the end of

the exams meant that everyone was taking full

advantage of another Hogsmeade visit. Neither Ron

nor Hermione felt like going, however, so they and

Harry wandered onto the grounds, still talking about

the extraordinary events of the previous night and

wondering where Sirius and Buckbeak were now.

Sitting near the lake, watching the giant squid waving

its tentacles lazily above the water, Harry lost the

thread of the conversation as he looked across to the

opposite bank. The stag had galloped toward him

from there just last night. …

A shadow fell across them and they looked up to see a

very bleary-eyed Hagrid, mopping his sweaty face with

one of his tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs and

beaming down at them.

“Know I shouldn’ feel happy, after wha’ happened las’

night,” he said. “I mean, Black escapin’ again, an’

everythin’ — but guess what?”

“What?” they said, pretending to look curious.

“Beaky! He escaped! He’s free! Bin celebratin’ all

night!”

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“That’s wonderful!” said Hermione, giving Ron a

reproving look because he looked as though he was

close to laughing.

“Yeah … can’t’ve tied him up properly,” said Hagrid,

gazing happily out over the grounds. “I was worried

this mornin’, mind … thought he mighta met

Professor Lupin on the grounds, but Lupin says he

never ate anythin’ las’ night. …”

“What?” said Harry quickly.

“Blimey, haven’ yeh heard?” said Hagrid, his smile

fading a little. He lowered his voice, even though there

was nobody in sight. “Er — Snape told all the

Slytherins this mornin’. … Thought everyone’d know

by now … Professor Lupin’s a werewolf, see. An’ he

was loose on the grounds las’ night. … He’s packin’

now, o’ course.”

“He’s packing?” said Harry, alarmed. “Why?”

“Leavin’, isn’ he?” said Hagrid, looking surprised that

Harry had to ask. “Resigned firs’ thing this mornin’.

Says he can’t risk it happenin’ again.”

Harry scrambled to his feet.

“I’m going to see him,” he said to Ron and Hermione.

“But if he’s resigned —”

“— doesn’t sound like there’s anything we can do —”

“I don’t care. I still want to see him. I’ll meet you back

here.”

Lupin’s office door was open. He had already packed

most of his things. The grindylow’s empty tank stood

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next to his battered old suitcase, which was open and nearly full. Lupin was bending over something on his

desk and looked up only when Harry knocked on the

door.

“I saw you coming,” said Lupin, smiling. He pointed to

the parchment he had been poring over. It was the

Marauder’s Map.

“I just saw Hagrid,” said Harry. “And he said you’d

resigned. It’s not true, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Lupin. He started opening his

desk drawers and taking out the contents.

“Why?” said Harry. “The Ministry of Magic don’t think

you were helping Sirius, do they?”

Lupin crossed to the door and closed it behind Harry.

“No. Professor Dumbledore managed to convince

Fudge that I was trying to save your lives.” He sighed.

“That was the final straw for Severus. I think the loss

of the Order of Merlin hit him hard. So he — er —

accidentally let slip that I am a werewolf this morning

at breakfast.”

“You’re not leaving just because of that!” said Harry.

Lupin smiled wryly.

“This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from

parents. … They will not want a werewolf teaching

their children, Harry. And after last night, I see their

point. I could have bitten any of you. … That must

never happen again.”

“You’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher we’ve ever had!” said Harry. “Don’t go!”

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Lupin shook his head and didn’t speak. He carried on emptying his drawers. Then, while Harry was trying

to think of a good argument to make him stay, Lupin

said, “From what the headmaster told me this

morning, you saved a lot of lives last night, Harry. If

I’m proud of anything I’ve done this year, it’s how

much you’ve learned. … Tell me about your

Patronus.”

“How d’you know about that?” said Harry, distracted.

“What else could have driven the dementors back?”

Harry told Lupin what had happened. When he’d

finished, Lupin was smiling again.

“Yes, your father was always a stag when he

transformed,” he said. “You guessed right … that’s

why we called him Prongs.”

Lupin threw his last few books into his case, closed

the desk drawers, and turned to look at Harry.

“Here — I brought this from the Shrieking Shack last

night,” he said, handing Harry back the Invisibility

Cloak. “And …” He hesitated, then held out the

Marauder’s Map too. “I am no longer your teacher, so

I don’t feel guilty about giving you back this as well.

It’s no use to me, and I daresay you, Ron, and

Hermione will find uses for it.”

Harry took the map and grinned.

“You told me Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

would’ve wanted to lure me out of school … you said

they’d have thought it was funny.”

“And so we would have,” said Lupin, now reaching

down to close his case. “I have no hesitation in saying

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that James would have been highly disappointed if

his son had never found any of the secret passages

out of the castle.”

There was a knock on the door. Harry hastily stuffed

the Marauder’s Map and the Invisibility Cloak into his

pocket.

It was Professor Dumbledore. He didn’t look surprised

to see Harry there.

“Your carriage is at the gates, Remus,” he said.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

Lupin picked up his old suitcase and the empty

grindylow tank.

“Well — good-bye, Harry,” he said, smiling. “It has

been a real pleasure teaching you. I feel sure we’ll

meet again sometime. Headmaster, there is no need

to see me to the gates, I can manage. …”

Harry had the impression that Lupin wanted to leave

as quickly as possible.

“Good-bye, then, Remus,” said Dumbledore soberly.

Lupin shifted the grindylow tank slightly so that he

and Dumbledore could shake hands. Then, with a

final nod to Harry and a swift smile, Lupin left the

office.

Harry sat down in his vacated chair, staring glumly at

the floor. He heard the door close and looked up.

Dumbledore was still there.

“Why so miserable, Harry?” he said quietly. “You

should be very proud of yourself after last night.”

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“It didn’t make any difference,” said Harry bitterly.

“Pettigrew got away.”

“Didn’t make any difference?” said Dumbledore

quietly. “It made all the difference in the world, Harry.

You helped uncover the truth. You saved an innocent

man from a terrible fate.”

Terrible. Something stirred in Harry’s memory.

Greater and more terrible than ever before … Professor Trelawney’s prediction!

“Professor Dumbledore — yesterday, when I was

having my Divination exam, Professor Trelawney went

very — very strange.”

“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. “Er — stranger than

usual, you mean?”

“Yes … her voice went all deep and her eyes rolled

and she said … she said Voldemort’s servant was

going to set out to return to him before midnight. …

She said the servant would help him come back to

power.” Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “And then

she sort of became normal again, and she couldn’t

remember anything she’d said. Was it — was she

making a real prediction?”

Dumbledore looked mildly impressed.

“Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been,”

he said thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought it? That

brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should

offer her a pay raise. …”

“But —” Harry looked at him, aghast. How could

Dumbledore take this so calmly?

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“But — I stopped Sirius and Professor Lupin from

killing Pettigrew! That makes it my fault if Voldemort

comes back!”

“It does not,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Hasn’t your

experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything,

Harry? The consequences of our actions are always so

complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a

very difficult business indeed. … Professor Trelawney,

bless her, is living proof of that. … You did a very

noble thing, in saving Pettigrew’s life.”

“But if he helps Voldemort back to power — !”

“Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent

Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt. … When one

wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain

bond between them … and I’m much mistaken if

Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry

Potter.”

“I don’t want a connection with Pettigrew!” said Harry.

“He betrayed my parents!”

“This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable,

Harry. But trust me … the time may come when you

will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life.”

Harry couldn’t imagine when that would be.

Dumbledore looked as though he knew what Harry

was thinking.

“I knew your father very well, both at Hogwarts and

later, Harry,” he said gently. “He would have saved

Pettigrew too, I am sure of it.”

Harry looked up at him. Dumbledore wouldn’t laugh

— he could tell Dumbledore …

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“I thought it was my dad who’d conjured my

Patronus. I mean, when I saw myself across the lake

… I thought I was seeing him.”

“An easy mistake to make,” said Dumbledore softly. “I

expect you’ll tire of hearing it, but you do look

extraordinarily like James. Except for the eyes … you

have your mother’s eyes.”

Harry shook his head.

“It was stupid, thinking it was him,” he muttered. “I

mean, I knew he was dead.”

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You

think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever

in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you,

Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have

need of him. How else could you produce that

particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.”

It took a moment for Harry to realize what

Dumbledore had said.

“Last night Sirius told me all about how they became

Animagi,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “An

extraordinary achievement — not least, keeping it

quiet from me. And then I remembered the most

unusual form your Patronus took, when it charged

Mr. Malfoy down at your Quidditch match against

Ravenclaw. You know, Harry, in a way, you did see

your father last night. … You found him inside

yourself.”

And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his

very confused thoughts.

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Nobody at Hogwarts now knew the truth of what had

happened the night that Sirius, Buckbeak, and

Pettigrew had vanished except Harry, Ron, Hermione,

and Professor Dumbledore. As the end of term

approached, Harry heard many different theories

about what had really happened, but none of them

came close to the truth.

Malfoy was furious about Buckbeak. He was

convinced that Hagrid had found a way of smuggling

the hippogriff to safety, and seemed outraged that he

and his father had been outwitted by a gamekeeper.

Percy Weasley, meanwhile, had much to say on the

subject of Sirius’s escape.

“If I manage to get into the Ministry, I’ll have a lot of

proposals to make about Magical Law Enforcement!”

he told the only person who would listen — his

girlfriend, Penelope.

Though the weather was perfect, though the

atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew they

had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to

freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a

school year in worse spirits.

He certainly wasn’t the only one who was sorry to see

Professor Lupin go. The whole of Harry’s Defense

Against the Dark Arts class was miserable about his

resignation.

“Wonder what they’ll give us next year?” said Seamus

Finnigan gloomily.

“Maybe a vampire,” suggested Dean Thomas

hopefully.

It wasn’t only Professor Lupin’s departure that was

weighing on Harry’s mind. He couldn’t help thinking a

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lot about Professor Trelawney’s prediction. He kept wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had

sought sanctuary with Voldemort yet. But the thing

that was lowering Harry’s spirits most of all was the

prospect of returning to the Dursleys. For maybe half

an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he

would be living with Sirius from now on … his

parents’ best friend. … It would have been the next

best thing to having his own father back. And while

no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it

meant he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry

couldn’t help feeling miserable when he thought of

the home he might have had, and the fact that it was

now impossible.

The exam results came out on the last day of term.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed every subject.

Harry was amazed that he had got through Potions.

He had a shrewd suspicion that Dumbledore might

have stepped in to stop Snape failing him on purpose.

Snape’s behavior toward Harry over the past week

had been quite alarming. Harry wouldn’t have

thought it possible that Snape’s dislike for him could

increase, but it certainly had. A muscle twitched

unpleasantly at the corner of Snape’s thin mouth

every time he looked at Harry, and he was constantly

flexing his fingers, as though itching to place them

around Harry’s throat.

Percy had got his top-grade N.E.W.T.s; Fred and

George had scraped a handful of O.W.L.s each.

Gryffindor House, meanwhile, largely thanks to their

spectacular performance in the Quidditch Cup, had

won the House championship for the third year

running. This meant that the end of term feast took

place amid decorations of scarlet and gold, and that

the Gryffindor table was the noisiest of the lot, as

everybody celebrated. Even Harry managed to forget

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about the journey back to the Dursleys the next day as he ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest.

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station the

next morning, Hermione gave Harry and Ron some

surprising news.

“I went to see Professor McGonagall this morning, just

before breakfast. I’ve decided to drop Muggle Studies.”

“But you passed your exam with three hundred and

twenty percent!” said Ron.

“I know,” sighed Hermione, “but I can’t stand another

year like this one. That Time-Turner, it was driving

me mad. I’ve handed it in. Without Muggle Studies

and Divination, I’ll be able to have a normal schedule

again.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” said

Ron grumpily. “We’re supposed to be your friends. ”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, ” said Hermione

severely. She looked around at Harry, who was

watching Hogwarts disappear from view behind a

mountain. Two whole months before he’d see it again.

…

“Oh, cheer up, Harry!” said Hermione sadly.

“I’m okay,” said Harry quickly. “Just thinking about

the holidays.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about them too,” said Ron.

“Harry, you’ve got to come and stay with us. I’ll fix it

up with Mum and Dad, then I’ll call you. I know how

to use a fellytone now —”

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“A telephone, Ron,” said Hermione. “Honestly, you should take Muggle Studies next year. …”

Ron ignored her.

“It’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer! How

about it, Harry? Come and stay, and we’ll go and see

it! Dad can usually get tickets from work.”

This proposal had the effect of cheering Harry up a

great deal.

“Yeah … I bet the Dursleys’d be pleased to let me

come … especially after what I did to Aunt Marge. …”

Feeling considerably more cheerful, Harry joined Ron

and Hermione in several games of Exploding Snap,

and when the witch with the tea cart arrived, he

bought himself a very large lunch, though nothing

with chocolate in it.

But it was late in the afternoon before the thing that

made him truly happy turned up. …

“Harry,” said Hermione suddenly, peering over his

shoulder. “What’s that thing outside your window?”

Harry turned to look outside. Something very small

and gray was bobbing in and out of sight beyond the

glass. He stood up for a better look and saw that it

was a tiny owl, carrying a letter that was much too

big for it. The owl was so small, in fact, that it kept

tumbling over in the air, buffeted this way and that in

the train’s slipstream. Harry quickly pulled down the

window, stretched out his arm, and caught it. It felt

like a very fluffy Snitch. He brought it carefully inside.

The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s seat and began

zooming around their compartment, apparently very

pleased with itself for accomplishing its task. Hedwig

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clicked her beak with a sort of dignified disapproval.

Crookshanks sat up in his seat, following the owl with

his great yellow eyes. Ron, noticing this, snatched the

owl safely out of harm’s way.

Harry picked up the letter. It was addressed to him.

He ripped open the letter, and shouted, “It’s from

Sirius!”

“What?” said Ron and Hermione excitedly. “Read it

aloud!”

Dear Harry,

I hope this finds you before you reach your aunt and

uncle. I don’t know whether they’re used to owl post.

Buckbeak and I are in hiding. I won’t tell you where, in

case this owl falls into the wrong hands. I have some

doubt about his reliability, but he is the best I could

find, and he did seem eager for the job.

I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but

they haven’t a hope of finding me here. I am planning

to allow some Muggles to glimpse me soon, a long way

from Hogwarts, so that the security on the castle will

be lifted.

There is something I never got around to telling you

during our brief meeting. It was I who sent you the

Firebolt —

“Ha!” said Hermione triumphantly. “See! I told you it

was from him!”

“Yes, but he hadn’t jinxed it, had he?” said Ron.

“Ouch!” The tiny owl, now hooting happily in his

hand, had nibbled one of his fingers in what it

seemed to think was an affectionate way.

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Crookshanks took the order to the Owl Office for me. I used your name but told them to take the gold from my

own Gringotts vault. Please consider it as thirteen

birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather.

I would also like to apologize for the fright I think I

gave you that night last year when you left your

uncle’s house. I had only hoped to get a glimpse of you

before starting my journey north, but I think the sight

of me alarmed you.

I am enclosing something else for you, which I think

will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable.

If ever you need me, send word. Your owl will find me.

I’ll write again soon.

Sirius

Harry looked eagerly inside the envelope. There was

another piece of parchment in there. He read it

through quickly and felt suddenly as warm and

contented as though he’d swallowed a bottle of hot

butterbeer in one gulp.

I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give

him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends.

“That’ll be good enough for Dumbledore!” said Harry

happily. He looked back at Sirius’s letter.

“Hang on, there’s a P.S. …”

I thought your friend Ron might like to keep this owl,

as it’s my fault he no longer has a rat.

Ron’s eyes widened. The minute owl was still hooting

excitedly.

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“Keep him?” he said uncertainly. He looked closely at the owl for a moment; then, to Harry’s and

Hermione’s great surprise, he held him out for

Crookshanks to sniff.

“What do’you reckon?” Ron asked the cat. “Definitely

an owl?”

Crookshanks purred.

“That’s good enough for me,” said Ron happily. “He’s

mine.”

Harry read and reread the letter from Sirius all the

way back into King’s Cross station. It was still

clutched tightly in his hand as he, Ron, and

Hermione stepped back through the barrier of

platform nine and three-quarters. Harry spotted

Uncle Vernon at once. He was standing a good

distance from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, eyeing them

suspiciously, and when Mrs. Weasley hugged Harry in

greeting, his worst suspicions about them seemed

confirmed.

“I’ll call about the World Cup!” Ron yelled after Harry

as Harry bid him and Hermione good-bye, then

wheeled the trolley bearing his trunk and Hedwig’s

cage toward Uncle Vernon, who greeted him in his

usual fashion.

“What’s that?” he snarled, staring at the envelope

Harry was still clutching in his hand. “If it’s another

form for me to sign, you’ve got another —”

“It’s not,” said Harry cheerfully. “It’s a letter from my

godfather.”

“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t

got a godfather!”

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“Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but

he’s broken out of wizard prison and he’s on the run.

He likes to keep in touch with me, though … keep up

with my news … check if I’m happy. …”

And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle

Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit,

Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked

like a much better summer than the last.

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Document Outline

- OWL POST

- AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE

- THE KNIGHT BUS

- THE LEAKY CAULDRON

- THE DEMENTOR

- TALONS AND TEA LEAVES

- THE BOGGART IN THE WARDROBE

- FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY

- GRIM DEFEAT

- THE MARAUDER’S MAP

- THE FIREBOLT

- THE PATRONUS

- GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW

- SNAPE’S GRUDGE

- THE QUIDDITCH FINAL

- PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY’S PREDICTION

- CAT, RAT, AND DOG

- MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND PRONGS

- THE SERVANT OF LORD VOLDERMORT

- THE DEMENTOR’S KISS

- HERMIONE’S SECRET

- OWL POST AGAIN

THE RIDDLE HOUSE

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it “the

Riddle House,” even though it had been many years

since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a

hill overlooking the village, some of its windows

boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading

unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor,

and easily the largest and grandest building for miles

around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict,

and unoccupied.

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house

was “creepy.” Half a century ago, something strange

and horrible had happened there, something that the

older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss

when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had

been picked over so many times, and had been

embroidered in so many places, that nobody was

quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version

of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty

years before, at daybreak on a fine summer’s

morning, when the Riddle House had still been well

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing

room to find all three Riddles dead.

The maid had run screaming down the hill into the

village and roused as many people as she could.

“Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice!

Still in their dinner things!”

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little

Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-

disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath

pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they

had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs.

Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their

grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All

the villagers cared about was the identity of their

murderer — for plainly, three apparently healthy

people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the

same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade

that night; the whole village seemed to have turned

out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for

leaving their firesides when the Riddles’ cook arrived

dramatically in their midst and announced to the

suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce

had just been arrested.

“Frank!” cried several people. “Never!”

Frank Bryce was the Riddles’ gardener. He lived alone

in a rundown cottage on the grounds of the Riddle

House. Frank had come back from the war with a

very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud

noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever

since.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear

more details.

“Always thought he was odd,” she told the eagerly

listening villagers, after her fourth sherry.

“Unfriendly, like. I’m sure if I’ve offered him a cuppa

once, I’ve offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to

mix, he didn’t.”

“Ah, now,” said a woman at the bar, “he had a hard

war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That’s no reason to

—”

“Who else had a key to the back door, then?” barked

the cook. “There’s been a spare key hanging in the

gardener’s cottage far back as I can remember!

Nobody forced the door last night! No broken

windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big

house while we was all sleeping. …”

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

“I always thought he had a nasty look about him,

right enough,” grunted a man at the bar.

“War turned him funny, if you ask me,” said the

landlord.

“Told you I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of

Frank, didn’t I, Dot?” said an excited woman in the

corner.

“Horrible temper,” said Dot, nodding fervently. “I

remember, when he was a kid …”

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little

Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the

Riddles.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was

stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was

innocent, and that the only person he had seen near

the house on the day of the Riddles’ deaths had been

a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale.

Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and

the police were quite sure that Frank had invented

him.

Then, just when things were looking very serious for

Frank, the report on the Riddles’ bodies came back

and changed everything.

The police had never read an odder report. A team of

doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded

that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed,

shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could

tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a

tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all

appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact

that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as

though determined to find something wrong with the

bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror

upon his or her face — but as the frustrated police

said, whoever heard of three people being frightened

to death?

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been

murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go.

The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton

churchyard, and their graves remained objects of

curiosity for a while. To everyone’s surprise, and amid

a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his

cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.

“ ’S far as I’m concerned, he killed them, and I don’t

care what the police say,” said Dot in the Hanged

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Man. “And if he had any decency, he’d leave here,

knowing as how we knows he did it.”

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden

for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and

then the next — for neither family stayed long.

Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new

owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place,

which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall

into disrepair.

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these

days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they

said in the village that he kept it for “tax reasons,”

though nobody was very clear what these might be.

The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the

gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-

seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer

than ever, but could be seen pottering around the

flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds

were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to

suppress them.

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend

with either. Boys from the village made a habit of

throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle

House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank

worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they

broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that

old Frank’s devotion to the house and grounds

amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused

them to see him limping across the garden,

brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them.

Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him

because they, like their parents and grandparents,

thought him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one

night in August and saw something very odd up at

the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had

gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

It was Frank’s bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and

limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of

refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in

his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he

looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights

glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once

what was going on. The boys had broken into the

house again, and judging by the flickering quality of

the light, they had started a fire.

Frank had no telephone, and in any case, he had

deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had

taken him in for questioning about the Riddles’

deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back

upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was

soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing

a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked

up his walking stick, which was propped against the

wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of

being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank

limped around to the back of the house until he

reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took

out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the

door noiselessly.

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had

not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although

it was very dark, he remembered where the door into

the hall was, and he groped his way toward it, his

nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any

sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He

reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to

the large mullioned windows on either side of the

front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing

the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it

muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once

where the intruders were: At the very end of the

passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone

through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across

the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer,

grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from

the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the

room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This

surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened

intently, for a man’s voice spoke within the room; it

sounded timid and fearful.

“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you

are still hungry.”

“Later,” said a second voice. This too belonged to a

man — but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as

a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that

voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank’s

neck stand up. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.”

Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better

to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put

down upon some hard surface, and then the dull

scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across

the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his

back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was

wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald

patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of

sight again.

“Where is Nagini?” said the cold voice.

“I — I don’t know, My Lord,” said the first voice

nervously. “She set out to explore the house, I think.

…”

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“You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail,” said the second voice. “I will need feeding in the night. The

journey has tired me greatly.”

Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer

to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause,

and then the man called Wormtail spoke again.

“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay

here?”

“A week,” said the cold voice. “Perhaps longer. The

place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot

proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the

Quidditch World Cup is over.”

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and

rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax,

he had heard the word “Quidditch,” which was not a

word at all.

“The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said

Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously

into his ear.) “Forgive me, but — I do not understand

— why should we wait until the World Cup is over?”

“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are

pouring into the country from all over the world, and

every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on

duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity,

checking and double-checking identities. They will be

obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice

anything. So we wait.”

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had

distinctly heard the words “Ministry of Magic,”

“wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these

expressions meant something secret, and Frank could

think of only two sorts of people who would speak in

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more

closely still.

“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” Wormtail

said quietly.

“Certainly I am determined, Wormtail.” There was a

note of menace in the cold voice now.

A slight pause followed — and then Wormtail spoke,

the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he

was forcing himself to say this before he lost his

nerve.

“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.”

Another pause, more protracted, and then —

“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the second voice

softly. “I see …”

“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!”

said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. “The boy is

nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we

were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard —

the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you

allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know

that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could

be back here in as little as two days with a suitable

person —”

“I could use another wizard,” said the cold voice

softly, “that is true. …”

“My Lord, it makes sense,” said Wormtail, sounding

thoroughly relieved now. “Laying hands on Harry

Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected —”

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a

substitute? I wonder … perhaps the task of nursing

me has become wearisome for you, “Wormtail? Could

this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing

more than an attempt to desert me?”

“My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all

—”

“Do not lie to me!” hissed the second voice. “I can

always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever

returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you

look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me. …”

“No! My devotion to Your Lordship —”

“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You

would not be here if you had anywhere else to go.

How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding

every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?”

“But you seem so much stronger, My Lord —”

“Liar,” breathed the second voice. “I am no stronger,

and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of

the little health I have regained under your clumsy

care. Silence!”

Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell

silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear

nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man

spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss.

“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have

already explained to you, and I will use no other. I

have waited thirteen years. A few more months will

make no difference. As for the protection surrounding

the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is

needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail —

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort’s wrath —”

“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his

voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over

the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins’s

disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if

we proceed, if I murder —”

“If?” whispered the second voice. “If? If you follow the

plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that

anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and

without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but

in my present condition … Come, Wormtail, one more

death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not

asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful

servant will have rejoined us —”

“I am a faithful servant,” said Wormtail, the merest

trace of sullenness in his voice.

“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody

whose loyalty has never wavered, and you,

unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.”

“I found you,” said Wormtail, and there was definitely

a sulky edge to his voice now. “I was the one who

found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.”

“That is true,” said the second man, sounding

amused. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have

thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if

truth be told, you were not aware how useful she

would be when you caught her, were you?”

“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —”

“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel

amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

do not deny that her information was invaluable.

Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and

for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will

allow you to perform an essential task for me, one

that many of my followers would give their right

hands to perform. …”

“R-really, My Lord? What — ?” Wormtail sounded

terrified again.

“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the

surprise? Your part will come at the very end … but I

promise you, you will have the honor of being just as

useful as Bertha Jorkins.”

“You … you …” Wormtail’s voice suddenly sounded

hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You

… are going … to kill me too?”

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why

would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She

was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite

useless. In any case, awkward questions would have

been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with

the news that she had met you on her holidays.

Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well

not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside

inns. …”

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank

could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh

— an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

“We could have modified her memory? But Memory

Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I

proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to

her memory not to use the information I extracted

from her, Wormtail.”

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware

that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery

with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a

woman. He was talking about it without any kind of

remorse — with amusement. He was dangerous — a

madman. And he was planning more murders — this

boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was — was in danger —

Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the

time to go to the police. He would creep out of the

house and head straight for the telephone box in the

village … but the cold voice was speaking again, and

Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot,

listening with all his might.

“One more murder … my faithful servant at Hogwarts

… Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is

decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet …

I think I hear Nagini. …”

And the second man’s voice changed. He started

making noises such as Frank had never heard before;

he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath.

Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or

seizure.

And then Frank heard movement behind him in the

dark passageway. He turned to look, and found

himself paralyzed with fright.

Something was slithering toward him along the dark

corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of

firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a

gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long. Horrified,

transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a

wide, curving track through the thick dust on the

floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do?

The only means of escape was into the room where

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him —

But before he had made his decision, the snake was

level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it

was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing

noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in

seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had

vanished through the gap.

There was sweat on Frank’s forehead now, and the

hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the

room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and

Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible

idea. … This man could talk to snakes.

Frank didn’t understand what was going on. He

wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with

his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs

didn’t seem to want to move. As he stood there

shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice

switched abruptly to English again.

“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” it said.

“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Wormtail.

“Indeed, yes,” said the voice. “According to Nagini,

there is an old Muggle standing right outside this

room, listening to every word we say.”

Frank didn’t have a chance to hide himself. There

were footsteps, and then the door of the room was

flung wide open.

A short, balding man with graying hair, a pointed

nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a

mixture of fear and alarm in his face.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your

manners?”

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair

before the fire, but Frank couldn’t see the speaker.

The snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the

rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet

dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still

deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip upon his

walking stick and limped over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it

cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank

stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it

seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank

couldn’t even see the back of his head.

“You heard everything, Muggle?” said the cold voice.

“What’s that you’re calling me?” said Frank defiantly,

for now that he was inside the room, now that the

time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver;

it had always been so in the war.

“I am calling you a Muggle,” said the voice coolly. “It

means that you are not a wizard.”

“I don’t know what you mean by wizard,” said Frank,

his voice growing steadier. “All I know is I’ve heard

enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You’ve

done murder and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell

you this too,” he added, on a sudden inspiration, “my

wife knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back —”

“You have no wife,” said the cold voice, very quietly.

“Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort,

Muggle, for he knows … he always knows. …”

“Is that right?” said Frank roughly. “Lord, is it? Well, I

don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn

’round and face me like a man, why don’t you?”

“But I am not a man, Muggle,” said the cold voice,

barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. “I

am much, much more than a man. However … why

not? I will face you. … Wormtail, come turn my chair

around.”

The servant gave a whimper.

“You heard me, Wormtail.”

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would

rather have done anything than approach his master

and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small

man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The

snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed

slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw

what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the

floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out

a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never

heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it

raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a

rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was

dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter

woke with a start.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

THE SCAR

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though

he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid

dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old

scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of

lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though

someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his

skin.

He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other

reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which

were on the bedside table. He put them on and his

bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty

orange light that was filtering through the curtains

from the street lamp outside the window.

Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still

painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled

out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe,

and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A

skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright

green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming

about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real. …

There had been two people he knew and one he

didn’t. … He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to

remember. …

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. …

There had been a snake on a hearth rug … a small

man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail … and a cold,

high voice … the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt

as though an ice cube had slipped down into his

stomach at the very thought. …

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what

Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible. …

All Harry knew was that at the moment when

Voldemort’s chair had swung around, and he, Harry,

had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of

horror, which had awoken him … or had that been

the pain in his scar?

And who had the old man been? For there had

definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him

fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused.

Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his

bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly

lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his

cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as

fast as he tried to hold on to them. … Voldemort and

Wormtail had been talking about someone they had

killed, though Harry could not remember the name …

and they had been plotting to kill someone else …

him!

Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes,

and stared around his bedroom as though expecting

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

to see something unusual there. As it happened,

there were an extraordinary number of unusual

things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open

at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron,

broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks.

Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that

was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which

his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor

beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been

reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures

in this book were all moving. Men in bright orange

robes were zooming in and out of sight on

broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another.

Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and

watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal

by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop.

Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch — in

Harry’s opinion, the best sport in the world —

couldn’t distract him at the moment. He placed Flying

with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the

window, and drew back the curtains to survey the

street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban

street would be expected to look in the early hours of

Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far

as Harry could see through the darkness, there

wasn’t a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

And yet … and yet … Harry went restlessly back to

the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his

scar again. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him;

Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost

all the bones from his right arm once and had them

painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been

pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long

afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet

from an airborne broomstick. He was used to bizarre

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

No, the thing that was bothering Harry was that the

last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because

Voldemort had been close by. … But Voldemort

couldn’t be here, now. … The idea of Voldemort

lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible. …

Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was

he half-expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the

swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he

heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting

snore from the next room.

Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid.

There was no one in the house with him except Uncle

Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were

plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and

painless.

Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it

wasn’t as though they were ever any help to him

awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were

Harry’s only living relatives. They were Muggles who

hated and despised magic in any form, which meant

that Harry was about as welcome in their house as

dry rot. They had explained away Harry’s long

absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by

telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus’s Secure

Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew

perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry

wasn’t allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but

they were still apt to blame him for anything that

went wrong about the house. Harry had never been

able to confide in them or tell them anything about

his life in the wizarding world. The very idea of going

to them when they awoke, and telling them about his

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

scar hurting him, and about his worries about

Voldemort, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had

come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it

hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had

the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for

Voldemort, Harry would still have had parents. …

Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort —

the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard

who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years

— arrived at his house and killed his father and

mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on

Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed

of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady

rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked.

Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had

rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with

nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead,

and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely

alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished,

Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret

community of witches and wizards had lived for so

long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded,

and Harry Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for Harry to discover,

on his eleventh birthday, that he was a wizard; it had

been even more disconcerting to find out that

everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew his

name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that

heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he

went. But he was used to it now: At the end of this

summer, he would be starting his fourth year at

Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days

until he would be back at the castle again.

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But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to school. He looked hopelessly around his room

again, and his eye paused on the birthday cards his

two best friends had sent him at the end of July.

What would they say if Harry wrote to them and told

them about his scar hurting?

At once, Hermione Granger’s voice seemed to fill his

head, shrill and panicky.

“Your scar hurt? Harry, that’s really serious. … Write

to Professor Dumbledore! And I’ll go and check

Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. … Maybe

there’s something in there about curse scars. …”

Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: Go straight to

the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime,

consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the

inky blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a

book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was

the only living person to have survived a curse like

Voldemort’s; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he

would find his symptoms listed in Common Magical

Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing the

headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore

went during the summer holidays. He amused himself

for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long

silver beard, full-length wizard’s robes, and pointed

hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing

suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever

Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that

Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had

never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even

without an address. But what would he write?

Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but

my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry

Potter.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.

And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron

Weasley’s, reaction, and in a moment, Ron’s red hair

and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before

Harry, wearing a bemused expression.

“Your scar hurt? But … but You-Know-Who can’t be

near you now, can he? I mean … you’d know, wouldn’t

you? He’d be trying to do you in again, wouldn’t he? I dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit.

… I’ll ask Dad. …”

Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked

in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the

Ministry of Magic, but he didn’t have any particular

expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Harry

knew. In any case, Harry didn’t like the idea of the

whole Weasley family knowing that he, Harry, was

getting jumpy about a few moments’ pain. Mrs.

Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred

and George, Ron’s sixteen-year-old twin brothers,

might think Harry was losing his nerve. The Weasleys

were Harry’s favorite family in the world; he was

hoping that they might invite him to stay any time

now (Ron had mentioned something about the

Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn’t want

his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his

scar.

Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What

he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit

it to himself) was someone like — someone like a

parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask

without feeling stupid, someone who cared about

him, who had had experience with Dark Magic. …

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn’t believe it had taken

so long — Sirius.

Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room,

and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of

parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill

with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering

how best to phrase his problem, still marveling at the

fact that he hadn’t thought of Sirius straight away.

But then, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising — after all,

he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather

two months ago.

There was a simple reason for Sirius’s complete

absence from Harry’s life until then — Sirius had

been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by

creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking

fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts

when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent

— the murders for which he had been convicted had

been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort’s supporter,

whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they

had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the

previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had

believed their story.

For one glorious hour, Harry had believed that he was

leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had

offered him a home once his name had been cleared.

But the chance had been snatched away from him —

Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to

the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for

his life. Harry had helped him escape on the back of a

hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius

had been on the run. The home Harry might have had

if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him

all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever.

Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry,

even if he couldn’t be with him. It was due to Sirius

that Harry now had all his school things in his

bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed

this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as

miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his

powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the

cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this.

But their attitude had changed since they had found

out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a

godfather — for Harry had conveniently forgotten to

tell them that Sirius was innocent.

Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he

had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been

delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards),

but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig

had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had

been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her

water tray before flying off again. Harry, on the other

hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm

trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever

Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were

intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow,

Harry found it hard to imagine dementors surviving

for long in bright sunlight; perhaps that was why

Sirius had gone south. Sirius’s letters, which were

now hidden beneath the highly useful loose

floorboard under Harry’s bed, sounded cheerful, and

in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him

if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to now, all

right. …

Harry’s lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray

light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room.

Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement

could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s

room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of

parchment and reread his finished letter.

Dear Sirius,

Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it

could hardly get through my window.

Things are the same as usual here. Dudley’s diet isn’t

going too well. My aunt found him smuggling

doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him

they’d have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing

it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation

out of the window. That’s a sort of computer thing you

can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn’t

even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind

off things.

I’m okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified

you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask

you to.

A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar

hurt again. Last time that happened it was because

Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don’t reckon he can

be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if

curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?

I’ll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she’s

off hunt¬ing at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for

me.

Harry

Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was

no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to

look as though he was too worried. He folded up the

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for

when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet,

stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more.

Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get

dressed before going down to breakfast.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

THE INVITATION

By the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three

Dursleys were already seated around the table. None

of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle

Vernon’s large red face was hidden behind the

morning’s Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a

grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her

horselike teeth.

Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow

seemed to be taking up even more space than usual.

This was saying something, as he always took up an

entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt

Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto

Dudley’s plate with a tremulous “There you are, Diddy

darling,” Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a

most unpleasant turn since he had come home for

the summer with his end-of-year report.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find

excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia

always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy

whose teachers didn’t understand him, while Uncle

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Vernon maintained that “he didn’t want some swotty

little nancy boy for a son anyway.” They also skated

over the accusations of bullying in the report — “He’s

a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

Aunt Petunia had said tearfully.

However, at the bottom of the report there were a few

well-chosen comments from the school nurse that not

even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain

away. No matter how much Aunt Petunia wailed that

Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was

really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who

needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the

school outfitters didn’t stock knickerbockers big

enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen

what Aunt Petunia’s eyes — so sharp when it came to

spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in

observing the comings and goings of the neighbors —

simply refused to see: that far from needing extra

nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size

and weight of a young killer whale.

So — after many tantrums, after arguments that

shook Harry’s bedroom floor, and many tears from

Aunt Petunia — the new regime had begun. The diet

sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school

nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been

emptied of all Dudley’s favorite things — fizzy drinks

and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers — and filled

instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of

things that Uncle Vernon called “rabbit food.” To

make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had

insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She

now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed

that it was a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia

seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s

morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get

more to eat than Harry.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under

the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that

Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment

he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to

survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent

Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they

had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had

returned from Hermione’s house with a large box

stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione’s parents

were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had

obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock

cakes. (Harry hadn’t touched these; he had had too

much experience of Hagrid’s cooking.) Mrs. Weasley,

however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an

enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor

Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full

five days to recover from the journey. And then on

Harry’s birthday (which the Dursleys had completely

ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes,

one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius.

Harry still had two of them left, and so, looking

forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs,

he ate his grapefruit without complaint.

Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of

disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit

quarter.

“Is this it?” he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then

nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished

his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry’s

with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes.

Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his

large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out

of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a

flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle,

Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon’s grapefruit.

Harry heard talking at the door, and someone

laughing, and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then

the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper

came from the hall.

Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and

looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon

had got to. She didn’t have to wait long to find out;

after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid.

“You,” he barked at Harry. “In the living room. Now.”

Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was

supposed to have done this time, Harry got up and

followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the

next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply

behind both of them.

“So,” he said, marching over to the fireplace and

turning to face Harry as though he were about to

pronounce him under arrest. “So. ”

Harry would have dearly loved to have said, “So

what?” but he didn’t feel that Uncle Vernon’s temper

should be tested this early in the morning, especially

when it was already under severe strain from lack of

food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled.

“This just arrived,” said Uncle Vernon. He brandished

a piece of purple writing paper at Harry. “A letter.

About you.”

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Harry’s confusion increased. Who would be writing to Uncle Vernon about him? Who did he know who sent

letters by the postman?

Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, then looked down at

the letter and began to read aloud:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,

We have never been introduced, but I am sure you

have heard a great deal from Harry about my son Ron.

As Harry might have told you, the final of the

Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night,

and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get

prime tickets through his connections at the

Department of Magical Games and Sports.

I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match,

as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain

hasn’t hosted the cup for thirty years, and tickets are

extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad

to have Harry stay for the remainder of the summer

holidays, and to see him safely onto the train back to

school.

It would be best for Harry to send us your answer as

quickly as possible in the normal way, because the

Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and

I am not sure he even knows where it is.

Hoping to see Harry soon,

Yours sincerely,

Molly Weasley

P.S. I do hope we’ve put enough stamps on.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his hand back

into his breast pocket, and drew out something else.

“Look at this,” he growled.

He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley’s

letter had come, and Harry had to fight down a laugh.

Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a

square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley

had squeezed the Dursleys’ address in minute

writing.

“She did put enough stamps on, then,” said Harry,

trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley’s was a

mistake anyone could make. His uncle’s eyes flashed.

“The postman noticed,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Very interested to know where this letter came from,

he was. That’s why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to

think it was funny. ”

Harry didn’t say anything. Other people might not

understand why Uncle Vernon was making a fuss

about too many stamps, but Harry had lived with the

Dursleys too long not to know how touchy they were

about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Their

worst fear was that someone would find out that they

were connected (however distantly) with people like

Mrs. Weasley.

Uncle Vernon was still glaring at Harry, who tried to

keep his expression neutral. If he didn’t do or say

anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a

lifetime. He waited for Uncle Vernon to say

something, but he merely continued to glare. Harry

decided to break the silence.

“So — can I go then?” he asked.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon’s large purple

face. The mustache bristled. Harry thought he knew

what was going on behind the mustache: a furious

battle as two of Uncle Vernon’s most fundamental

instincts came into conflict. Allowing Harry to go

would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon

had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other

hand, allowing Harry to disappear to the Weasleys’ for

the rest of the summer would get rid of him two

weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and

Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in the house. To

give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down

at Mrs. Weasley’s letter again.

“Who is this woman?” he said, staring at the

signature with distaste.

“You’ve seen her,” said Harry. “She’s my friend Ron’s

mother, she was meeting him off the Hog — off the

school train at the end of last term.”

He had almost said “Hogwarts Express,” and that was

a sure way to get his uncle’s temper up. Nobody ever

mentioned the name of Harry’s school aloud in the

Dursley household.

Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as

though trying to remember something very

unpleasant.

“Dumpy sort of woman?” he growled finally. “Load of

children with red hair?”

Harry frowned. He thought it was a bit rich of Uncle

Vernon to call anyone “dumpy,” when his own son,

Dudley, had finally achieved what he’d been

threatening to do since the age of three, and become

wider than he was tall.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again.

“Quidditch,” he muttered under his breath.

“Quidditch — what is this rubbish?”

Harry felt a second stab of annoyance.

“It’s a sport,” he said shortly. “Played on broom —”

“All right, all right!” said Uncle Vernon loudly. Harry

saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked

vaguely panicky. Apparently his nerves couldn’t stand

the sound of the word “broomsticks” in his living

room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again.

Harry saw his lips form the words “send us your

answer … in the normal way.” He scowled.

“What does she mean, ‘the normal way’?” he spat.

“Normal for us,” said Harry, and before his uncle

could stop him, he added, “you know, owl post. That’s

what’s normal for wizards.”

Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had just

uttered a disgusting swear word. Shaking with anger,

he shot a nervous look through the window, as

though expecting to see some of the neighbors with

their ears pressed against the glass.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to mention

that unnaturalness under my roof?” he hissed, his

face now a rich plum color. “You stand there, in the

clothes Petunia and I have put on your ungrateful

back —”

“Only after Dudley finished with them,” said Harry

coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so

large for him that he had had to roll back the sleeves

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

five times so as to be able to use his hands, and

which fell past the knees of his extremely baggy jeans.

“I will not be spoken to like that!” said Uncle Vernon,

trembling with rage.

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were

the days when he had been forced to take every single

one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following

Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon

stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not

if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying

breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World

Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to

Sirius I want to finish. You know — my godfather.”

He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he

watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle

Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black

currant ice cream.

“You’re — you’re writing to him, are you?” said Uncle

Vernon, in a would-be calm voice — but Harry had

seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden

fear.

“Well — yeah,” said Harry, casually. “It’s been a while

since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn’t,

he might start thinking something’s wrong.”

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words.

He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle

Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to

stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry

was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go

to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and

tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being

mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle

Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached

face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to

keep his own face as blank as possible. And then —

“Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy … this

stupid … this World Cup thing. You write and tell

these — these Weasleys they’re to pick you up, mind.

I haven’t got time to go dropping you off all over the

country. And you can spend the rest of the summer

there. And you can tell your — your godfather … tell

him … tell him you’re going.”

“Okay then,” said Harry brightly.

He turned and walked toward the living room door,

fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. He

was going … he was going to the Weasleys’, he was

going to watch the Quidditch World Cup!

Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who

had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to

overhear Harry being told off. He looked shocked to

see the broad grin on Harry’s face.

“That was an excellent breakfast, wasn’t it?” said

Harry. “I feel really full, don’t you?”

Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley’s face,

Harry took the stairs three at a time, and hurled

himself back into his bedroom.

The first thing he saw was that Hedwig was back. She

was sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her

enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in the

way that meant she was annoyed about something.

Exactly what was annoying her became apparent

almost at once.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“OUCH!” said Harry as what appeared to be a small,

gray, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of his

head. Harry massaged the spot furiously, looking up

to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small

enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing

excitedly around the room like a loose firework. Harry

then realized that the owl had dropped a letter at his

feet. Harry bent down, recognized Ron’s handwriting,

then tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily

scribbled note.

Harry — DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus

Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum’s writing to the Muggles

to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter,

I don’t know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I’d send

this with Pig anyway.

Harry stared at the word “Pig,” then looked up at the

tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the

ceiling. He had never seen anything that looked less

like a pig. Maybe he couldn’t read Ron’s writing. He

went back to the letter:

We’re coming for you whether the Muggles like it or

not, you can’t miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad

reckon it’s better if we pretend to ask their permission

first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer

pronto, and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on

Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we’ll

come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday anyway.

Hermione’s arriving this afternoon. Percy’s started

work — the Department of International Magical

Cooperation. Don’t mention anything about Abroad

while you’re here unless you want the pants bored off

you.

See you soon —

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Ron

“Calm down!” Harry said as the small owl flew low

over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could

only assume was pride at having delivered the letter

to the right person. “Come here, I need you to take my

answer back!”

The owl fluttered down on top of Hedwig’s cage.

Hedwig looked coldly up at it, as though daring it to

try and come any closer.

Harry seized his eagle-feather quill once more,

grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote:

Ron, it’s all okay, the Muggles say I can come. See you

five o’clock tomorrow. Can’t wait.

Harry

He folded this note up very small, and with immense

difficulty, tied it to the tiny owl’s leg as it hopped on

the spot with excitement. The moment the note was

secure, the owl was off again; it zoomed out of the

window and out of sight.

Harry turned to Hedwig.

“Feeling up to a long journey?” he asked her.

Hedwig hooted in a dignified sort of a way.

“Can you take this to Sirius for me?” he said, picking

up his letter. “Hang on … I just want to finish it.”

He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a

postscript.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

If you want to contact me, I’ll be at my friend Ron Weasley’s for the rest of the summer. His dad’s got us

tickets for the Quidditch World Cup!

The letter finished, he tied it to Hedwig’s leg; she kept

unusually still, as though determined to show him

how a real post owl should behave.

“I’ll be at Ron’s when you get back, all right?” Harry

told her.

She nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft

swooshing noise, spread her enormous wings and

soared out of the open window.

Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under

his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled

out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there on

the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was

flooding through him. He had cake, and Dudley had

nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day,

he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar

felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch

the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to

feel worried about anything — even Lord Voldemort.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

BACK TO THE BURROW

By twelve o’clock the next day, Harry’s school trunk

was packed with his school things and all his most

prized possessions — the Invisibility Cloak he had

inherited from his father, the broomstick he had

gotten from Sirius, the enchanted map of Hogwarts he

had been given by Fred and George Weasley last year.

He had emptied his hiding place under the loose

floorboard of all food, double-checked every nook and

cranny of his bedroom for forgotten spellbooks or

quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting

down the days to September the first, on which he

liked to cross off the days remaining until his return

to Hogwarts.

The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive was

extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house

of an assortment of wizards was making the Dursleys

uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked

downright alarmed when Harry informed him that the

Weasleys would be arriving at five o’clock the very

next day.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“I hope you told them to dress properly, these people,”

he snarled at once. “I’ve seen the sort of stuff your lot

wear. They’d better have the decency to put on

normal clothes, that’s all.”

Harry felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had rarely

seen Mr. or Mrs. Weasley wearing anything that the

Dursleys would call “normal.” Their children might

don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and

Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying

states of shabbiness. Harry wasn’t bothered about

what the neighbors would think, but he was anxious

about how rude the Dursleys might be to the

Weasleys if they turned up looking like their worst

idea of wizards.

Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some

people, this might have looked like a gesture of

welcome, but Harry knew it was because Uncle

Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating.

Dudley, on the other hand, looked somehow

diminished. This was not because the diet was at last

taking effect, but due to fright. Dudley had emerged

from his last encounter with a fully-grown wizard with

a curly pig’s tail poking out of the seat of his trousers,

and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay

for its removal at a private hospital in London. It

wasn’t altogether surprising, therefore, that Dudley

kept running his hand nervously over his backside,

and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to

present the same target to the enemy.

Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn’t even

protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery).

Aunt Petunia wasn’t eating anything at all. Her arms

were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to

be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the

furious diatribe she longed to throw at Harry.

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“They’ll be driving, of course?” Uncle Vernon barked across the table.

“Er,” said Harry.

He hadn’t thought of that. How were the Weasleys

going to pick him up? They didn’t have a car

anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned

was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at

Hogwarts. But Mr. Weasley had borrowed a Ministry

of Magic car last year; possibly he would do the same

today?

“I think so,” said Harry.

Uncle Vernon snorted into his mustache. Normally,

Uncle Vernon would have asked what car Mr. Weasley

drove; he tended to judge other men by how big and

expensive their cars were. But Harry doubted whether

Uncle Vernon would have taken to Mr. Weasley even

if he drove a Ferrari.

Harry spent most of the afternoon in his bedroom; he

couldn’t stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out

through the net curtains every few seconds, as

though there had been a warning about an escaped

rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, Harry went

back downstairs and into the living room.

Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening

cushions. Uncle Vernon was pretending to read the

paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Harry

was sure he was really listening with all his might for

the sound of an approaching car. Dudley was

crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath

him, clamped firmly around his bottom. Harry

couldn’t take the tension; he left the room and went

and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his

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watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement

and nerves.

But five o’clock came and then went. Uncle Vernon,

perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the front door,

peered up and down the street, then withdrew his

head quickly.

“They’re late!” he snarled at Harry.

“I know,” said Harry. “Maybe — er — the traffic’s bad,

or something.”

Ten past five … then a quarter past five … Harry was

starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past, he

heard Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia conversing in

terse mutters in the living room.

“No consideration at all.”

“We might’ve had an engagement.”

“Maybe they think they’ll get invited to dinner if

they’re late.”

“Well, they most certainly won’t be,” said Uncle

Vernon, and Harry heard him stand up and start

pacing the living room. “They’ll take the boy and go,

there’ll be no hanging around. That’s if they’re coming

at all. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay their kind

don’t set much store by punctuality. Either that or

they drive some tin-pot car that’s broken d —

AAAAAAAARRRRRGH!”

Harry jumped up. From the other side of the living

room door came the sounds of the three Dursleys

scrambling, panic-stricken, across the room. Next

moment Dudley came flying into the hall, looking

terrified.

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“What happened?” said Harry. “What’s the matter?”

But Dudley didn’t seem able to speak. Hands still

clamped over his buttocks, he waddled as fast as he

could into the kitchen. Harry hurried into the living

room.

Loud hangings and scrapings were coming from

behind the Dursleys’ boarded-up fireplace, which had

a fake coal fire plugged in front of it.

“What is it?” gasped Aunt Petunia, who had backed

into the wall and was staring, terrified, toward the

fire. “What is it, Vernon?”

But they were left in doubt barely a second longer.

Voices could be heard from inside the blocked

fireplace.

“Ouch! Fred, no — go back, go back, there’s been

some kind of mistake — tell George not to — OUCH!

George, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell

Ron —”

“Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad — maybe he’ll be able

to let us out —”

There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards

behind the electric fire.

“Harry? Harry, can you hear us?”

The Dursleys rounded on Harry like a pair of angry

wolverines.

“What is this?” growled Uncle Vernon. “What’s going

on?”

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“They — they’ve tried to get here by Floo powder,”

said Harry, fighting a mad desire to laugh. “They can

travel by fire — only you’ve blocked the fireplace —

hang on —”

He approached the fireplace and called through the

boards.

“Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?”

The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the

chimney piece said, “Shh!”

“Mr. Weasley, it’s Harry … the fireplace has been

blocked up. You won’t be able to get through there.”

“Damn!” said Mr. Weasley’s voice. “What on earth did

they want to block up the fireplace for?”

“They’ve got an electric fire,” Harry explained.

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley’s voice excitedly. “Eclectic,

you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see that. …

Let’s think … ouch, Ron!”

Ron’s voice now joined the others’.

“What are we doing here? Has something gone

wrong?”

“Oh no, Ron,” came Fred’s voice, very sarcastically.

“No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.”

“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” said

George, whose voice sounded muffled, as though he

was squashed against the wall.

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“Boys, boys …” said Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying to think what to do. … Yes … only way … Stand back,

Harry.”

Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however,

moved forward.

“Wait a moment!” he bellowed at the fire. “What

exactly are you going to —”

BANG.

The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-

up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley,

Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose

chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward

over the coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before

she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the

Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including

Fred and George, who were identical to the last

freckle.

“That’s better,” panted Mr. Weasley, brushing dust

from his long green robes and straightening his

glasses. “Ah — you must be Harry’s aunt and uncle!”

Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Uncle

Vernon, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Vernon

backed away several paces, dragging Aunt Petunia.

Words utterly failed Uncle Vernon. His best suit was

covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair

and mustache and made him look as though he had

just aged thirty years.

“Er — yes — sorry about that,” said Mr. Weasley,

lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at

the blasted fireplace. “It’s all my fault. It just didn’t

occur to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the

other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo

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Network, you see — just for an afternoon, you know, so we could get Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren’t

supposed to be connected, strictly speaking — but

I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel

and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy,

though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the boys

back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I

Disapparate.”

Harry was ready to bet that the Dursleys hadn’t

understood a single word of this. They were still

gaping at Mr. Weasley, thunderstruck. Aunt Petunia

staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle

Vernon.

“Hello, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley brightly. “Got your

trunk ready?”

“It’s upstairs,” said Harry, grinning back.

“We’ll get it,” said Fred at once. Winking at Harry, he

and George left the room. They knew where Harry’s

bedroom was, having once rescued him from it in the

dead of night. Harry suspected that Fred and George

were hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they had heard a

lot about him from Harry.

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly,

while he tried to find words to break the very nasty

silence. “Very — erm — very nice place you’ve got

here.”

As the usually spotless living room was now covered

in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn’t go down

too well with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon’s face

purpled once more, and Aunt Petunia started chewing

her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to

actually say anything.

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Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything to do with Muggles. Harry could see him itching to go

and examine the television and the video recorder.

“They run off eckeltricity, do they?” he said

knowledgeably. “Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect

plugs,” he added to Uncle Vernon. “And batteries. Got

a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I’m

mad, but there you are.”

Uncle Vernon clearly thought Mr. Weasley was mad

too. He moved ever so slightly to the right, screening

Aunt Petunia from view, as though he thought Mr.

Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack.

Dudley suddenly reappeared in the room. Harry could

hear the clunk of his trunk on the stairs, and knew

that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchen.

Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley

with terrified eyes, and attempted to conceal himself

behind his mother and father. Unfortunately, Uncle

Vernon’s bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt

Petunia, was nowhere near enough to conceal Dudley.

“Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?” said Mr.

Weasley, taking another brave stab at making

conversation.

“Yep,” said Harry, “that’s Dudley.”

He and Ron exchanged glances and then quickly

looked away from each other; the temptation to burst

out laughing was almost overwhelming. Dudley was

still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might

fall off. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely

concerned at Dudley’s peculiar behavior. Indeed, from

the tone of his voice when he next spoke, Harry was

quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite

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as mad as the Dursleys thought he was, except that Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than fear.

“Having a good holiday, Dudley?” he said kindly.

Dudley whimpered. Harry saw his hands tighten still

harder over his massive backside.

Fred and George came back into the room carrying

Harry’s school trunk. They glanced around as they

entered and spotted Dudley. Their faces cracked into

identical evil grins.

“Ah, right,” said Mr. Weasley. “Better get cracking

then.”

He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and took out

his wand. Harry saw the Dursleys draw back against

the wall as one.

“Incendio!” said Mr. Weasley, pointing his wand at the

hole in the wall behind him.

Flames rose at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily

as though they had been burning for hours. Mr.

Weasley took a small drawstring bag from his pocket,

untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and

threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green

and roared higher than ever.

“Off you go then, Fred,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Coming,” said Fred. “Oh no — hang on —”

A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred’s pocket and

the contents were now rolling in every direction —

big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his

pocket, then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave,

stepped forward, and walked right into the fire, saying

“the Burrow!” Aunt Petunia gave a little shuddering

gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred

vanished.

“Right then, George,” said Mr. Weasley, “you and the

trunk.”

Harry helped George carry the trunk forward into the

flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold

it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had

cried “the Burrow!” and vanished too.

“Ron, you next,” said Mr. Weasley.

“See you,” said Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He

grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire,

shouted “the Burrow!” and disappeared.

Now Harry and Mr. Weasley alone remained.

“Well … ’bye then,” Harry said to the Dursleys.

They didn’t say anything at all. Harry moved toward

the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth,

Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He

was looking at the Dursleys in amazement.

“Harry said good-bye to you,” he said. “Didn’t you

hear him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley.

“Honestly, I don’t care.”

Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry’s

shoulder.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“You aren’t going to see your nephew till next

summer,” he said to Uncle Vernon in mild

indignation. “Surely you’re going to say good-bye?”

Uncle Vernon’s face worked furiously. The idea of

being taught consideration by a man who had just

blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be

causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley’s

wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon’s tiny

eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully,

“Good-bye, then.”

“See you,” said Harry, putting one foot forward into

the green flames, which felt pleasantly like warm

breath. At that moment, however, a horrible gagging

sound erupted behind him, and Aunt Petunia started

to scream.

Harry wheeled around. Dudley was no longer

standing behind his parents. He was kneeling beside

the coffee table, and he was gagging and sputtering

on a foot-long, purple, slimy thing that was

protruding from his mouth. One bewildered second

later, Harry realized that the foot-long thing was

Dudley’s tongue — and that a brightly colored toffee

wrapper lay on the floor before him.

Aunt Petunia hurled herself onto the ground beside

Dudley, seized the end of his swollen tongue, and

attempted to wrench it out of his mouth;

unsurprisingly, Dudley yelled and sputtered worse

than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle Vernon was

bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr.

Weasley had to shout to make himself heard.

“Not to worry, I can sort him out!” he yelled,

advancing on Dudley with his wand outstretched, but

Aunt Petunia screamed worse than ever and threw

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

herself on top of Dudley, shielding him from Mr.

Weasley.

“No, really!” said Mr. Weasley desperately. “It’s a

simple process — it was the toffee — my son Fred —

real practical joker — but it’s only an Engorgement

Charm — at least, I think it is — please, I can correct

it —”

But far from being reassured, the Dursleys became

more panic-stricken; Aunt Petunia was sobbing

hysterically, tugging Dudley’s tongue as though

determined to rip it out; Dudley appeared to be

suffocating under the combined pressure of his

mother and his tongue; and Uncle Vernon, who had

lost control completely, seized a china figure from on

top of the sideboard and threw it very hard at Mr.

Weasley, who ducked, causing the ornament to

shatter in the blasted fireplace.

“Now really!” said Mr. Weasley angrily, brandishing

his wand. “I’m trying to help!”

Bellowing like a wounded hippo, Uncle Vernon

snatched up another ornament.

“Harry, go! Just go!” Mr. Weasley shouted, his wand

on Uncle Vernon. “I’ll sort this out!”

Harry didn’t want to miss the fun, but Uncle Vernon’s

second ornament narrowly missed his left ear, and on

balance he thought it best to leave the situation to

Mr. Weasley. He stepped into the fire, looking over his

shoulder as he said “the Burrow!” His last fleeting

glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Weasley blasting

a third ornament out of Uncle Vernon’s hand with his

wand, Aunt Petunia screaming and lying on top of

Dudley, and Dudley’s tongue lolling around like a

great slimy python. But next moment Harry had

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

begun to spin very fast, and the Dursleys’ living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green

flames.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

WEASLEYS’ WIZARD WHEEZES

Harry spun faster and faster, elbows tucked tightly to

his sides, blurred fireplaces flashing past him, until

he started to feel sick and closed his eyes. Then,

when at last he felt himself slowing down, he threw

out his hands and came to a halt in time to prevent

himself from falling face forward out of the Weasleys’

kitchen fire.

“Did he eat it?” said Fred excitedly, holding out a

hand to pull Harry to his feet.

“Yeah,” said Harry, straightening up. “What was it?”

“Ton-Tongue Toffee,” said Fred brightly. “George and I

invented them, and we’ve been looking for someone to

test them on all summer. …”

The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter; Harry looked

around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at

the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people

Harry had never seen before, though he knew

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immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers.

“How’re you doing, Harry?” said the nearer of the two,

grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which

Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his

fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with

dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like the twins,

shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were

both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured

face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he

looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and

one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Harry’s

hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry

knew that he worked for the wizarding bank,

Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at

Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an

older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and

fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was —

there was no other word for it — cool. He was tall,

with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He

was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang

dangling from it. Bill’s clothes would not have looked

out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry

recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of

dragon hide.

Before any of them could say anything else, there was

a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley appeared out

of thin air at George’s shoulder. He was looking

angrier than Harry had ever seen him.

“That wasn’t funny, Fred!” he shouted. “What on

earth did you give that Muggle boy?”

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“I didn’t give him anything,” said Fred, with another evil grin. “I just dropped it. … It was his fault he went

and ate it, I never told him to.”

“You dropped it on purpose!” roared Mr. Weasley.

“You knew he’d eat it, you knew he was on a diet —”

“How big did his tongue get?” George asked eagerly.

“It was four feet long before his parents would let me

shrink it!”

Harry and the Weasleys roared with laughter again.

“It isn’t funny!” Mr. Weasley shouted. “That sort of

behavior seriously undermines wizard–Muggle

relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the

mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons —”

“We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!” said

Fred indignantly.

“No, we gave it to him because he’s a great bullying

git,” said George. “Isn’t he, Harry?”

“Yeah, he is, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry earnestly.

“That’s not the point!” raged Mr. Weasley. “You wait

until I tell your mother —”

“Tell me what?” said a voice behind them.

Mrs. Weasley had just entered the kitchen. She was a

short, plump woman with a very kind face, though

her eyes were presently narrowed with suspicion.

“Oh hello, Harry, dear,” she said, spotting him and

smiling. Then her eyes snapped back to her husband.

“Tell me what, Arthur?”

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Mr. Weasley hesitated. Harry could tell that, however angry he was with Fred and George, he hadn’t really

intended to tell Mrs. Weasley what had happened.

There was a silence, while Mr. Weasley eyed his wife

nervously. Then two girls appeared in the kitchen

doorway behind Mrs. Weasley. One, with very bushy

brown hair and rather large front teeth, was Harry’s

and Ron’s friend, Hermione Granger. The other, who

was small and red-haired, was Ron’s younger sister,

Ginny. Both of them smiled at Harry, who grinned

back, which made Ginny go scarlet — she had been

very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the

Burrow.

“Tell me what, Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley repeated, in a

dangerous sort of voice.

“It’s nothing, Molly,” mumbled Mr. Weasley, “Fred and

George just — but I’ve had words with them —”

“What have they done this time?” said Mrs. Weasley.

“If it’s got anything to do with Weasleys’ Wizard

Wheezes —”

“Why don’t you show Harry where he’s sleeping,

Ron?” said Hermione from the doorway.

“He knows where he’s sleeping,” said Ron, “in my

room, he slept there last —”

“We can all go,” said Hermione pointedly.

“Oh,” said Ron, cottoning on. “Right.”

“Yeah, we’ll come too,” said George.

“You stay where you are!” snarled Mrs. Weasley.

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Harry and Ron edged out of the kitchen, and they,

Hermione, and Ginny set off along the narrow hallway

and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through

the house to the upper stories.

“What are Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asked

as they climbed.

Ron and Ginny both laughed, although Hermione

didn’t.

“Mum found this stack of order forms when she was

cleaning Fred and George’s room,” said Ron quietly.

“Great long price lists for stuff they’ve invented. Joke

stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads

of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they’d been

inventing all that …”

“We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for

ages, but we never thought they were actually making

things,” said Ginny. “We thought they just liked the

noise.”

“Only, most of the stuff — well, all of it, really — was

a bit dangerous,” said Ron, “and, you know, they were

planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money,

and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren’t

allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the

order forms. … She’s furious at them anyway. They

didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.”

O.W.L.s were Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the

examinations Hogwarts students took at the age of

fifteen.

“And then there was this big row,” Ginny said,

“because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of

Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do

is open a joke shop.”

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Just then a door on the second landing opened, and a face poked out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a

very annoyed expression.

“Hi, Percy,” said Harry.

“Oh hello, Harry,” said Percy. “I was wondering who

was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here,

you know — I’ve got a report to finish for the office —

and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people

keep thundering up and down the stairs.”

“We’re not thundering, ” said Ron irritably. “We’re

walking. Sorry if we’ve disturbed the top-secret

workings of the Ministry of Magic.”

“What are you working on?” said Harry.

“A report for the Department of International Magical

Cooperation,” said Percy smugly. “We’re trying to

standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign

imports are just a shade too thin — leakages have

been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a

year —”

“That’ll change the world, that report will,” said Ron.

“Front page of the Daily Prophet, I expect, cauldron

leaks.”

Percy went slightly pink.

“You might sneer, Ron,” he said heatedly, “but unless

some sort of international law is imposed we might

well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-

bottomed products that seriously endanger —”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” said Ron, and he started off

upstairs again. Percy slammed his bedroom door

shut. As Harry, Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up

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three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mr.

Weasley had told Mrs. Weasley about the toffees.

The room at the top of the house where Ron slept

looked much as it had the last time that Harry had

come to stay: the same posters of Ron’s favorite

Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling

and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the

fish tank on the windowsill, which had previously

held frog spawn, now contained one extremely large

frog. Ron’s old rat, Scabbers, was here no more, but

instead there was the tiny gray owl that had delivered

Ron’s letter to Harry in Privet Drive. It was hopping

up and down in a small cage and twittering madly.

“Shut up, Pig,” said Ron, edging his way between two

of the four beds that had been squeezed into the

room. “Fred and George are in here with us, because

Bill and Charlie are in their room,” he told Harry.

“Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because

he’s got to work. ”

“Er — why are you calling that owl Pig?” Harry asked

Ron.

“Because he’s being stupid,” said Ginny. “Its proper

name is Pigwidgeon.”

“Yeah, and that’s not a stupid name at all,” said Ron

sarcastically. “Ginny named him,” he explained to

Harry. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change

it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything

else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here

because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me

too, come to that.”

Pigwidgeon zoomed happily around his cage, hooting

shrilly. Harry knew Ron too well to take him

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seriously. He had moaned continually about his old

rat, Scabbers, but had been most upset when

Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten

him.

“Where’s Crookshanks?” Harry asked Hermione now.

“Out in the garden, I expect,” she said. “He likes

chasing gnomes. He’s never seen any before.”

“Percy’s enjoying work, then?” said Harry, sitting

down on one of the beds and watching the Chudley

Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the

ceiling.

“Enjoying it?” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d

come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed.

Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss.

According to Mr. Crouch … as I was saying to Mr.

Crouch … Mr. Crouch is of the opinion … Mr. Crouch was telling me … They’ll be announcing their

engagement any day now.”

“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” said

Hermione. “Did you get our food parcels and

everything?”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” said Harry. “They saved my life,

those cakes.”

“And have you heard from — ?” Ron began, but at a

look from Hermione he fell silent. Harry knew Ron

had been about to ask about Sirius. Ron and

Hermione had been so deeply involved in helping

Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that they

were almost as concerned about Harry’s godfather as

he was. However, discussing him in front of Ginny

was a bad idea. Nobody but themselves and Professor

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Dumbledore knew about how Sirius had escaped, or

believed in his innocence.

“I think they’ve stopped arguing,” said Hermione, to

cover the awkward moment, because Ginny was

looking curiously from Ron to Harry. “Shall we go

down and help your mum with dinner?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. The four of them left Ron’s

room and went back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley

alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered.

“We’re eating out in the garden,” she said when they

came in. “There’s just not room for eleven people in

here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill

and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and

forks, please, you two,” she said to Ron and Harry,

pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she

had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which

shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off

the walls and ceiling.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, ” she snapped, now directing

her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the

sideboard and started skating across the floor,

scooping up the potatoes. “Those two!” she burst out

savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a

cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and

George. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them,

I really don’t. No ambition, unless you count making

as much trouble as they possibly can. …”

Mrs. Weasley slammed a large copper saucepan down

on the kitchen table and began to wave her wand

around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the

wand tip as she stirred.

“It’s not as though they haven’t got brains,” she

continued irritably, taking the saucepan over to the

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stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand,

“but they’re wasting them, and unless they pull

themselves together soon, they’ll be in real trouble.

I’ve had more owls from Hogwarts about them than

the rest put together. If they carry on the way they’re

going, they’ll end up in front of the Improper Use of

Magic Office.”

Mrs. Weasley jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer,

which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of

the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across

the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which

had just been tipped back into the sink by the

dustpan.

“I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” said

Mrs. Weasley, putting down her wand and starting to

pull out still more saucepans. “It’s been the same for

years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen

to — OH NOT AGAIN!”

She had picked up her wand from the table, and it

had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant

rubber mouse.

“One of their fake wands again!” she shouted. “How

many times have I told them not to leave them lying

around?”

She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find

that the sauce on the stove was smoking.

“C’mon,” Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a

handful of cutlery from the open drawer, “let’s go and

help Bill and Charlie.”

They left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door

into the yard.

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They had only gone a few paces when Hermione’s

bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came pelting

out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the

air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs.

Harry recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten

inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it

sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one

of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the

door. Harry could hear the gnome giggling madly as

Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to

reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was

coming from the other side of the house. The source

of the commotion was revealed as they entered the

garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their

wands out, and were making two battered old tables

fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other,

each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air.

Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was laughing,

and Hermione was hovering near the hedge,

apparently torn between amusement and anxiety.

Bill’s table caught Charlie’s with a huge bang and

knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from

overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy’s head

poking out of a window on the second floor.

“Will you keep it down?!” he bellowed.

“Sorry, Perce,” said Bill, grinning. “How’re the

cauldron bottoms coming on?”

“Very badly,” said Percy peevishly, and he slammed

the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed

the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then,

with a flick of his wand, Bill reattached the table leg

and conjured tablecloths from nowhere.

By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under

dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking,

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and the nine Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were

settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-

blue sky. To somebody who had been living on meals

of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was

paradise, and at first, Harry listened rather than

talked as he helped himself to chicken and ham pie,

boiled potatoes, and salad.

At the far end of the table, Percy was telling his father

all about his report on cauldron bottoms.

“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by

Tuesday,” Percy was saying pompously. “That’s a bit

sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of

things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good

time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department

just now, what with all the arrangements for the

World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we

need from the Department of Magical Games and

Sports. Ludo Bagman —”

“I like Ludo,” said Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the

one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did

him a bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot

of trouble — a lawnmower with unnatural powers — I

smoothed the whole thing over.”

“Oh Bagman’s likable enough, of course,” said Percy

dismissively, “but how he ever got to be Head of

Department … when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I

can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our

department and not trying to find out what’s

happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has

been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday

to Albania and never came back?”

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” said Mr.

Weasley, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten lost

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plenty of times before now — though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I’d be worried. …”

“Oh Bertha’s hopeless, all right,” said Percy. “I hear

she’s been shunted from department to department

for years, much more trouble than she’s worth … but

all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her.

Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she

worked in our department at one time, you know, and

I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her — but

Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably

misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of

Albania. However” — Percy heaved an impressive sigh

and took a deep swig of elderflower wine — “we’ve got

quite enough on our plates at the Department of

International Magical Cooperation without trying to

find members of other departments too. As you know,

we’ve got another big event to organize right after the

World Cup.”

Percy cleared his throat significantly and looked down

toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and

Hermione were sitting. “You know the one I’m talking

about, Father.” He raised his voice slightly. “The top-

secret one.”

Ron rolled his eyes and muttered to Harry and

Hermione, “He’s been trying to get us to ask what that

event is ever since he started work. Probably an

exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons.”

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley was arguing

with Bill about his earring, which seemed to be a

recent acquisition.

“… with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what

do they say at the bank?”

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“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress

as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” said Bill

patiently.

“And your hair’s getting silly, dear,” said Mrs.

Weasley, fingering her wand lovingly. “I wish you’d let

me give it a trim. …”

“I like it,” said Ginny, who was sitting beside Bill.

“You’re so old-fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it’s nowhere

near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s. …”

Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, and Charlie were

all talking spiritedly about the World Cup.

“It’s got to be Ireland,” said Charlie thickly, through a

mouthful of potato. “They flattened Peru in the

semifinals.”

“Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though,” said Fred.

“Krum’s one decent player, Ireland has got seven,”

said Charlie shortly. “I wish England had got through.

That was embarrassing, that was.”

“What happened?” said Harry eagerly, regretting more

than ever his isolation from the wizarding world when

he was stuck on Privet Drive.

“Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and

ninety to ten,” said Charlie gloomily. “Shocking

performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland

was slaughtered by Luxembourg.”

Harry had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch

team ever since his first year at Hogwarts and owned

one of the best racing brooms in the world, a Firebolt.

Flying came more naturally to Harry than anything

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else in the magical world, and he played in the

position of Seeker on the Gryffindor House team.

Mr. Weasley conjured up candles to light the

darkening garden before they had their homemade

strawberry ice cream, and by the time they had

finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and

the warm air was perfumed with the smells of grass

and honeysuckle. Harry was feeling extremely well fed

and at peace with the world as he watched several

gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing

madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks.

Ron looked carefully up the table to check that the

rest of the family were all busy talking, then he said

very quietly to Harry, “So — have you heard from

Sirius lately?”

Hermione looked around, listening closely.

“Yeah,” said Harry softly, “twice. He sounds okay. I

wrote to him yesterday. He might write back while I’m

here.”

He suddenly remembered the reason he had written

to Sirius, and for a moment was on the verge of telling

Ron and Hermione about his scar hurting again, and

about the dream that had awoken him … but he

really didn’t want to worry them just now, not when

he himself was feeling so happy and peaceful.

“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly,

checking her wristwatch. “You really should be in

bed, the whole lot of you — you’ll be up at the crack

of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your

school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in

Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might

not be time after the World Cup, the match went on

for five days last time.”

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“Wow — hope it does this time!” said Harry

enthusiastically.

“Well, I certainly don’t,” said Percy sanctimoniously. “I

shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would

be if I was away from work for five days.”

“Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again,

eh, Perce?” said Fred.

“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” said

Percy, going very red in the face. “It was nothing

personal!”

“It was,” Fred whispered to Harry as they got up from

the table. “We sent it.”

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THE PORTKEY

Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep

in Ron’s room when he was being shaken awake by

Mrs. Weasley.

“Time to go, Harry, dear,” she whispered, moving

away to wake Ron.

Harry felt around for his glasses, put them on, and

sat up. It was still dark outside. Ron muttered

indistinctly as his mother roused him. At the foot of

Harry’s mattress he saw two large, disheveled shapes

emerging from tangles of blankets.

“ ’S’ time already?” said Fred groggily.

They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, then,

yawning and stretching, the four of them headed

downstairs into the kitchen.

Mrs. Weasley was stirring the contents of a large pot

on the stove, while Mr. Weasley was sitting at the

table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. He

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looked up as the boys entered and spread his arms so that they could see his clothes more clearly. He was

wearing what appeared to be a golfing sweater and a

very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held

up with a thick leather belt.

“What d’you think?” he asked anxiously. “We’re

supposed to go incognito — do I look like a Muggle,

Harry?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling, “very good.”

“Where’re Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy?” said

George, failing to stifle a huge yawn.

“Well, they’re Apparating, aren’t they?” said Mrs.

Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and

starting to ladle porridge into bowls. “So they can

have a bit of a lie-in.”

Harry knew that Apparating meant disappearing from

one place and reappearing almost instantly in

another, but had never known any Hogwarts student

to do it, and understood that it was very difficult.

“So they’re still in bed?” said Fred grumpily, pulling

his bowl of porridge toward him. “Why can’t we

Apparate too?”

“Because you’re not of age and you haven’t passed

your test,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “And where have

those girls got to?”

She bustled out of the kitchen and they heard her

climbing the stairs.

“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asked.

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“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely into the back pocket of his jeans. “The Department of

Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people

the other day for Apparating without a license. It’s not

easy, Apparition, and when it’s not done properly it

can lead to nasty complications. This pair I’m talking

about went and splinched themselves.”

Everyone around the table except Harry winced.

“Er — splinched?” said Harry.

“They left half of themselves behind,” said Mr.

Weasley, now spooning large amounts of treacle onto

his porridge. “So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn’t

move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic

Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit

of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles

who spotted the body parts they’d left behind. …”

Harry had a sudden vision of a pair of legs and an

eyeball lying abandoned on the pavement of Privet

Drive.

“Were they okay?” he asked, startled.

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. “But they

got a heavy fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it

again in a hurry. You don’t mess around with

Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who

don’t bother with it. Prefer brooms — slower, but

safer.”

“But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?”

“Charlie had to take the test twice,” said Fred,

grinning. “He failed the first time, Apparated five

miles south of where he meant to, right on top of

some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?”

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“Yes, well, he passed the second time,” said Mrs.

Weasley, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty

sniggers.

“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” said George. “He’s

been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just

to prove he can.”

There were footsteps down the passageway and

Hermione and Ginny came into the kitchen, both

looking pale and drowsy.

“Why do we have to be up so early?” Ginny said,

rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table.

“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Walk?” said Harry. “What, are we walking to the

World Cup?”

“No, no, that’s miles away,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling.

“We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s

very difficult for a large number of wizards to

congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We

have to be very careful about how we travel at the

best of times, and on a huge occasion like the

Quidditch World Cup —”

“George!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all

jumped.

“What?” said George, in an innocent tone that

deceived nobody.

“What is that in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

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Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George’s pocket

and said, “Accio!”

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of

George’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed,

and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched

hand.

“We told you to destroy them!” said Mrs. Weasley

furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more

Ton-Tongue Toffees. “We told you to get rid of the lot!

Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!”

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently

been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the

house as possible, and it was only by using her

Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to

find them all.

“Accio! Accio! Accio!” she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining

of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred

shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.

“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieked.

“No wonder you didn’t get more O.W.L.s!”

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as

they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still

glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek,

though not nearly as much as the twins, who had

each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and

walked out without a word to her.

“Well, have a lovely time,” said Mrs. Weasley, “and

behave yourselves, ” she called after the twins’

retreating backs, but they did not look back or

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answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along

around midday,” Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley, as

he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across

the dark yard after Fred and George.

It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull,

greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed

that daybreak was drawing closer. Harry, having been

thinking about thousands of wizards speeding toward

the Quidditch World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr.

Weasley.

“So how does everyone get there without all the

Muggles noticing?” he asked.

“It’s been a massive organizational problem,” sighed

Mr. Weasley. “The trouble is, about a hundred

thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of

course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough

to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles

can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred

thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine

and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted

moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as

possible. The whole Ministry’s been working on it for

months. First, of course, we have to stagger the

arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive

two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle

transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up

their buses and trains — remember, wizards are

coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of

course, but we have to set up safe points for them to

appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there’s a

handy wood they’re using as the Apparition point. For

those who don’t want to Apparate, or can’t, we use

Portkeys. They’re objects that are used to transport

wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged

time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to.

There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at

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strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s

where we’re headed.”

Mr. Weasley pointed ahead of them, where a large

black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St.

Catchpole.

“What sort of objects are Portkeys?” said Harry

curiously.

“Well, they can be anything,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don’t go

picking them up and playing with them … stuff they’ll

just think is litter. …”

They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the

village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The

sky lightened very slowly as they made their way

through the village, its inky blackness diluting to

deepest blue. Harry’s hands and feet were freezing.

Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch.

They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they

began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling

occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick

black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was

sharp in his chest and his legs were starting to seize

up when, at last, his feet found level ground.

“Whew,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses

and wiping them on his sweater. “Well, we’ve made

good time — we’ve got ten minutes. …”

Hermione came over the crest of the hill last,

clutching a stitch in her side.

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“Now we just need the Portkey,” said Mr. Weasley,

replacing his glasses and squinting around at the

ground. “It won’t be big. … Come on …”

They spread out, searching. They had only been at it

for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent

the still air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it!”

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry

sky on the other side of the hilltop.

“Amos!” said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to

the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.

Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced

wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding

a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” said Mr. Weasley.

“He works for the Department for the Regulation and

Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know

his son, Cedric?”

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of

around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the

Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts.

“Hi,” said Cedric, looking around at them all.

Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who

merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric

for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first

Quidditch match of the previous year.

“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asked.

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“Not too bad,” said Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?”

“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be

glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still … not

complaining … Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it

for a sackful of Galleons — and the tickets cost about

that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. …” Amos

Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three

Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. “All these

yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley,

pointing out his children. “This is Hermione, friend of

Ron’s — and Harry, another friend —”

“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, his eyes

widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?”

“Er — yeah,” said Harry.

Harry was used to people looking curiously at him

when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved

at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it

always made him feel uncomfortable.

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” said Amos

Diggory. “Told us all about playing against you last

year. … I said to him, I said — Ced, that’ll be

something to tell your grandchildren, that will. … You

beat Harry Potter!”

Harry couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he

remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling

again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he muttered. “I told

you … it was an accident. …”

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“Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?” roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. “Always

modest, our Ced, always the gentleman … but the

best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same,

wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays

on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s

the better flier!”

“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly,

pulling out his watch again. “Do you know whether

we’re waiting for any more, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already

and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” said Mr.

Diggory. “There aren’t any more of us in this area, are

there?”

“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a

minute off. … We’d better get ready. …”

He looked around at Harry and Hermione.

“You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a

finger will do —”

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the

nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by

Amos Diggory.

They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze

swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly

occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a

Muggle were to walk up here now … nine people, two

of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in

the semidarkness, waiting. …

“Three …” muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his

watch, “two … one …”

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It happened immediately: Harry felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked

irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could

feel Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their

shoulders banging into his; they were all speeding

forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his

forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was

pulling him magnetically onward and then —

His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into

him and he fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near

his head with a heavy thud.

Harry looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and

Cedric were still standing, though looking very

windswept; everybody else was on the ground.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice.

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BAGMAN AND CROUCH

Harry disentangled himself from Ron and got to his

feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a

deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a

pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of

whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a

thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed

as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the

watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes;

his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.

“Morning, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, picking up the

boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it

into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry

could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can,

and a punctured football.

“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty,

eh? It’s all right for some. … We’ve been here all

night. … You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a

big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-

fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite. … Weasley …

Weasley …” He consulted his parchment list. “About a

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quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory …

second field … ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned

everyone to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make

out much through the mist. After about twenty

minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam

into view. Beyond it, Harry could just make out the

ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents,

rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a

dark wood on the horizon. They said good-bye to the

Diggorys and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at

the tents. Harry knew at a glance that this was the

only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard

their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” said the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?”

“Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the

door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just

the one night?”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts.

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“Ah — right — certainly —” said Mr. Weasley. He

retreated a short distance from the cottage and

beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he

muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his

pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This

one’s a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number

on it now. … So this is a five?”

“A twenty,” Harry corrected him in an undertone,

uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch

every word.

“Ah yes, so it is. … I don’t know, these little bits of

paper …”

“You foreign?” said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley

returned with the correct notes.

“Foreign?” repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with

money,” said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley

closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold

coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.”

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley nervously.

Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some

change.

“Never been this crowded,” he said suddenly, looking

out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-

bookings. People usually just turn up. …”

“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out

for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him.

“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over.

Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos,

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you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt

and a poncho.”

“Shouldn’t he?” said Mr. Weasley anxiously.

“It’s like some sort of … I dunno … like some sort of

rally,” said Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each

other. Like a big party.”

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out

of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door.

“Obliviate!” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr.

Roberts.

Instantly, Mr. Roberts’s eyes slid out of focus, his

brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell

over his face. Harry recognized the symptoms of one

who had just had his memory modified.

“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr. Roberts said

placidly to Mr. Weasley. “And your change.”

“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward

the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His

chin was blue with stubble and there were deep

purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot

of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, “Been

having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory

Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo

Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about

Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a

worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad

when this is over. See you later, Arthur.”

He Disapparated.

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“I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games

and Sports,” said Ginny, looking surprised. “He

should know better than to talk about Bludgers near

Muggles, shouldn’t he?”

“He should,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading

them through the gates into the campsite, “but Ludo’s

always been a bit … well … lax about security. You

couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the

sports department though. He played Quidditch for

England himself, you know. And he was the best

Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”

They trudged up the misty field between long rows of

tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had

clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible,

but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls,

or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent

so obviously magical that Harry could hardly be

surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious.

Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection

of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several

live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther

on they passed a tent that had three floors and

several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a

tent that had a front garden attached, complete with

birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We

can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah,

here we are, look, this is us.”

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top

of the field, and here was an empty space, with a

small sign hammered into the ground that read

WEEZLY.

“Couldn’t have a better spot!” said Mr. Weasley

happily. “The field is just on the other side of the

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wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he said

excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not

when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land.

We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be

too difficult. … Muggles do it all the time. … Here,

Harry, where do you reckon we should start?”

Harry had never been camping in his life; the

Dursleys had never taken him on any kind of holiday,

preferring to leave him with Mrs. Figg, an old

neighbor. However, he and Hermione worked out

where most of the poles and pegs should go, and

though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a

help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it

came to using the mallet, they finally managed to

erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork.

Nobody looking at these tents would guess they

belonged to wizards, Harry thought, but the trouble

was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they

would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have

spotted this problem too; she gave Harry a quizzical

look as Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees

and entered the first tent.

“We’ll be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll

all squeeze in. Come and have a look.”

Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt

his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an

old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with

bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was

furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs.

Figg’s house: There were crocheted covers on the

mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.

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“Well, it’s not for long,” said Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the

four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I

borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t

camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.”

He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it.

“We’ll need water. …”

“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave

us,” said Ron, who had followed Harry inside the tent

and seemed completely unimpressed by its

extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other

side of the field.”

“Well, why don’t you, Harry, and Hermione go and get

us some water then” — Mr. Weasley handed over the

kettle and a couple of saucepans — “and the rest of

us will get some wood for a fire?”

“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron. “Why can’t we just

—”

“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” said Mr. Weasley, his

face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles

camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at

it!”

After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was slightly

smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of

cats, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off across the

campsite with the kettle and saucepans.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting,

they could see the city of tents that stretched in every

direction. They made their way slowly through the

rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just

dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards

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there must be in the world; he had never really

thought much about those in other countries.

Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First

to stir were the families with small children; Harry

had never seen witches and wizards this young

before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched

outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand

and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was

swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew

level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the

tent.

“How many times, Kevin? You don’t — touch —

Daddy’s — wand — yecchh!”

She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her

scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling

with the little boy’s yells — “You bust slug! You bust

slug!”

A short way farther on, they saw two little witches,

barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy

broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’

toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had

already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron,

and Hermione he muttered distractedly, “In broad

daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose —”

Here and there adult wizards and witches were

emerging from their tents and starting to cook

breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them,

conjured fires with their wands; others were striking

matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though

sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in

serious conversation, all of them wearing long white

robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a

bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged

American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a

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spangled banner stretched between their tents that

read: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE. Harry

caught snatches of conversation in strange languages

from the inside of tents they passed, and though he

couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single

voice was excited.

“Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?”

said Ron.

It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a

patch of tents that were all covered with a thick

growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though

small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the

earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that

had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they

heard their names.

“Harry! Ron! Hermione!”

It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth

year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-

covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to

be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas,

also of Gryffindor.

“Like the decorations?” said Seamus, grinning. “The

Ministry’s not too happy.”

“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” said Mrs.

Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have

got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting

Ireland, of course?” she added, eyeing Harry, Ron,

and Hermione beadily. When they had assured her

that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off

again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything

else surrounded by that lot.”

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“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” said Hermione.

“Let’s go and have a look,” said Harry, pointing to a

large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag

— white, green, and red — was fluttering in the

breeze.

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life,

but each and every one of them had the same poster

attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy

black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving,

but all it did was blink and scowl.

“Krum,” said Ron quietly.

“What?” said Hermione.

“Krum!” said Ron. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian

Seeker!”

“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking

around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at

them.

“ ‘ Really grumpy’?” Ron raised his eyes to the

heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s

unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen

or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight,

you’ll see.”

There was already a small queue for the tap in the

corner of the field. Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined

it, right behind a pair of men who were having a

heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard

who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other

was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a

pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with

exasperation.

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“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s

already getting suspicious —”

“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard

stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.”

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they

wear these, ” said the Ministry wizard, and he

brandished the pinstriped trousers.

“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in

indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my

privates, thanks.”

Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of the

giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the

queue and only returned when Archie had collected

his water and moved away.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of

the water, they made their way back through the

campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar

faces: other Hogwarts students with their families.

Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry’s House

Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged

Harry over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and

told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the

Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were

hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year,

and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very

pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team.

She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a

lot of water down his front as he waved back. More to

stop Ron from smirking than anything, Harry

hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers

whom he had never seen before.

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“Who d’you reckon they are?” he said. “They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?”

“ ’Spect they go to some foreign school,” said Ron. “I

know there are others. Never met anyone who went to

one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil

… this was years and years ago … and he wanted to

go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t

afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said

he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made

his ears shrivel up.”

Harry laughed but didn’t voice the amazement he felt

at hearing about other wizarding schools. He

supposed, now that he saw representatives of so

many nationalities in the campsite, that he had been

stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn’t be the

only one. He glanced at Hermione, who looked utterly

unsurprised by the information. No doubt she had

run across the news about other wizarding schools in

some book or other.

“You’ve been ages,” said George when they finally got

back to the Weasleys’ tents.

“Met a few people,” said Ron, setting the water down.

“You not got that fire started yet?”

“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” said Fred.

Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting

the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered

matches littered the ground around him, but he

looked as though he was having the time of his life.

“Oops!” he said as he managed to light a match and

promptly dropped it in surprise.

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“Come here, Mr. Weasley,” said Hermione kindly,

taking the box from him, and showing him how to do

it properly.

At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least

another hour before it was hot enough to cook

anything. There was plenty to watch while they

waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right

alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and

Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it,

greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr.

Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for

Harry’s and Hermione’s benefit; his own children

knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly

interested.

“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin

Liaison Office. … Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he’s

with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s

had those horns for a while now. … Hello, Arnie …

Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator — member of the

Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know. … and

that’s Bode and Croaker … they’re Unspeakables. …”

“They’re what?”

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no

idea what they get up to. …”

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started

cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and

Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them.

“Just Apparated, Dad,” said Percy loudly. “Ah,

excellent, lunch!”

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and

sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet,

waving and grinning at a man who was striding

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toward them. “Aha!” he said. “The man of the

moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person

Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in

his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long

Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright

yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was

splashed across his chest. He had the look of a

powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes

were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely

had not had in the days when he had played

Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed

(probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought),

but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy

complexion made him look like a very overgrown

schoolboy.

“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking

as though he had springs attached to the balls of his

feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

“Arthur, old man,” he puffed as he reached the

campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we

have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless

night coming … and hardly a hiccough in the

arrangements. … Not much for me to do!”

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry

wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence

of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet

sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched.

Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman

ran his department did not prevent him from wanting

to make a good impression.

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“Ah — yes,” said Mr. Weasley, grinning, “this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry — and

this is Fred — no, George, sorry — that’s Fred — Bill,

Charlie, Ron — my daughter, Ginny — and Ron’s

friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.”

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he

heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the

familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continued, “this is Ludo

Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve

got such good tickets —”

Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it

had been nothing.

“Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he said

eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of

gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve

already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will

score first — I offered him nice odds, considering

Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in

years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half

shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.”

“Oh … go on then,” said Mr. Weasley. “Let’s see … a

Galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looked slightly

disappointed, but recovered himself. “Very well, very

well … any other takers?”

“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” said Mr.

Weasley. “Molly wouldn’t like —”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three

Knuts,” said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all

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their money, “that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum

gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.”

“You don’t want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish

like that —” Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to

think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary,

his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it

from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk

and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared

with laughter.

“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in

years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!”

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

“Boys,” said Mr. Weasley under his breath, “I don’t

want you betting. … That’s all your savings. … Your

mother —”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” boomed Ludo

Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. “They’re old

enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland

will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance,

boys, not a chance. … I’ll give you excellent odds on

that one. … We’ll add five Galleons for the funny

wand, then, shall we. …”

Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman

whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting

down the twins’ names.

“Cheers,” said George, taking the slip of parchment

Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully.

Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley.

“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an

eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite

number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand

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a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.”

“Mr. Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his

look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing

with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred!

Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll …”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” said Fred dismissively. “All

you have to do is point and grunt.”

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked

the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley

asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass

beside them all.

“Not a dicky bird,” said Bagman comfortably. “But

she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha … memory like a leaky

cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my

word for it. She’ll wander back into the office

sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to

look for her?” Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as

Percy handed Bagman his tea.

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his

round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t

spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil!

Barty!”

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he

could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo

Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp

robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man,

dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The

parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally

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straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes

were very highly polished. Harry could see at once

why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in

rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch had complied

with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly

that he could have passed for a bank manager; Harry

doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him

for what he really was.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” said Ludo brightly,

patting the ground beside him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was a

bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for

you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add

another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh is that what they’re after?” said Bagman. “I

thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of

tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”

“Mr. Crouch!” said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a

kind of half-bow that made him look like a

hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild

surprise. “Yes — thank you, Weatherby.”

Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy,

very pink around the ears, busied himself with the

kettle.

“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too,

Arthur,” said Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon

Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a

word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr. Weasley heaved a deep sigh.

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“I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets

are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of

Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from

Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.”

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will

they?” said Bagman.

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family

vehicle,” said Mr. Crouch. “I remember my

grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve

— but that was before carpets were banned, of

course.”

He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any

doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the

law.

“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” said Bagman

breezily.

“Fairly,” said Mr. Crouch dryly. “Organizing Portkeys

across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.”

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” said

Mr. Weasley.

Ludo Bagman looked shocked.

“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun. … Still,

it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look

forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?”

Mr. Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman.

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“We agreed not to make the announcement until all

the details —”

“Oh details!” said Bagman, waving the word away like

a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they?

They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these

kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s

happening at Hogwarts —”

“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,”

said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks

short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited

for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet,

swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his

pockets chinking merrily.

“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top

Box with me — I’m commentating!” He waved, Barty

Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them

Disapparated.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” said Fred at

once. “What were they talking about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr.Weasley,

smiling.

“It’s classified information, until such time as the

Ministry decides to release it,” said Percy stiffly. “Mr.

Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.”

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” said Fred.

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over

the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the

still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with

anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain

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over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last

vestiges of pretence disappeared: the Ministry seemed

to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting

the signs of blatant magic now breaking out

everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying

trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary

merchandise. There were luminous rosettes — green

for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which were squealing

the names of the players, pointed green hats

bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves

adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both

countries that played their national anthems as they

were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that

really flew, and collectible figures of famous players,

which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening

themselves.

“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,”

Ron told Harry as they and Hermione strolled through

the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron

purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green

rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum,

the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked

backward and forward over Ron’s hand, scowling up

at the green rosette above him.

“Wow, look at these!” said Harry, hurrying over to a

cart piled high with what looked like brass

binoculars, except that they were covered with all

sorts of weird knobs and dials.

“Omnioculars,” said the saleswizard eagerly. “You can

replay action … slow everything down … and they

flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it.

Bargain — ten Galleons each.”

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“Wish I hadn’t bought this now,” said Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at

the Omnioculars.

“Three pairs,” said Harry firmly to the wizard.

“No — don’t bother,” said Ron, going red. He was

always touchy about the fact that Harry, who had

inherited a small fortune from his parents, had much

more money than he did.

“You won’t be getting anything for Christmas,” Harry

told him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and

Hermione’s hands. “For about ten years, mind.”

“Fair enough,” said Ron, grinning.

“Oooh, thanks, Harry,” said Hermione. “And I’ll get us

some programs, look —”

Their money bags considerably lighter, they went

back to the tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all

sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was

carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no

souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere

beyond the woods, and at once, green and red

lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to

the field.

“It’s time!” said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any

of them. “Come on, let’s go!”

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THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead,

they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-

lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of

people moving around them, shouts and laughter,

snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish

excitement was highly infectious; Harry couldn’t stop

grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty

minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they

emerged on the other side and found themselves in

the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Harry

could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls

surrounding the field, he could tell that ten

cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley,

spotting the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Ministry

task force of five hundred have been working on it all

year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it.

Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all

year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent

appointments and had to dash away again … bless

them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the

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nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance

when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight

upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.”

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich

purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the

crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into

the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party

kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the

staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at

the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly

halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty

purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and

Harry, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys,

looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could

never have imagined.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking

their places in the seats, which rose in levels around

the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a

mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from

the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet

from their lofty position. At either end of the field

stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite

them, almost at Harry’s eye level, was a gigantic

blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as

though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon

the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching

it, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisements

across the field.

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe,

reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer … Mrs.

Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain,

No Stain! … Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris,

Hogsmeade …

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Harry tore his eyes away from the sign and looked

over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box

with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny

creature sitting in the second from last seat at the

end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs

were so short they stuck out in front of it on the

chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and

it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long,

batlike ears were oddly familiar. …

“Dobby?” said Harry incredulously.

The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers,

revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact

size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn’t Dobby — it

was, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Harry’s

friend Dobby had been. Harry had set Dobby free

from his old owners, the Malfoy family.

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf

curiously from between its fingers. Its voice was

higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny,

quivering squeak of a voice, and Harry suspected —

though it was very hard to tell with a house-elf — that

this one might just be female. Ron and Hermione

spun around in their seats to look. Though they had

heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, they had never

actually met him. Even Mr. Weasley looked around in

interest.

“Sorry,” Harry told the elf, “I just thought you were

someone I knew.”

“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaked the elf. She

was shielding her face, as though blinded by light,

though the Top Box was not brightly lit. “My name is

Winky, sir — and you, sir —” Her dark brown eyes

widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon

Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!”

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“Yeah, I am,” said Harry.

“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” she said,

lowering her hands very slightly and looking

awestruck.

“How is he?” said Harry. “How’s freedom suiting

him?”

“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her head, “ah sir,

meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did

Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”

“Why?” said Harry, taken aback. “What’s wrong with

him?”

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” said Winky

sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another

position, sir.”

“Why not?” said Harry.

Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and

whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir. ”

“Paying?” said Harry blankly. “Well — why shouldn’t

he be paid?”

Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed

her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden

again.

“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she said in a muffled

squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find

yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is

getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is

unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing

around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear

you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation

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and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.”

“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” said Harry.

“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry

Potter,” said Winky firmly, from behind her hands.

“House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking

heights at all, Harry Potter” — she glanced toward the

edge of the box and gulped — “but my master sends

me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.”

“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like

heights?” said Harry, frowning.

“Master — master wants me to save him a seat, Harry

Potter. He is very busy,” said Winky, tilting her head

toward the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing

she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky

does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.”

She gave the edge of the box another frightened look

and hid her eyes completely again. Harry turned back

to the others.

“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron muttered. “Weird things,

aren’t they?”

“Dobby was weirder,” said Harry fervently.

Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing

them, staring down into the crowd on the other side

of the stadium.

“Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side.

“I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose

again … and again … and again …”

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Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through

her velvet-covered, tasseled program.

“ ‘A display from the team mascots will precede the

match,’ ” she read aloud.

“Oh that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley.

“National teams bring creatures from their native

land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”

The box filled gradually around them over the next

half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with

people who were obviously very important wizards.

Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as

though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself,

arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off

and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them

with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat,

throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius

Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met

before, and Fudge shook Harry’s hand in a fatherly

fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to

the wizards on either side of him.

“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian

minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of

black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to

understand a word of English. “Harry Potter … oh

come on now, you know who he is … the boy who

survived You-Know-Who … you do know who he is —”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar

and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at

it.

“Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily

to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need

Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his

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house-elf’s saving him a seat. … Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the

best places … ah, and here’s Lucius!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging

along the second row to three still-empty seats right

behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the

house-elf’s former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son,

Draco; and a woman Harry supposed must be Draco’s

mother.

Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since

their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a

pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly

resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall

and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she

hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was

a nasty smell under her nose.

“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as

he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I

don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son,

Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling

and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to

introduce you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. —

well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he

can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never

mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur

Weasley, I daresay?”

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy

looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the

last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in

Flourish and Blotts’ bookshop, and they had had a

fight. Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes swept over Mr.

Weasley, and then up and down the row.

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“Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your

house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, “Lucius has just

given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s

Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur.

He’s here as my guest.”

“How — how nice,” said Mr. Weasley, with a very

strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who

went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at

him. Harry knew exactly what was making Mr.

Malfoy’s lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided

themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they

considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione,

second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister

of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He

nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued

down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron,

and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled

himself between his mother and father.

“Slimy gits,” Ron muttered as he, Harry, and

Hermione turned to face the field again. Next

moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.

“Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming

like a great, excited Edam. “Minister — ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably.

Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own

throat, and said “Sonorus!” and then spoke over the

roar of sound that was now filling the packed

stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into

every corner of the stands.

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“Ladies and gentlemen … welcome! Welcome to the

final of the four hundred and twenty-second

Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of

flags waved, adding their discordant national

anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite

them was wiped clear of its last message ( Bertie Bott’s

Every Flavor Beans — A Risk With Every Mouthful!)

and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce

… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid

block of scarlet, roared its approval.

“I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Mr. Weasley,

leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly

whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly

on his robes. “Veela!”

“What are veel — ?”

But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the

field, and Harry’s question was answered for him.

Veela were women … the most beautiful women Harry

had ever seen … except that they weren’t — they

couldn’t be — human. This puzzled Harry for a

moment while he tried to guess what exactly they

could be; what could make their skin shine moon-

bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out

behind them without wind … but then the music

started, and Harry stopped worrying about them not

being human — in fact, he stopped worrying about

anything at all.

The veela had started to dance, and Harry’s mind had

gone completely and blissfully blank. All that

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mattered in the world was that he kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things

would happen. …

And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-

formed thoughts started chasing through Harry’s

dazed mind. He wanted to do something very

impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the

stadium seemed a good idea … but would it be good

enough?

“Harry, what are you doing?” said Hermione’s voice

from a long way off.

The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing

up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the

box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that

looked as though he were about to dive from a

springboard.

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t

want the veela to go. Harry was with them; he would,

of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he wondered

vaguely why he had a large green shamrock pinned to

his chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly

shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley,

smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the

hat out of his hands.

“You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have

had their say.”

“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela,

who had now lined up along one side of the field.

Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up

and pulled Harry back into his seat. “Honestly!” she

said.

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“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air … for the Irish National Team

Mascots!”

Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-

gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one

circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller

comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A

rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting

the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and

aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the

rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and

merged; they had formed a great shimmering

shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to

soar over the stands. Something like golden rain

seemed to be falling from it —

“Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over

them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing

off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the

shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually

comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men

with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or

green.

“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous

applause of the crowd, many of whom were still

fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to

retrieve the gold.

“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of

gold coins into Harry’s hand, “for the Omnioculars!

Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!”

The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns

drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from

the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to

watch the match.

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“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome —

the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you —

Dimitrov!”

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast

it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an

entrance far below, to wild applause from the

Bulgarian supporters.

“Ivanova!”

A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand —

Krum!”

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum

with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly focused his own.

Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with

a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He

looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to

believe he was only eighteen.

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch

Team!” yelled Bagman. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan!

Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!”

Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Harry spun a

small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and slowed

the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt”

on each of their brooms and see their names,

embroidered in silver, upon their backs.

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee,

acclaimed Chairwizard of the International

Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

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A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon’s, wearing robes of

pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the

field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the

mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate

under one arm, his broomstick under the other.

Harry spun the speed dial on his Omnioculars back

to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounted his

broomstick and kicked the crate open — four balls

burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black

Bludgers, and (Harry saw it for the briefest moment,

before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged

Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle,

Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Bagman. “And it’s

Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy!

Levski! Moran!”

It was Quidditch as Harry had never seen it played

before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to

his glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of

his nose. The speed of the players was incredible —

the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another

so fast that Bagman only had time to say their

names. Harry spun the slow dial on the right of his

Omnioculars again, pressed the play-by-play button

on the top, and he was immediately watching in slow

motion, while glittering purple lettering flashed across

the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounded

against his eardrums.

Hawkshead Attacking Formation, he read as he

watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely

together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet

and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians.

Porskoff Ploy flashed up next, as Troy made as though

to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the

Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to

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Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club,

knocking it into Moran’s path; Moran ducked to avoid

the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski,

soaring beneath, caught it —

“TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium

shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten

zero to Ireland!”

“What?” Harry yelled, looking wildly around through

his Omnioculars. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!”

“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed,

you’re going to miss things!” shouted Hermione, who

was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air

while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. Harry

looked quickly over the top of his Omni-oculars and

saw that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines

had all risen into the air again and formed the great,

glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were

watching them sulkily.

Furious with himself, Harry spun his speed dial back

to normal as play resumed.

Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that the

Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a

seamless team, their movements so well coordinated

that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds

as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on

Harry’s chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy —

Mullet — Moran!” And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero

and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause

from the green-clad supporters.

The match became still faster, but more brutal.

Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were

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whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from

using some of their best moves; twice they were forced

to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to

break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan;

and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the

veela started to dance in celebration. Harry screwed

up his eyes too; he wanted to keep his mind on the

game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the

field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria

was again in possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!”

roared Bagman.

One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two

Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the

center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though

they had just jumped from airplanes without

parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his

Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was

—

“They’re going to crash!” screamed Hermione next to

Harry.

She was half right — at the very last second, Viktor

Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch,

however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could

be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose

from the Irish seats.

“Fool!” moaned Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!”

“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained

mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan

Lynch!”

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“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side

of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what

Krum was after, of course. …”

Harry hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play

buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial,

and put them back up to his eyes.

He watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow

motion. Wronski Defensive Feint — dangerous Seeker

diversion read the shining purple lettering across his

lenses. He saw Krum’s face contorted with

concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in

time, while Lynch was flattened, and he understood

— Krum hadn’t seen the Snitch at all, he was just

making Lynch copy him. Harry had never seen

anyone fly like that; Krum hardly looked as though he

was using a broomstick at all; he moved so easily

through the air that he looked unsupported and

weightless. Harry turned his Omnioculars back to

normal and focused them on Krum. He was now

circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by

mediwizards with cups of potion. Harry, focusing still

more closely upon Krum’s face, saw his dark eyes

darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He

was using the time while Lynch was revived to look

for the Snitch without interference.

Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the

green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and

kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give

Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle

again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill

unrivaled by anything Harry had seen so far.

After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland

had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now

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leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again,

clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the

Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her.

Whatever happened was over so quickly Harry didn’t

catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd,

and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told him it

had been a foul.

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for

cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed

the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to

Ireland!”

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air

like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had

been fouled, now darted together to form the words

“HA, HA, HA!” The veela on the other side of the field

leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and

started to dance again.

As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their

fingers into their ears, but Hermione, who hadn’t

bothered, was soon tugging on Harry’s arm. He

turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers

impatiently out of his ears.

“Look at the referee!” she said, giggling.

Harry looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had

landed right in front of the dancing veela, and was

acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles

and smoothing his mustache excitedly.

“Now, we can’t have that!” said Ludo Bagman, though

he sounded highly amused. “Somebody slap the

referee!”

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A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his

fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa

hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself;

Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw

that he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had

started shouting at the veela, who had stopped

dancing and were looking mutinous.

“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually

attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!”

said Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we

haven’t seen before. … Oh this could turn nasty. …”

It did: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov,

landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing

furiously with him, gesticulating toward the

leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words

“HEE, HEE, HEE.” Mostafa was not impressed by the

Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he was jabbing his

finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying

again, and when they refused, he gave two short

blasts on his whistle.

“Two penalties for Ireland!” shouted Bagman, and the

Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and

Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms …

yes … there they go … and Troy takes the Quaffle …”

Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything

they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were

acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in

particular seemed not to care whether their clubs

made contact with Bludger or human as they swung

them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight

at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her

off her broom.

“Foul!” roared the Irish supporters as one, all

standing up in a great wave of green.

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“Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified

voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to

collide there — and it’s got to be another penalty —

yes, there’s the whistle!”

The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this

time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a

very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At

this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they

launched themselves across the field and began

throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the

leprechauns. Watching through his Omnioculars,

Harry saw that they didn’t look remotely beautiful

now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into

sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings

were bursting from their shoulders —

“And that, boys,” yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult

of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for

looks alone!”

Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to

separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little

success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below was

nothing to the one taking place above. Harry turned

this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars,

as the Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a

bullet.

“Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet —

Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN

SCORES!”

But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely

heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now

issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the

furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game

recommenced immediately; now Levski had the

Quaffle, now Dimitrov —

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The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum,

who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in

the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s

nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but

Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had

become distracted, and Harry couldn’t blame him;

one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set

his broom tail alight.

Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was

injured; even though he was supporting Ireland,

Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron

obviously felt the same.

“Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look

at him —”

“Look at Lynch!” Harry yelled.

For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive,

and Harry was quite sure that this was no Wronski

Feint; this was the real thing. …

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it!

Look at him go!”

Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was

happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great

wave of green, screaming their Seeker on … but Krum

was on his tail. How he could see where he was going,

Harry had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying

through the air behind him, but he was drawing level

with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward

the ground again —

“They’re going to crash!” shrieked Hermione.

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“They’re not!” roared Ron.

“Lynch is!” yelled Harry.

And he was right — for the second time, Lynch hit the

ground with tremendous force and was immediately

stampeded by a horde of angry veela.

“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellowed Charlie,

along the row.

“He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!” shouted

Harry.

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose,

was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint

of gold in his hand.

The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160,

IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to

have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as

though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the

rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and

louder and erupted into screams of delight.

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the

Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of

the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT

IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us

were expecting that!”

“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed,

even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his

hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were

a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!”

“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry

shouted back over all the noise, also applauding

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loudly. “The Irish Chasers were too good. … He

wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all. …”

“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said,

leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of

mediwizards blasted a path through the battling

leprechauns and veela to get to him. “He looks a

terrible mess. …”

Harry put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was

hard to see what was happening below, because

leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the

field, but he could just make out Krum, surrounded

by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and

refused to let them mop him up. His team members

were around him, shaking their heads and looking

dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were

dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from

their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium,

the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the

veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful

selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind

Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian

Minister of Magic.

“You can speak English!” said Fudge, sounding

outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime

everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny,” said the Bulgarian minister,

shrugging.

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor,

flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup

itself is brought into the Top Box!” roared Bagman.

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Harry’s eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding

white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated

so that everyone in the stands could see the inside.

Squinting toward the entrance, he saw two panting

wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box,

which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still

looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign

language all day for nothing.

“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers —

Bulgaria!” Bagman shouted.

And up the stairs into the box came the seven

defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was

applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands

and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and

winking in their direction.

One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of

seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of

each as they shook hands with their own minister

and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line,

looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming

spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding

the Snitch. Harry noticed that he seemed much less

coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-

footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when

Krum’s name was announced, the whole stadium

gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.

And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being

supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash

seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked

strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy

and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd

below thundered its approval. Harry’s hands were

numb with clapping.

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At last, when the Irish team had left the box to

perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan

Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard

around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort

of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and

muttered, “Quietus. ”

“They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he said

hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that. … shame it

couldn’t have lasted longer. … Ah yes. … yes, I owe

you … how much?”

For Fred and George had just scrambled over the

backs of their seats and were standing in front of

Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their

hands outstretched.

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THE DARK MARK

“Don’t tell your mother you’ve been gambling,” Mr.

Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made

their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Fred gleefully, “we’ve got big

plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.”

Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was

going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to

decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know.

They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding

out of the stadium and back to their campsites.

Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night

air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit

path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads,

cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally

reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and

given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley

agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa

together before turning in. They were soon arguing

enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn

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into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny

table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that

Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and

insisted that everyone go to bed. Hermione and Ginny

went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the

Weasleys changed into pajamas and clambered into

their bunks. From the other side of the campsite they

could still hear much singing and the odd echoing

bang.

“Oh I am glad I’m not on duty,” muttered Mr. Weasley

sleepily. “I wouldn’t fancy having to go and tell the

Irish they’ve got to stop celebrating.”

Harry, who was on a top bunk above Ron, lay staring

up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow

of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead,

and picturing again some of Krum’s more spectacular

moves. He was itching to get back on his own Firebolt

and try out the Wronski Feint. … Somehow Oliver

Wood had never managed to convey with all his

wriggling diagrams what that move was supposed to

look like. … Harry saw himself in robes that had his

name on the back, and imagined the sensation of

hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar, as

Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed throughout the stadium,

“I give you … Potter!”

Harry never knew whether or not he had actually

dropped off to sleep — his fantasies of flying like

Krum might well have slipped into actual dreams —

all he knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley

was shouting.

“Get up! Ron — Harry — come on now, get up, this is

urgent!”

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Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit

canvas.

“ ’S’ matter?” he said.

Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The

noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had

stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of

people running. He slipped down from the bunk and

reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had

pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, “No

time, Harry — just grab a jacket and get outside —

quickly!”

Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent,

Ron at his heels.

By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he

could see people running away into the woods, fleeing

something that was moving across the field toward

them, something that was emitting odd flashes of

light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of

laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward

them; then came a burst of strong green light, which

illuminated the scene.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving

together with wands pointing straight upward, was

marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at

them. … They didn’t seem to have faces. … Then he

realized that their heads were hooded and their faces

masked. High above them, floating along in midair,

four struggling figures were being contorted into

grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked

wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the

people above them were marionettes operated by

invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air.

Two of the figures were very small.

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More wizards were joining the marching group,

laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents

crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled.

Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a

tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire.

The screaming grew louder.

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they

passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one

of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The

other three looked as though they might be his wife

and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs.

Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress

fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she

struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her

screeched and hooted with glee.

“That’s sick,” Ron muttered, watching the smallest

Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty

feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from

side to side. “That is really sick. …”

Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them,

pulling coats over their nightdresses, with Mr.

Weasley right behind them. At the same moment, Bill,

Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys’ tent, fully

dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands

out.

“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley

shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves.

“You lot — get into the woods, and stick together. I’ll

come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!”

Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away

toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore

after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every

direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd

beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer.

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“C’mon,” said Fred, grabbing Ginny’s hand and

starting to pull her toward the wood. Harry, Ron,

Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back

as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the

Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see

the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the

hooded wizards in the center, but they were having

great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared

to perform any spell that might make the Roberts

family fall.

The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the

stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were

blundering through the trees; children were crying;

anxious shouts and panicked voices were

reverberating around them in the cold night air.

Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by

people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard

Ron yell with pain.

“What happened?” said Hermione anxiously, stopping

so abruptly that Harry walked into her. “Ron, where

are you? Oh this is stupid — lumos!”

She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow

beam across the path. Ron was lying sprawled on the

ground.

“Tripped over a tree root,” he said angrily, getting to

his feet again.

“Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” said a drawling

voice from behind them.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply. Draco

Malfoy was standing alone nearby, leaning against a

tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms folded, he

seemed to have been watching the scene at the

campsite through a gap in the trees.

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Ron told Malfoy to do something that Harry knew he would never have dared say in front of Mrs. Weasley

“Language, Weasley,” said Malfoy, his pale eyes

glittering. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now?

You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?”

He nodded at Hermione, and at the same moment, a

blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a

flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around

them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Hermione

defiantly.

“Granger, they’re after Muggles, ” said Malfoy. “D’you

want to be showing off your knickers in midair?

Because if you do, hang around … they’re moving this

way, and it would give us all a laugh.”

“Hermione’s a witch,” Harry snarled.

“Have it your own way, Potter,” said Malfoy, grinning

maliciously. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood,

stay where you are.”

“You watch your mouth!” shouted Ron. Everybody

present knew that “Mudblood” was a very offensive

term for a witch or wizard of Muggle parentage.

“Never mind, Ron,” said Hermione quickly, seizing

Ron’s arm to restrain him as he took a step toward

Malfoy.

There came a bang from the other side of the trees

that was louder than anything they had heard.

Several people nearby screamed. Malfoy chuckled

softly.

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“Scare easily, don’t they?” he said lazily. “I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to —

trying to rescue the Muggles?”

“Where’re your parents?” said Harry, his temper

rising. “Out there wearing masks, are they?”

Malfoy turned his face to Harry, still smiling.

“Well … if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you,

would I, Potter?”

“Oh come on,” said Hermione, with a disgusted look

at Malfoy, “let’s go and find the others.”

“Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,” sneered

Malfoy.

“Come on, ” Hermione repeated, and she pulled Harry

and Ron up the path again.

“I’ll bet you anything his dad is one of that masked

lot!” said Ron hotly.

“Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch him!”

said Hermione fervently. “Oh I can’t believe this.

Where have the others got to?”

Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen,

though the path was packed with plenty of other

people, all looking nervously over their shoulders

toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle

of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a

little way along the path. When they saw Harry, Ron,

and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turned and

said quickly, “Où est Madame Maxime? Nous l’avons

perdue —”

“Er — what?” said Ron.

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“Oh …” The girl who had spoken turned her back on

him, and as they walked on they distinctly heard her

say, “ ’Ogwarts.”

“Beauxbatons,” muttered Hermione.

“Sorry?” said Harry.

“They must go to Beauxbatons,” said Hermione. “You

know … Beauxbatons Academy of Magic … I read

about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in

Europe. ”

“Oh … yeah … right,” said Harry.

“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” said Ron,

pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione’s, and

squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his

jacket for his own wand — but it wasn’t there. The

only thing he could find was his Omnioculars.

“Ah, no, I don’t believe it … I’ve lost my wand!”

“You’re kidding!”

Ron and Hermione raised their wands high enough to

spread the narrow beams of light farther on the

ground; Harry looked all around him, but his wand

was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe it’s back in the tent,” said Ron.

“Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were

running?” Hermione suggested anxiously.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “maybe …”

He usually kept his wand with him at all times in the

wizarding world, and finding himself without it in the

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midst of a scene like this made him feel very

vulnerable.

A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump.

Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a

clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most

peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it

was as though someone invisible were trying to hold

her back.

“There is bad wizards about!” she squeaked

distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to

keep running. “People high — high in the air! Winky

is getting out of the way!”

And she disappeared into the trees on the other side

of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the

force that was restraining her.

“What’s up with her?” said Ron, looking curiously

after Winky. “Why can’t she run properly?”

“Bet she didn’t ask permission to hide,” said Harry.

He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to

do something the Malfoys wouldn’t like, the house-elf

had been forced to start beating himself up.

“You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!” said

Hermione indignantly. “It’s slavery, that’s what it is!

That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the

stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her

bewitched so she can’t even run when they start

trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something

about it?”

“Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron said.

“You heard old Winky back at the match … ‘House-

elves is not supposed to have fun’ … that’s what she

likes, being bossed around. …”

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“It’s people like you, Ron,” Hermione began hotly,

“who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just

because they’re too lazy to —”

Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood.

“Let’s just keep moving, shall we?” said Ron, and

Harry saw him glance edgily at Hermione. Perhaps

there was truth in what Malfoy had said; perhaps

Hermione was in more danger than they were. They

set off again, Harry still searching his pockets, even

though he knew his wand wasn’t there.

They followed the dark path deeper into the wood,

still keeping an eye out for Fred, George, and Ginny.

They passed a group of goblins who were cackling

over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won

betting on the match, and who seemed quite

unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Farther

still along the path, they walked into a patch of silvery

light, and when they looked through the trees, they

saw three tall and beautiful veela standing in a

clearing, surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards, all

of whom were talking very loudly.

“I pull down about a hundred sacks of Galleons a

year!” one of them shouted. “I’m a dragon killer for

the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous

Creatures.”

“No, you’re not!” yelled his friend. “You’re a

dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron. … but I’m a

vampire hunter, I’ve killed about ninety so far —”

A third young wizard, whose pimples were visible even

by the dim, silvery light of the veela, now cut in, “I’m

about to become the youngest ever Minister of Magic,

I am.”

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Harry snorted with laughter. He recognized the

pimply wizard: His name was Stan Shunpike, and he

was in fact a conductor on the triple-decker Knight

Bus. He turned to tell Ron this, but Ron’s face had

gone oddly slack, and next second Ron was yelling,

“Did I tell you I’ve invented a broomstick that’ll reach

Jupiter?”

“Honestly!” said Hermione, and she and Harry

grabbed Ron firmly by the arms, wheeled him around,

and marched him away. By the time the sounds of

the veela and their admirers had faded completely,

they were in the very heart of the wood. They seemed

to be alone now; everything was much quieter.

Harry looked around. “I reckon we can just wait here,

you know. We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Ludo

Bagman emerged from behind a tree right ahead of

them.

Even by the feeble light of the two wands, Harry could

see that a great change had come over Bagman. He

no longer looked buoyant and rosy-faced; there was

no more spring in his step. He looked very white and

strained.

“Who’s that?” he said, blinking down at them, trying

to make out their faces. “What are you doing in here,

all alone?”

They looked at one another, surprised.

“Well — there’s a sort of riot going on,” said Ron.

Bagman stared at him.

“What?”

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“At the campsite … some people have got hold of a

family of Muggles. …”

Bagman swore loudly.

“Damn them!” he said, looking quite distracted, and

without another word, he Disapparated with a small

pop!

“Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?”

said Hermione, frowning.

“He was a great Beater, though,” said Ron, leading

the way off the path into a small clearing, and sitting

down on a patch of dry grass at the foot of a tree.

“The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in

a row while he was with them.”

He took his small figure of Krum out of his pocket, set

it down on the ground, and watched it walk around.

Like the real Krum, the model was slightly duck-

footed and round-shouldered, much less impressive

on his splayed feet than on his broomstick. Harry was

listening for noise from the campsite. Everything

seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over.

“I hope the others are okay,” said Hermione after a

while.

“They’ll be fine,” said Ron.

“Imagine if your dad catches Lucius Malfoy,” said

Harry, sitting down next to Ron and watching the

small figure of Krum slouching over the fallen leaves.

“He’s always said he’d like to get something on him.”

“That’d wipe the smirk off old Draco’s face, all right,”

said Ron.

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“Those poor Muggles, though,” said Hermione

nervously. “What if they can’t get them down?”

“They will,” said Ron reassuringly. “They’ll find a

way.”

“Mad, though, to do something like that when the

whole Ministry of Magic’s out here tonight!” said

Hermione. “I mean, how do they expect to get away

with it? Do you think they’ve been drinking, or are

they just —”

But she broke off abruptly and looked over her

shoulder. Harry and Ron looked quickly around too.

It sounded as though someone was staggering toward

their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of

the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the

footsteps came to a sudden halt.

“Hello?” called Harry.

There was silence. Harry got to his feet and peered

around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he

could sense somebody standing just beyond the range

of his vision.

“Who’s there?” he said.

And then, without warning, the silence was rent by a

voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it

uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like

a spell.

“MORSMORDRE!”

And something vast, green, and glittering erupted

from the patch of darkness Harry’s eyes had been

struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops

and into the sky.

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“What the — ?” gasped Ron as he sprang to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared.

For a split second, Harry thought it was another

leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a

colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald

stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a

tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher,

blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against

the black sky like a new constellation.

Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with

screams. Harry didn’t understand why, but the only

possible cause was the sudden appearance of the

skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate

the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He

scanned the darkness for the person who had

conjured the skull, but he couldn’t see anyone.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

“Harry, come on, move!” Hermione had seized the

collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward.

“What’s the matter?” Harry said, startled to see her

face so white and terrified.

“It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!” Hermione moaned,

pulling him as hard as she could. “You-Know-Who’s

sign!”

“Voldemort’s — ?”

“Harry, come on!”

Harry turned — Ron was hurriedly scooping up his

miniature Krum — the three of them started across

the clearing — but before they had taken a few

hurried steps, a series of popping noises announced

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the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding them.

Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he

registered one fact: Each of these wizards had his

wand out, and every wand was pointing right at

himself, Ron, and Hermione.

Without pausing to think, he yelled, “DUCK!”

He seized the other two and pulled them down onto

the ground.

“STUPEFY!” roared twenty voices — there was a

blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on

his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept

the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he

saw jets of fiery red light flying over them from the

wizards’ wands, crossing one another, bouncing off

tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness —

“Stop!” yelled a voice he recognized. “STOP! That’s my

son!”

Harry’s hair stopped blowing about. He raised his

head a little higher. The wizard in front of him had

lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr. Weasley

striding toward them, looking terrified.

“Ron — Harry” — his voice sounded shaky —

“Hermione — are you all right?”

“Out of the way, Arthur,” said a cold, curt voice.

It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards

were closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face

them. Mr. Crouch’s face was taut with rage.

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“Which of you did it?” he snapped, his sharp eyes

darting between them. “Which of you conjured the

Dark Mark?”

“We didn’t do that!” said Harry, gesturing up at the

skull.

“We didn’t do anything!” said Ron, who was rubbing

his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. “What

did you want to attack us for?”

“Do not lie, sir!” shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was

still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were

popping — he looked slightly mad. “You have been

discovered at the scene of the crime!”

“Barty,” whispered a witch in a long woolen dressing

gown, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been

able to —”

“Where did the Mark come from, you three?” said Mr.

Weasley quickly.

“Over there,” said Hermione shakily, pointing at the

place where they had heard the voice. “There was

someone behind the trees … they shouted words —

an incantation —”

“Oh, stood over there, did they?” said Mr. Crouch,

turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief

etched all over his face. “Said an incantation, did

they? You seem very well informed about how that

Mark is summoned, missy —”

But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr.

Crouch seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry,

Ron, or Hermione had conjured the skull; on the

contrary, at Hermione’s words, they had all raised

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their wands again and were pointing in the direction she had indicated, squinting through the dark trees.

“We’re too late,” said the witch in the woolen dressing

gown, shaking her head. “They’ll have Disapparated.”

“I don’t think so,” said a wizard with a scrubby brown

beard. It was Amos Diggory, Cedric’s father. “Our

Stunners went right through those trees. … There’s a

good chance we got them. …”

“Amos, be careful!” said a few of the wizards

warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders,

raised his wand, marched across the clearing, and

disappeared into the darkness. Hermione watched

him vanish with her hands over her mouth.

A few seconds later, they heard Mr. Diggory shout.

“Yes! We got them! There’s someone here!

Unconscious! It’s — but — blimey …”

“You’ve got someone?” shouted Mr. Crouch, sounding

highly disbelieving. “Who? Who is it?”

They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and

then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerged

from behind the trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp

figure in his arms. Harry recognized the tea towel at

once. It was Winky.

Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as Mr. Diggory

deposited his elf on the ground at his feet. The other

Ministry wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a

few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes

blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky.

Then he appeared to come to life again.

“This — cannot — be,” he said jerkily. “No —”

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He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off toward the place where he had found Winky.

“No point, Mr. Crouch,” Mr. Diggory called after him.

“There’s no one else there.”

But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take his

word for it. They could hear him moving around and

the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside,

searching.

“Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking

down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s

house-elf … I mean to say …”

“Come off it, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “you

don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a

wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Diggory, “and she had a wand.”

“What?” said Mr. Weasley.

“Here, look.” Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed

it to Mr. Weasley. “Had it in her hand. So that’s

clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a

start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or

use a wand. ”

Just then there was another pop, and Ludo Bagman

Apparated right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking

breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot,

goggling upward at the emerald-green skull.

“The Dark Mark!” he panted, almost trampling Winky

as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. “Who did

it? Did you get them? Barty! What’s going on?”

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Mr. Crouch had returned empty-handed. His face was still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush

mustache were both twitching.

“Where have you been, Barty?” said Bagman. “Why

weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a

seat too — gulping gargoyles!” Bagman had just

noticed Winky lying at his feet. “What happened to

her?”

“I have been busy, Ludo,” said Mr. Crouch, still

talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his

lips. “And my elf has been stunned.”

“Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why — ?”

Comprehension dawned suddenly on Bagman’s

round, shiny face; he looked up at the skull, down at

Winky, and then at Mr. Crouch.

“No!” he said. “Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She

wouldn’t know how! She’d need a wand, for a start!”

“And she had one,” said Mr. Diggory. “I found her

holding one, Ludo. If it’s all right with you, Mr.

Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say

for herself.”

Crouch gave no sign that he had heard Mr. Diggory,

but Mr. Diggory seemed to take his silence for assent.

He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and

said, “Rennervate!”

Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened

and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of

way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself

shakily into a sitting position. She caught sight of Mr.

Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her

eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still,

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she looked up into the sky. Harry could see the

floating skull reflected twice in her enormous, glassy

eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly around the

crowded clearing, and burst into terrified sobs.

“Elf!” said Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I

am? I’m a member of the Department for the

Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

Winky began to rock backward and forward on the

ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Harry

was reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of

terrified disobedience.

“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a

short while ago,” said Mr. Diggory. “And you were

discovered moments later, right beneath it! An

explanation, if you please!”

“I — I — I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasped. “I is not

knowing how, sir!”

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” barked

Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her. And as the

wand caught the green light that was filling the

clearing from the skull above, Harry recognized it.

“Hey — that’s mine!” he said.

Everyone in the clearing looked at him.

“Excuse me?” said Mr. Diggory, incredulously.

“That’s my wand!” said Harry. “I dropped it!”

“You dropped it?” repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief.

“Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you

conjured the Mark?”

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“Amos, think who you’re talking to!” said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the

Dark Mark?”

“Er — of course not,” mumbled Mr. Diggory. “Sorry …

carried away …”

“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” said Harry, jerking

his thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. “I

missed it right after we got into the wood.”

“So,” said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he

turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet.

“You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up

and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?”

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squealed Winky,

tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and

bulbous nose. “I is … I is … I is just picking it up, sir!

I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing

how!”

“It wasn’t her!” said Hermione. She looked very

nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry

wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a

squeaky little voice, and the voice we heard doing the

incantation was much deeper!” She looked around at

Harry and Ron, appealing for their support. “It didn’t

sound anything like Winky, did it?”

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It definitely didn’t

sound like an elf.”

“Yeah, it was a human voice,” said Ron.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” growled Mr. Diggory, looking

unimpressed. “There’s a simple way of discovering the

last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?”

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Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory raised his own wand

again and placed it tip to tip with Harry’s.

“Prior Incantato!” roared Mr. Diggory.

Harry heard Hermione gasp, horrified, as a gigantic

serpent-tongued skull erupted from the point where

the two wands met, but it was a mere shadow of the

green skull high above them; it looked as though it

were made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of a spell.

“Deletrius!” Mr. Diggory shouted, and the smoky skull

vanished in a wisp of smoke.

“So,” said Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph,

looking down upon Winky, who was still shaking

convulsively.

“I is not doing it!” she squealed, her eyes rolling in

terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a

good elf, I isn’t using wands, I isn’t knowing how!”

“You’ve been caught red-handed, elf!” Mr. Diggory

roared. “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!”

“Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it …

precious few wizards know how to do that spell. …

Where would she have learned it?”

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” said Mr. Crouch, cold

anger in every syllable, “that I routinely teach my

servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory

looked horrified. “Mr. Crouch … not … not at all …”

“You have now come very close to accusing the two

people in this clearing who are least likely to conjure

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that Mark!” barked Mr. Crouch. “Harry Potter — and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s

story, Amos?”

“Of course — everyone knows —” muttered Mr.

Diggory, looking highly discomforted.

“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have

given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the

Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Mr. Crouch

shouted, his eyes bulging again.

“Mr. Crouch, I — I never suggested you had anything

to do with it!” Amos Diggory muttered again, now

reddening behind his scrubby brown beard.

“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!”

shouted Mr. Crouch. “Where else would she have

learned to conjure it?”

“She — she might’ve picked it up anywhere —”

“Precisely, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley. “She might have

picked it up anywhere. … Winky?” he said kindly,

turning to the elf, but she flinched as though he too

was shouting at her. “Where exactly did you find

Harry’s wand?”

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so

violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers.

“I — I is finding it … finding it there, sir. …” she

whispered, “there … in the trees, sir. …”

“You see, Amos?” said Mr. Weasley. “Whoever

conjured the Mark could have Disapparated right

after they’d done it, leaving Harry’s wand behind. A

clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which

could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the

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misfortune to come across the wand moments later

and pick it up.”

“But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from

the real culprit!” said Mr. Diggory impatiently. “Elf?

Did you see anyone?”

Winky began to tremble worse than ever. Her giant

eyes flickered from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo Bagman, and

onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulped and said, “I is

seeing no one, sir … no one …”

“Amos,” said Mr. Crouch curtly, “I am fully aware

that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want

to take Winky into your department for questioning. I

ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”

Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn’t think much of

this suggestion at all, but it was clear to Harry that

Mr. Crouch was such an important member of the

Ministry that he did not dare refuse him.

“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr.

Crouch added coldly.

“M-m-master …” Winky stammered, looking up at Mr.

Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “M-m-master,

p-p-please …”

Mr. Crouch stared back, his face somehow

sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched.

There was no pity in his gaze.

“Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not

have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to

remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I

went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she

disobeyed me. This means clothes. ”

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“No!” shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr.

Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

Harry knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free

was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful

to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she

sobbed over Mr. Crouch’s feet.

“But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily,

glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights,

and those wizards in masks were levitating people!

You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their

way!”

Mr. Crouch took a step backward, freeing himself

from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as

though she were something filthy and rotten that was

contaminating his over-shined shoes.

“I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he

said coldly, looking over at Hermione. “I have no use

for a servant who forgets what is due to her master,

and to her master’s reputation.”

Winky was crying so hard that her sobs echoed

around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence,

which was ended by Mr. Weasley, who said quietly,

“Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if

nobody’s got any objections. Amos, that wand’s told

us all it can — if Harry could have it back, please —”

Mr. Diggory handed Harry his wand and Harry

pocketed it.

“Come on, you three,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. But

Hermione didn’t seem to want to move; her eyes were

still upon the sobbing elf. “Hermione!” Mr. Weasley

said, more urgently. She turned and followed Harry

and Ron out of the clearing and off through the trees.

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“What’s going to happen to Winky?” said Hermione,

the moment they had left the clearing.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley.

“The way they were treating her!” said Hermione

furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time …

and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s

still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened

she’d been, or how upset she was — it was like she

wasn’t even human!”

“Well, she’s not,” said Ron.

Hermione rounded on him.

“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s

disgusting the way —”

“Hermione, I agree with you,” said Mr. Weasley

quickly, beckoning her on, “but now is not the time to

discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as

fast as we can. What happened to the others?”

“We lost them in the dark,” said Ron. “Dad, why was

everyone so uptight about that skull thing?”

“I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” said Mr.

Weasley tensely.

But when they reached the edge of the wood, their

progress was impeded. A large crowd of frightened-

looking witches and wizards was congregated there,

and when they saw Mr. Weasley coming toward them,

many of them surged forward.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Who conjured it?”

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“Arthur — it’s not — Him?”

“Of course it’s not Him,” said Mr. Weasley

impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like

they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to

get to bed.”

He led Harry, Ron, and Hermione through the crowd

and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there

was no sign of the masked wizards, though several

ruined tents were still smoking.

Charlie’s head was poking out of the boys’ tent.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he called through the dark.

“Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the

others —”

“I’ve got them here,” said Mr. Weasley, bending down

and entering the tent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione

entered after him.

Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a

bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely.

Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was

sporting a bloody nose. Fred, George, and Ginny

looked unhurt, though shaken.

“Did you get them, Dad?” said Bill sharply. “The

person who conjured the Mark?”

“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “We found Barty Crouch’s elf

holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about

who actually conjured the Mark.”

“What?” said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together.

“Harry’s wand?” said Fred.

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“Mr. Crouch’s elf?” said Percy, sounding

thunderstruck.

With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and

Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened

in the woods. When they had finished their story,

Percy swelled indignantly.

“Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like

that!” he said. “Running away when he’d expressly

told her not to … embarrassing him in front of the

whole Ministry … how would that have looked, if

she’d been brought up in front of the Department for

the Regulation and Control —”

“She didn’t do anything — she was just in the wrong

place at the wrong time!” Hermione snapped at Percy,

who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always

got on fairly well with Percy — better, indeed, than

any of the others.

“Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t

afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a

wand!” said Percy pompously, recovering himself.

“She didn’t run amok!” shouted Hermione. “She just

picked it up off the ground!”

“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing

was?” said Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting

anyone. … Why’s it such a big deal?”

“I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” said

Hermione, before anyone else could answer. “I read

about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. ”

“And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years,” said Mr.

Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked … it was

almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again.”

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“I don’t get it,” said Ron, frowning. “I mean … it’s still only a shape in the sky. …”

“Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark

Mark into the air whenever they killed,” said Mr.

Weasley. “The terror it inspired … you have no idea,

you’re too young. Just picture coming home and

finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and

knowing what you’re about to find inside. …” Mr.

Weasley winced. “Everyone’s worst fear … the very

worst …”

There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing

the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said,

“Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It

scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw

it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough

to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses

before they hit the ground, though. They’re having

their memories modified right now.”

“Death Eaters?” said Harry. “What are Death Eaters?”

“It’s what You-Know-Who’s supporters called

themselves,” said Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of

them tonight — the ones who managed to keep

themselves out of Azkaban, anyway.”

“We can’t prove it was them, Bill,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Though it probably was,” he added hopelessly.

“Yeah, I bet it was!” said Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met

Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us

his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all

know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!”

“But what were Voldemort’s supporters —” Harry

began. Everybody flinched — like most of the

wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoided saying

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Voldemort’s name. “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “What were You-Know-Who’s supporters up to, levitating

Muggles? I mean, what was the point?”

“The point?” said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh.

“Harry, that’s their idea of fun. Half the Muggle

killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were

done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight

and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them

are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he

finished disgustedly.

“But if they were the Death Eaters, why did they

Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?” said

Ron. “They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t

they?”

“Use your brains, Ron,” said Bill. “If they really were

Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of

Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all

sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture

people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the

rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d

ever been involved with him when he lost his powers,

and went back to their daily lives. … I don’t reckon

he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?”

“So … whoever conjured the Dark Mark …” said

Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support

for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?”

“Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” said Mr.

Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this … it was only the Death

Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very

surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death

Eater once, even if they’re not now. … Listen, it’s very

late, and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll

be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours sleep and

then try and get an early Portkey out of here.”

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Harry got back into his bunk with his head buzzing.

He knew he ought to feel exhausted: It was nearly

three in the morning, but he felt wide-awake — wide-

awake, and worried.

Three days ago — it felt like much longer, but it had

only been three days — he had awoken with his scar

burning. And tonight, for the first time in thirteen

years, Lord Voldemort’s mark had appeared in the

sky. What did these things mean?

He thought of the letter he had written to Sirius

before leaving Privet Drive. Would Sirius have gotten

it yet? When would he reply? Harry lay looking up at

the canvas, but no flying fantasies came to him now

to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after

Charlie’s snores filled the tent that Harry finally dozed

off.

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MAYHEM AT THE MINISTRY

Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours sleep.

He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the

campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts

at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange,

dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a

vague “Merry Christmas.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Mr. Weasley quietly as they

marched off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a

person’s memory’s modified, it makes him a bit

disorientated for a while … and that was a big thing

they had to make him forget.”

They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot

where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it,

they found a great number of witches and wizards

gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all

clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as

possible. Mr. Weasley had a hurried discussion with

Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an

old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun

had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St.

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Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow

in the dawn light, talking very little because they were

so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their

breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the

Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!”

Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for

them in the front yard, came running toward them,

still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and

strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet

clutched in her hand.

“Arthur — I’ve been so worried — so worried —”

She flung her arms around Mr. Weasley’s neck, and

the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the

ground. Looking down, Harry saw the headline:

SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD

CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white

photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.

“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly,

releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all

with red eyes, “you’re alive. … Oh boys …”

And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and

George and pulled them both into such a tight hug

that their heads banged together.

“Ouch! Mum — you’re strangling us —”

“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley said,

starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What

if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I

ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough

O.W.L.s? Oh Fred … George …”

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“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” said Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off the twins and

leading her back toward the house. “Bill,” he added in

an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what

it says. …”

When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen,

and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a cup of very

strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on

pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Bill

handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley

scanned the front page while Percy looked over his

shoulder.

“I knew it,” said Mr. Weasley heavily. “Ministry

blunders … culprits not apprehended … lax security …

Dark wizards running unchecked … national disgrace

… Who wrote this? Ah … of course … Rita Skeeter.”

“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!”

said Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re

wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness,

when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it

wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the

Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-

Humans —”

“Do us a favor, Perce,” said Bill, yawning, “and shut

up.”

“I’m mentioned,” said Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening

behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the

Daily Prophet article.

“Where?” spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea

and whiskey. “If I’d seen that, I’d have known you

were alive!”

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“Not by name,” said Mr. Weasley. “Listen to this: ‘ If the terrified wizards and witches who waited

breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected

reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were

sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some

time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging

that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any

more information. Whether this statement will be

enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were

removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be

seen.’ Oh really,” said Mr. Weasley in exasperation,

handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody was hurt. What

was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies

were removed from the woods … well, there certainly

will be rumors now she’s printed that.”

He heaved a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go

into the office; this is going to take some smoothing

over.”

“I’ll come with you, Father,” said Percy importantly.

“Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can

give him my cauldron report in person.”

He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked

most upset.

“Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t

got anything to do with your office; surely they can

handle this without you?”

“I’ve got to go, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’ve made

things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be

off. …”

“Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry suddenly, unable to

contain himself, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter

for me, has she?”

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“Hedwig, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No …

no, there hasn’t been any post at all.”

Ron and Hermione looked curiously at Harry. With a

meaningful look at both of them he said, “All right if I

go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?”

“Yeah … think I will too,” said Ron at once.

“Hermione?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, and the three of them

marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“What’s up, Harry?” said Ron, the moment they had

closed the door of the attic room behind them.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Harry said.

“On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar

hurting again.”

Ron’s and Hermione’s reactions were almost exactly

as Harry had imagined them back in his bedroom on

Privet Drive. Hermione gasped and started making

suggestions at once, mentioning a number of

reference books, and everybody from Albus

Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse.

Ron simply looked dumbstruck.

“But — he wasn’t there, was he? You-Know-Who? I

mean — last time your scar kept hurting, he was at

Hogwarts, wasn’t he?”

“I’m sure he wasn’t on Privet Drive,” said Harry. “But I

was dreaming about him … him and Peter — you

know, Wormtail. I can’t remember all of it now, but

they were plotting to kill … someone.”

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He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying

“me,” but couldn’t bring himself to make Hermione

look any more horrified than she already did.

“It was only a dream,” said Ron bracingly. “Just a

nightmare.”

“Yeah, but was it, though?” said Harry, turning to

look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s

weird, isn’t it? … My scar hurts, and three days later

the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort’s

sign’s up in the sky again.”

“Don’t — say — his — name!” Ron hissed through

gritted teeth.

“And remember what Professor Trelawney said?”

Harry went on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last

year?”

Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at

Hogwarts. Hermione’s terrified look vanished as she

let out a derisive snort.

“Oh Harry, you aren’t going to pay attention to

anything that old fraud says?”

“You weren’t there,” said Harry. “You didn’t hear her.

This time was different. I told you, she went into a

trance — a real one. And she said the Dark Lord

would rise again … greater and more terrible than ever

before … and he’d manage it because his servant was

going to go back to him … and that night Wormtail

escaped.”

There was a silence in which Ron fidgeted

absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons

bedspread.

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“Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?”

Hermione asked. “Are you expecting a letter?”

“I told Sirius about my scar,” said Harry, shrugging.

“I’m waiting for his answer.”

“Good thinking!” said Ron, his expression clearing. “I

bet Sirius’ll know what to do!”

“I hoped he’d get back to me quickly,” said Harry.

“But we don’t know where Sirius is … he could be in

Africa or somewhere, couldn’t he?” said Hermione

reasonably. “Hedwig’s not going to manage that

journey in a few days.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, but there was a leaden

feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window

at the Hedwig-free sky.

“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard,

Harry,” said Ron. “Come on — three on three, Bill and

Charlie and Fred and George will play. … You can try

out the Wronski Feint. …”

“Ron,” said Hermione, in an I-don’t-think-you’re-

being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn’t want

to play Quidditch right now. … He’s worried, and he’s

tired. … We all need to go to bed. …”

“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” said Harry

suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.”

Hermione left the room, muttering something that

sounded very much like “Boys. ”

* * *

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Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home much

over the following week. Both left the house each

morning before the rest of the family got up, and

returned well after dinner every night.

“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them

importantly the Sunday evening before they were due

to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all

week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if

you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes.

Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill

reduced to cinders.”

“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asked Ginny,

who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical

Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of

the living room fire.

“Complaining about security at the World Cup,” said

Percy. “They want compensation for their ruined

property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a

twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve

got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping

under a cloak propped on sticks.”

Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the

corner. Harry liked this clock. It was completely

useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise

very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each

of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family’s

names. There were no numerals around the face, but

descriptions of where each family member might be.

“Home,” “school,” and “work” were there, but there

was also “traveling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and,

in the position where the number twelve would be on

a normal clock, “mortal peril.”

Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the

“home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which was the

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longest, was still pointing to “work.” Mrs. Weasley sighed.

“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on

weekends since the days of You-Know-Who,” she said.

“They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going

to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.”

“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake

at the match, doesn’t he?” said Percy. “If truth be

told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement

without clearing it with his Head of Department first

—”

“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that

wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” said Mrs. Weasley,

flaring up at once.

“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have

said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry

had commented,” said Bill, who was playing chess

with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look

good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’

Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired

pillock’?”

“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently.

“If you’d just let me —”

“No, Mum.”

Rain lashed against the living room window.

Hermione was immersed in The Standard Book of

Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had

bought for her, Harry, and Ron in Diagon Alley.

Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry was

polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit

Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday

open at his feet. Fred and George were sitting in a far

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corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.

“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply,

her eyes on the twins.

“Homework,” said Fred vaguely.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs.

Weasley.

“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George.

“You’re not by any chance writing out a new order

form, are you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You

wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Weasleys’ Wizard

Wheezes, by any chance?”

“Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained

look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed

tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel

to know that the last thing we ever heard from you

was an unfounded accusation?”

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh your father’s coming!” she said suddenly, looking

up at the clock again.

Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work”

to “traveling”; a second later it had shuddered to a

halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him

calling from the kitchen.

“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out

of the room.

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A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the

warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He

looked completely exhausted.

“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs.

Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the

hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his

somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been

ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry

mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about

poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the

headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he

should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.”

“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,”

said Percy swiftly.

“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about

Winky,” said Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d be a

week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being

caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark

Mark.”

“I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while

irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?” said Percy

hotly.

“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the

Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!” said

Hermione angrily.

“Now look here, Hermione!” said Percy. “A high-

ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves

unswerving obedience from his servants —”

“His slave, you mean!” said Hermione, her voice rising

passionately, “because he didn’t pay Winky, did he?”

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“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!” said Mrs. Weasley, breaking

up the argument. “Come on now, all of you. …”

Harry repacked his broomstick servicing kit, put his

Firebolt over his shoulder, and went back upstairs

with Ron. The rain sounded even louder at the top of

the house, accompanied by loud whistlings and

moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls

from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Pigwidgeon

began twittering and zooming around his cage when

they entered. The sight of the half-packed trunks

seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement.

“Bung him some Owl Treats,” said Ron, throwing a

packet across to Harry. “It might shut him up.”

Harry poked a few Owl Treats through the bars of

Pigwidgeon’s cage, then turned to his trunk. Hedwig’s

cage stood next to it, still empty.

“It’s been over a week,” Harry said, looking at

Hedwig’s deserted perch. “Ron, you don’t reckon

Sirius has been caught, do you?”

“Nah, it would’ve been in the Daily Prophet, ” said Ron.

“The Ministry would want to show they’d caught

someone, wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, I suppose. …”

“Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon

Alley. And she’s got some gold out of your vault for

you … and she’s washed all your socks.”

He heaved a pile of parcels onto Harry’s camp bed

and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next

to it. Harry started unwrapping the shopping. Apart

from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by

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Miranda Goshawk, he had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit — he had been running low on spine of

lionfish and essence of belladonna. He was just piling

underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud

noise of disgust behind him.

“What is that supposed to be?”

He was holding up something that looked to Harry

like a long, maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy-

looking lace frill at the collar and matching lace cuffs.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley

entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered

Hogwarts robes.

“Here you are,” she said, sorting them into two piles.

“Now, mind you pack them properly so they don’t

crease.”

“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress,” said Ron,

handing it out to her.

“Of course I haven’t,” said Mrs. Weasley. “That’s for

you. Dress robes.”

“What?” said Ron, looking horror-struck.

“Dress robes!” repeated Mrs. Weasley. “It says on your

school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes

this year … robes for formal occasions.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Ron in disbelief. “I’m

not wearing that, no way.”

“Everyone wears them, Ron!” said Mrs. Weasley

crossly. “They’re all like that! Your father’s got some

for smart parties!”

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“I’ll go starkers before I put that on,” said Ron

stubbornly.

“Don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’ve got to

have dress robes, they’re on your list! I got some for

Harry too … show him, Harry. …”

In some trepidation, Harry opened the last parcel on

his camp bed. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected,

however; his dress robes didn’t have any lace on them

at all — in fact, they were more or less the same as

his school ones, except that they were bottle green

instead of black.

“I thought they’d bring out the color of your eyes,

dear,” said Mrs. Weasley fondly.

“Well, they’re okay!” said Ron angrily, looking at

Harry’s robes. “Why couldn’t I have some like that?”

“Because … well, I had to get yours secondhand, and

there wasn’t a lot of choice!” said Mrs. Weasley,

flushing.

Harry looked away. He would willingly have split all

the money in his Gringotts vault with the Weasleys,

but he knew they would never take it.

“I’m never wearing them,” Ron was saying stubbornly.

“Never.”

“Fine,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Go naked. And, Harry,

make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows

I could do with a laugh.”

She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was a funny spluttering noise from behind

them. Pigwidgeon was choking on an overlarge Owl

Treat.

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“Why is everything I own rubbish?” said Ron

furiously, striding across the room to unstick

Pigwidgeon’s beak.

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ABOARD THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the

air when Harry awoke next morning. Heavy rain was

still splattering against the window as he got dressed

in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into

their school robes on the Hogwarts Express.

He, Ron, Fred, and George had just reached the first-

floor landing on their way down to breakfast, when

Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs,

looking harassed.

“Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent

message from the Ministry!”

Harry flattened himself against the wall as Mr.

Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-

to-front and hurtled out of sight. When Harry and the

others entered the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Weasley

rummaging anxiously in the drawers — “I’ve got a

quill here somewhere!” — and Mr. Weasley bending

over the fire, talking to —

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Harry shut his eyes hard and opened them again to

make sure that they were working properly.

Amos Diggory’s head was sitting in the middle of the

flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very

fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying

around it and the flames licking its ears.

“… Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so

they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems —

please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there —”

“Here!” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a

piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled

quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands.

“— it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr.

Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to

send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use

of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold

of this one, Arthur —”

“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr.

Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his

quill, and preparing to take notes.

Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an

intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the

house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.”

“What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley,

scribbling frantically.

“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish

everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory.

“Apparently one of them was still rocketing around

when the please-men turned up —”

Mr. Weasley groaned.

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“And what about the intruder?”

“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head,

rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard

in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-

shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in

potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot

get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of

his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor

charge, something in your department — what are

exploding dustbins worth?”

“Might be a caution,” said Mr. Weasley, still writing

very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his

wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?”

“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing

everything he could reach through the window,” said

Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there

aren’t any casualties.”

“All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed

the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket

and dashed out of the kitchen again.

Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley.

“Sorry about this, Molly,” it said, more calmly,

“bothering you so early and everything … but Arthur’s

the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s

supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he

had to choose last night …”

“Never mind, Amos,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Sure you

won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?”

“Oh go on, then,” said Mr. Diggory.

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Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs,

and transferred it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth.

“Fanks,” he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a

small pop, vanished.

Harry could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-

byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five

minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the

right way now, dragging a comb through his hair.

“I’d better hurry — you have a good term, boys,” said

Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, and the twins, fastening a

cloak over his shoulders and preparing to

Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be all right

taking the kids to King’s Cross?”

“Of course I will,” she said. “You just look after Mad-

Eye, we’ll be fine.”

As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the

kitchen.

“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” Bill asked. “What’s he

been up to now?

“He says someone tried to break into his house last

night,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully,

spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that

nutter —”

“Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,”

said Mrs. Weasley sternly.

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“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” said Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room. “Birds of a

feather …”

“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill.

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said

Charlie.

“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is

he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and

everything …”

“Who is Mad-Eye?” asked Harry.

“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” said

Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me into work

with him. He was an Auror — one of the best … a

Dark wizard catcher,” he added, seeing Harry’s blank

look. “Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of

him. He made himself loads of enemies, though … the

families of people he caught, mainly … and I heard

he’s been getting really paranoid in his old age.

Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards

everywhere.”

Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off

at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most

profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.

“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the

moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting

to rely on me.”

“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” said George seriously.

“I reckon he’ll know your name soon.”

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Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take

them into London.

“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” Mrs.

Weasley whispered to Harry as they stood in the rain-

washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving six

heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there

weren’t any to spare. … Oh dear, they don’t look

happy, do they?”

Harry didn’t like to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi

drivers rarely transported overexcited owls, and

Pigwidgeon was making an earsplitting racket. Nor

did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous

Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks went off unexpectedly

when Fred’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver

carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks

clawed his way up the man’s leg.

The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that

they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their

trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover

from the fireworks, and by the time they entered

London, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all severely

scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King’s

Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder

than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks

across the busy road and into the station.

Harry was used to getting onto platform nine and

three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of

walking straight through the apparently solid barrier

dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part

was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid

attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups

today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most

conspicuous, since they were accompanied by

Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned

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casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it … and as they did so,

platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front

of them.

The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam

engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing

from it, through which the many Hogwarts students

and parents on the platform appeared like dark

ghosts. Pigwidgeon became noisier than ever in

response to the hooting of many owls through the

mist. Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off to find seats,

and were soon stowing their luggage in a

compartment halfway along the train. They then

hopped back down onto the platform to say good-bye

to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.

“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,”

said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny good-bye.

“Why?” said Fred keenly.

“You’ll see,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I

mentioned it … it’s ‘classified information, until such

time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.”

“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this

year,” said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost

wistfully at the train.

“Why?” said George impatiently.

“You’re going to have an interesting year,” said Bill,

his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come

and watch a bit of it. …”

“A bit of what?” said Ron.

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But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs.

Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors.

“Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley,” said

Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door,

and leaned out of the window to talk to her.

“Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley,” said

Harry.

“Oh it was my pleasure, dears,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“I’d invite you for Christmas, but … well, I expect

you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what

with … one thing and another.”

“Mum!” said Ron irritably. “What d’you three know

that we don’t?”

“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” said Mrs.

Weasley, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting —

mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules —”

“What rules?” said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George

together.

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. … Now,

behave, won’t you? Won’t you, Fred? And you,

George?”

The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to

move.

“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred

bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and

Charlie sped away from them. “What rules are they

changing?”

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But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie

had Disapparated.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went back to their

compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows

made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid

his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and

flung them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his

hooting.

“Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at

Hogwarts,” he said grumpily, sitting down next to

Harry. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own

mother won’t say. Wonder what —”

“Shh!” Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her

finger to her lips and pointing toward the

compartment next to theirs. Harry and Ron listened,

and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in

through the open door.

“… Father actually considered sending me to

Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He

knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his

opinion of Dumbledore — the man’s such a

Mudblood-lover — and Durmstrang doesn’t admit

that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of

me going to school so far away. Father says

Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than

Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students

actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we

do. …”

Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door,

and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice.

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“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him,

does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then

we wouldn’t have to put up with him.”

“Durmstrang’s another wizarding school?” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Hermione sniffily, “and it’s got a horrible

reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical

Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the

Dark Arts.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ron vaguely. “Where is

it? What country?”

“Well, nobody knows, do they?” said Hermione,

raising her eyebrows.

“Er — why not?” said Harry.

“There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all

the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like

to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal

their secrets,” said Hermione matter-of-factly.

“Come off it,” said Ron, starting to laugh.

“Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as

Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big

castle?”

“But Hogwarts is hidden,” said Hermione, in surprise.

“Everyone knows that … well, everyone who’s read

Hogwarts, A History, anyway.”

“Just you, then,” said Ron. “So go on — how d’you

hide a place like Hogwarts?”

“It’s bewitched,” said Hermione. “If a Muggle looks at

it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over

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the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER,

UNSAFE.”

“So Durmstrang’ll just look like a ruin to an outsider

too?”

“Maybe,” said Hermione, shrugging, “or it might have

Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup

stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it,

they’ll have made it Unplottable —”

“Come again?”

“Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to

plot on a map, can’t you?”

“Er … if you say so,” said Harry.

“But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the

far north,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Somewhere

very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of

their uniforms.”

“Ah, think of the possibilities,” said Ron dreamily. “It

would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and

make it look like an accident. … Shame his mother

likes him. …”

The rain became heavier and heavier as the train

moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the

windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by

midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the

corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron

Cakes for them to share.

Several of their friends looked in on them as the

afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan,

Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-

faced, extremely forgetful boy who had been brought

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up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its

magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still

squeaking “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” but in a very

feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour

or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless

Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The

Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying

to learn a Summoning Charm.

Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation

as they relived the Cup match.

“Gran didn’t want to go,” he said miserably. “Wouldn’t

buy tickets. It sounded amazing though.”

“It was,” said Ron. “Look at this, Neville. …”

He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and

pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum.

“Oh wow, ” said Neville enviously as Ron tipped Krum

onto his pudgy hand.

“We saw him right up close, as well,” said Ron. “We

were in the Top Box —”

“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.”

Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind

him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish

cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at

least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had

overheard the conversation through the compartment

door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar.

“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” said

Harry coolly.

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“Weasley … what is that?” said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes was

dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train,

the moldy lace cuff very obvious.

Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy

was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and

pulled.

“Look at this!” said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up

Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, “Weasley,

you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I

mean — they were very fashionable in about eighteen

ninety. …”

“Eat dung, Malfoy!” said Ron, the same color as the

dress robes as he snatched them back out of Malfoy’s

grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe

and Goyle guffawed stupidly.

“So … going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring

a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money

involved as well, you know … you’d be able to afford

some decent robes if you won. …”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Ron.

“Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeated. “I suppose

you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off,

do you?”

“Either explain what you’re on about or go away,

Malfoy,” said Hermione testily, over the top of The

Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.

A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he said delightedly.

“You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and

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you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago … heard it from Cornelius Fudge.

But then, Father’s always associated with the top

people at the Ministry. … Maybe your father’s too

junior to know about it, Weasley … yes … they

probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of

him. …”

Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and

Goyle, and the three of them disappeared.

Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding

compartment door so hard behind them that the glass

shattered.

“Ron!” said Hermione reproachfully, and she pulled

out her wand, muttered “Reparo!” and the glass

shards flew back into a single pane and back into the

door.

“Well … making it look like he knows everything and

we don’t. …” Ron snarled. “ ‘ Father’s always

associated with the top people at the Ministry. ’… Dad

could’ve got a promotion any time … he just likes it

where he is. …”

“Of course he does,” said Hermione quietly. “Don’t let

Malfoy get to you, Ron —”

“Him! Get to me!? As if!” said Ron, picking up one of

the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into

a pulp.

Ron’s bad mood continued for the rest of the journey.

He didn’t talk much as they changed into their school

robes, and was still glowering when the Hogwarts

Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in

the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.

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As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of

thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up

Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron left his dress

robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads

bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The

rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it

was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being

emptied repeatedly over their heads.

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette

at the far end of the platform.

“All righ’, Harry?” Hagrid bellowed back, waving. “See

yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”

First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by

sailing across the lake with Hagrid.

“Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this

weather,” said Hermione fervently, shivering as they

inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of

the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood

waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Ron,

Hermione, and Neville climbed gratefully into one of

them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments

later, with a great lurch, the long procession of

carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the

track toward Hogwarts Castle.

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THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged

boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages

trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast

becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry

could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted

windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick

curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as

their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front

doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps.

People who had occupied the carriages in front were

already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville jumped down from

their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up

only when they were safely inside the cavernous,

torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble

staircase.

“Blimey,” said Ron, shaking his head and sending

water everywhere, “if that keeps up the lake’s going to

overflow. I’m soak — ARRGH!”

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A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and exploded.

Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways

into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped —

narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Harry’s feet,

sending a wave of cold water over his sneakers into

his socks. People all around them shrieked and

started pushing one another in their efforts to get out

of the line of fire. Harry looked up and saw, floating

twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little

man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his

wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as

he took aim again.

“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down

here at ONCE!”

Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and

head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of

the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and

grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself

from falling.

“Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —”

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped,

massaging her throat.

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor

McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and

glaring upward through her square-rimmed

spectacles.

“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water

bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and

dived into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they?

Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another

bomb at a group of second years who had just

arrived.

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“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor

McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves —”

Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his

water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the

marble staircase, cackling insanely.

“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall

sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall,

come on!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped and slid across the

entrance hall and through the double doors on the

right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he

pushed his sopping hair off his face.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self,

decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates

and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and

hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in

midair. The four long House tables were packed with

chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff

sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils.

It was much warmer in here. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the

Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with

the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall,

next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost.

Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed

tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly

large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking

extra-festive, and insuring that his head didn’t wobble

too much on his partially severed neck.

“Good evening,” he said, beaming at them.

“Says who?” said Harry, taking off his sneakers and

emptying them of water. “Hope they hurry up with the

Sorting. I’m starving.”

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The Sorting of the new students into Houses took

place at the start of every school year, but by an

unlucky combination of circumstances, Harry hadn’t

been present at one since his own. He was quite

looking forward to it. Just then, a highly excited,

breathless voice called down the table.

“Hiya, Harry!”

It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry was

something of a hero.

“Hi, Colin,” said Harry warily.

“Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s

starting! My brother Dennis!”

“Er — good,” said Harry.

“He’s really excited!” said Colin, practically bouncing

up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in

Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?”

“Er — yeah, all right,” said Harry. He turned back to

Hermione, Ron, and Nearly Headless Nick. “Brothers

and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don’t

they?” he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all

seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor.

“Oh no, not necessarily,” said Hermione. “Parvati

Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical.

You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?”

Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be

rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of

course, was still fighting his way across the lake with

the first years; Professor McGonagall was presumably

supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but

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there was another empty chair too, and Harry

couldn’t think who else was missing.

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher?” said Hermione, who was also looking up at

the teachers.

They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark

Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms.

Harry’s favorite by far had been Professor Lupin, who

had resigned last year. He looked up and down the

staff table. There was definitely no new face there.

“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” said Hermione,

looking anxious.

Harry scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on

a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the

Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her

flyaway gray hair. She was talking to Professor

Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor

Sinistra’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook-

nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape —

Harry’s least favorite person at Hogwarts. Harry’s

loathing of Snape was matched only by Snape’s

hatred of him, a hatred which had, if possible,

intensified last year, when Harry had helped Sirius

escape right under Snape’s overlarge nose — Snape

and Sirius had been enemies since their own school

days.

On Snape’s other side was an empty seat, which

Harry guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it,

and in the very center of the table, sat Professor

Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair

and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent

deep green robes embroidered with many stars and

moons. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers

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were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon

spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced

up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the

sky outside, and he had never seen it look this

stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across

it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a

fork of lightning flashed across it.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, beside Harry, “I could

eat a hippogriff.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the

doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell.

Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first

years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, and

Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first

years looked. They appeared to have swum across the

lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering

with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed

along the staff table and came to a halt in a line

facing the rest of the school — all of them except the

smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was

wrapped in what Harry recognized as Hagrid’s

moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it

looked as though he were draped in a furry black

circus tent. His small face protruded from over the

collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had

lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught

Colin Creevey’s eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and

mouthed, I fell in the lake! He looked positively

delighted about it.

Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool

on the ground before the first years and, on top of it,

an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first

years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a

moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the

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brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke

into song:

A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favorites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

‘Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I’ve never yet been wrong,

I’ll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

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The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished.

“That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” said

Harry, clapping along with everyone else.

“Sings a different one every year,” said Ron. “It’s got

to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I

suppose it spends all year making up the next one.”

Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll

of parchment.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat

and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When

the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at

the appropriate table.

“Ackerley, Stewart!”

A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to

foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat

down on the stool.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat.

Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a

seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was

applauding him. Harry caught a glimpse of Cho, the

Ravenclaw Seeker, cheering Stewart Ackerley as he

sat down. For a fleeting second, Harry had a strange

desire to join the Ravenclaw table too.

“Baddock, Malcolm!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

The table on the other side of the hall erupted with

cheers; Harry could see Malfoy clapping as Baddock

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joined the Slytherins. Harry wondered whether

Baddock knew that Slytherin House had turned out

more Dark witches and wizards than any other. Fred

and George hissed Malcolm Baddock as he sat down.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Cauldwell, Owen!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Creevey, Dennis!”

Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over

Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into

the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table.

About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least

three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild,

tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming

— a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, and

Hermione knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature.

He winked at them as he sat down at the end of the

staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on

the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide —

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted.

Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis

Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it

back on the stool, and hurried over to join his

brother.

“Colin, I fell in!” he said shrilly, throwing himself into

an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the

water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!”

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“Cool!” said Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!”

“Wow!” said Dennis, as though nobody in their

wildest dreams could hope for more than being

thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and

pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster.

“Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one

with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who

he is, Dennis?”

Harry looked away, staring very hard at the Sorting

Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs.

The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying

degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to

the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as

Professor McGonagall passed the L’s.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach.

“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than

food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!”

became a Hufflepuff.

“ ’Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron.

“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to

scratch,” said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as

“McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We

don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?”

Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship

for the last three years in a row.

“Pritchard, Graham!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

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“Quirke, Orla!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”),

the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up

the hat and the stool and carried them away.

“About time,” said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and

looking expectantly at his golden plate.

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was

smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide

in welcome.

“I have only two words to say to you,” he told them,

his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “Tuck in. ”

“Hear, hear!” said Harry and Ron loudly as the empty

dishes filled magically before their eyes.

Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as Harry,

Ron, and Hermione loaded their own plates.

“Aaah, ’at’s be’er,” said Ron, with his mouth full of

mashed potato.

“You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,”

said Nearly Headless Nick. “There was trouble in the

kitchens earlier.”

“Why? Wha’ ’appened?” said Harry, through a sizable

chunk of steak.

“Peeves, of course,” said Nearly Headless Nick,

shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He

pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The

usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the

feast — well, it’s quite out of the question, you know

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what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council —

the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but

most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his

foot down.”

The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt

and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He

was the only person at Hogwarts who could really

control Peeves.

“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about

something,” said Ron darkly. “So what did he do in

the kitchens?”

“Oh the usual,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging.

“Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans

everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the

house-elves out of their wits —”

Clang.

Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet.

Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth,

staining several feet of white linen orange, but

Hermione paid no attention.

“There are house-elves here?” she said, staring,

horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at

Hogwarts?”

“Certainly,” said Nearly Headless Nick, looking

surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any

dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”

“I’ve never seen one!” said Hermione.

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do

they?” said Nearly Headless Nick. “They come out at

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night to do a bit of cleaning … see to the fires and so on. … I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are

you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that

you don’t know it’s there?”

Hermione stared at him.

“But they get paid?” she said. “They get holidays,

don’t they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and

everything?”

Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff

slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch

or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it

to his neck.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he said, pushing his head

back onto his shoulders and securing it once more

with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and

pensions!”

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of

food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and

pushed it away from her.

“Oh c’mon, ’Er-my-knee,” said Ron, accidentally

spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. “Oops

— sorry, ’Arry —” He swallowed. “You won’t get them

sick leave by starving yourself!”

“Slave labor,” said Hermione, breathing hard through

her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor. ”

And she refused to eat another bite.

The rain was still drumming heavily against the high,

dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the

windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating

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the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.

“Treacle tart, Hermione!” said Ron, deliberately

wafting its smell toward her. “Spotted dick, look!

Chocolate gateau!”

But Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of

Professor McGonagall that he gave up.

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the

last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them

sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet

again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased

almost at once, so that only the howling wind and

pounding rain could be heard.

“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all.

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” (“Hmph!” said

Hermione) “I must once more ask for your attention,

while I give out a few notices.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you

that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has

this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos,

Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The

full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-

seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr.

Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. He

continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all

that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to

students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below

third year.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the

Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this

year.”

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“What?” Harry gasped. He looked around at Fred and George, his fellow members of the Quidditch team.

They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore,

apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore went

on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in

October, and continuing throughout the school year,

taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy —

but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have

great pleasure in announcing that this year at

Hogwarts —”

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of

thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long

staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head

in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger,

suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning

that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood,

shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair,

then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table.

A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every

other step. He reached the end of the top table,

turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore.

Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling.

Hermione gasped.

The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp

relief, and it was a face unlike any Harry had ever

seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of

weathered wood by someone who had only the

vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to

look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel.

Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth

looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the

nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that

made him frightening.

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One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other

was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue.

The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without

blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to

side, quite independently of the normal eye — and

then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the

man’s head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a

hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and

Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn’t

hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the

stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied

in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured

the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray

hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward

him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed

it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket,

speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat.

His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the

blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its

socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark

Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the

silence. “Professor Moody.”

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with

applause, but none of the staff or students clapped

except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their

hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed

dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly

quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by

Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at

him.

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“Moody?” Harry muttered to Ron. “Mad-Eye Moody?

The one your dad went to help this morning?”

“Must be,” said Ron in a low, awed voice.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What

happened to his face?”

“Dunno,” Ron whispered back, watching Moody with

fascination.

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-

warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in

front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak,

pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from

it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a

few inches from the ground, and Harry saw, below the

table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a

clawed foot.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of

students before him, all of whom were still gazing

transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the

honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming

months, an event that has not been held for over a

century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you

that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at

Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” said Fred Weasley loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s

arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and

Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now

that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over

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the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun

who all go into a bar …”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“Er — but maybe this is not the time … no …” said

Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard

Tournament … well, some of you will not know what

this tournament involves, so I hope those who do

know will forgive me for giving a short explanation,

and allow their attention to wander freely.

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established

some seven hundred years ago as a friendly

competition between the three largest European

schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and

Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent

each school, and the three champions competed in

three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to

host the tournament once every five years, and it was

generally agreed to be a most excellent way of

establishing ties between young witches and wizards

of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll

mounted so high that the tournament was

discontinued.”

“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed.

But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the

majority of students in the Hall; many of them were

whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry

himself was far more interested in hearing about the

tournament than in worrying about deaths that had

happened hundreds of years ago.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries

to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued,

“none of which has been very successful. However,

our own departments of International Magical

Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have

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decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this

time, no champion will find himself or herself in

mortal danger.

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be

arriving with their short-listed contenders in October,

and the selection of the three champions will take

place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide

which students are most worthy to compete for the

Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a

thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“I’m going for it!” Fred Weasley hissed down the table,

his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such

glory and riches. He was not the only person who

seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts

champion. At every House table, Harry could see

people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else

whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then

Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once

more.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the

Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the heads of the

participating schools, along with the Ministry of

Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on

contenders this year. Only students who are of age —

that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be

allowed to put forward their names for consideration.

This” — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for

several people had made noises of outrage at these

words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking

furious — “is a measure we feel is necessary, given

that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and

dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is

highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh

year will be able to cope with them. I will personally

be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our

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impartial judge into making them Hogwarts

champion.” His light blue eyes twinkled as they

flickered over Fred’s and George’s mutinous faces. “I

therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting

yourself if you are under seventeen.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

will be arriving in October and remaining with us for

the greater part of this year. I know that you will all

extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they

are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support

to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected.

And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to

you all to be alert and rested as you enter your

lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to

Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and

banging as all the students got to their feet and

swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance

hall.

“They can’t do that!” said George Weasley, who had

not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was

standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re

seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred

stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The

champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be

allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons

prize money!”

“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a

thousand Galleons …”

“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left

here if you don’t move.”

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Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways

in which Dumbledore might stop those who were

under seventeen from entering the tournament.

“Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who

the champions are?” said Harry.

“Dunno,” said Fred, “but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I

reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it,

George. …”

“Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though,” said

Ron.

“Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the

champion is, is he?” said Fred shrewdly. “Sounds to

me like once this judge knows who wants to enter,

he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind

how old they are. Dumbledore’s trying to stop us

giving our names.”

“People have died, though!” said Hermione in a

worried voice as they walked through a door

concealed behind a tapestry and started up another,

narrower staircase.

“Yeah,” said Fred airily, “but that was years ago,

wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of

risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ’round

Dumbledore? Fancy entering?”

“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Harry. “Be cool to

enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want

someone older. … Dunno if we’ve learned enough. …”

“I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from

behind Fred and George.

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“I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s

always going on about how I should be upholding the

family honor. I’ll just have to — oops. …”

Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway

up the staircase. There were many of these trick

stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of

the older students to jump this particular step, but

Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Harry and

Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him

out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs

creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

“Shut it, you,” said Ron, banging down its visor as

they passed.

They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor

Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of

a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said as they approached.

“Balderdash,” said George, “a prefect downstairs told

me.”

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall

through which they all climbed. A crackling fire

warmed the circular common room, which was full of

squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the

merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry

distinctly heard her mutter “Slave labor, ” before

bidding them good night and disappearing through

the doorway to the girls’ dormitory.

Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral

staircase until they reached their own dormitory,

which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-

poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against

the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot.

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Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed;

Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his

headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of

Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of

the West Ham football team was pinned right next to

it.

“Mental,” Ron sighed, shaking his head at the

completely stationary soccer players.

Harry, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and

into bed. Someone — a house-elf, no doubt — had

placed warming pans between the sheets. It was

extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and

listening to the storm raging outside.

“I might go in for it, you know,” Ron said sleepily

through the darkness, “if Fred and George find out

how to … the tournament … you never know, do

you?”

“S’pose not. …”

Harry rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new

pictures forming in his mind’s eye. … He had

hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was

seventeen … he had become Hogwarts champion …

he was standing on the grounds, his arms raised in

triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were

applauding and screaming … he had just won the

Triwizard Tournament. … Cho’s face stood out

particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face

glowing with admiration. …

Harry grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that

Ron couldn’t see what he could.

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MAD-EYE MOODY

The storm had blown itself out by the following

morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still

gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead

as Harry, Ron, and Hermione examined their new

course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along,

Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing

magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing

their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

“Today’s not bad … outside all morning,” said Ron,

who was running his finger down the Monday column

of his schedule. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and

Care of Magical Creatures … damn it, we’re still with

the Slytherins. …”

“Double Divination this afternoon,” Harry groaned,

looking down. Divination was his least favorite

subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept

predicting Harry’s death, which he found extremely

annoying.

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“You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?”

said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast.

“Then you’d be doing something sensible like

Arithmancy.”

“You’re eating again, I notice,” said Ron, watching

Hermione adding liberal amounts of jam to her toast

too.

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand

about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily.

“Yeah … and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning.

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a

hundred owls came soaring through the open

windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively,

Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white

among the mass of brown and gray. The owls circled

the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters

and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl

soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a

parcel into his lap — Neville almost always forgot to

pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco

Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder,

carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets

and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking

feeling of disappointment in his stomach, Harry

returned to his porridge. Was it possible that

something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius

hadn’t even got his letter?

His preoccupation lasted all the way across the

sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in

greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by

Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants

Harry had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like

plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding

vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly

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and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.

“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly.

“They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —”

“The what?” said Seamus Finnigan, sounding

revolted.

“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” said Professor Sprout, “and it’s

extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect

the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-

hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when

undiluted, bubotuber pus.”

Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly

satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large

amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth,

which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the

bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the

end of the lesson had collected several pints.

“This’ll keep Madam Pomfrey happy,” said Professor

Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. “An

excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne,

bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to

desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples.”

“Like poor Eloise Midgen,” said Hannah Abbott, a

Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. “She tried to curse hers

off.”

“Silly girl,” said Professor Sprout, shaking her head.

“But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the

end.”

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet

grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the

class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone

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steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward

Hagrid’s small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge

of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the

collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There

were several open wooden crates on the ground at his

feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his

collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents

more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling

noise reached their ears, punctuated by what

sounded like minor explosions.

“Mornin’!” Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, and

Hermione. “Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’

want ter miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!”

“Come again?” said Ron.

Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

“Eurgh!” squealed Lavender Brown, jumping

backward.

“Eurgh” just about summed up the Blast-Ended

Skrewts in Harry’s opinion. They looked like

deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-

looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and

no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them

in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling

over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of

the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell

of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly

out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it

would be propelled forward several inches.

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“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ’em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit

of a project of it!”

“And why would we want to raise them?” said a cold

voice.

The Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco

Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling

appreciatively at his words.

Hagrid looked stumped at the question.

“I mean, what do they do?” asked Malfoy. “What is the

point of them?”

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard;

there was a few seconds’ pause, then he said roughly,

“Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ’em today.

Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ’em on a few diff’rent things —

I’ve never had ’em before, not sure what they’ll go fer

— I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake

— just try ’em out with a bit of each.”

“First pus and now this,” muttered Seamus.

Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have

made Harry, Ron, and Hermione pick up squelchy

handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates

to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Harry couldn’t

suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was

entirely pointless, because the skrewts didn’t seem to

have mouths.

“Ouch!” yelled Dean Thomas after about ten minutes.

“It got me!”

Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious.

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“Its end exploded!” said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand.

“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” said

Hagrid, nodding.

“Eurgh!” said Lavender Brown again. “Eurgh, Hagrid,

what’s that pointy thing on it?”

“Ah, some of ’em have got stings,” said Hagrid

enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdrew her hand

from the box). “I reckon they’re the males. … The

females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies. … I

think they might be ter suck blood.”

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep

them alive,” said Malfoy sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t

want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?”

“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean

they’re not useful,” Hermione snapped. “Dragon

blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a

dragon for a pet, would you?”

Harry and Ron grinned at Hagrid, who gave them a

furtive smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid

would have liked nothing better than a pet dragon, as

Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew only too well — he

had owned one for a brief period during their first

year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of

Norbert. Hagrid simply loved monstrous creatures,

the more lethal, the better.

“Well, at least the skrewts are small,” said Ron as

they made their way back up to the castle for lunch

an hour later.

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“They are now, ” said Hermione in an exasperated voice, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I

expect they’ll be six feet long.”

“Well, that won’t matter if they turn out to cure

seasickness or something, will it?” said Ron, grinning

slyly at her.

“You know perfectly well I only said that to shut

Malfoy up,” said Hermione. “As a matter of fact I

think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to

stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking

us all.”

They sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped

themselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione

began to eat so fast that Harry and Ron stared at her.

“Er — is this the new stand on elf rights?” said Ron.

“You’re going to make yourself puke instead?”

“No,” said Hermione, with as much dignity as she

could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I

just want to get to the library.”

“What?” said Ron in disbelief. “Hermione — it’s the

first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!”

Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her

food as though she had not eaten for days. Then she

leapt to her feet, said, “See you at dinner!” and

departed at high speed.

When the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon

lessons, Harry and Ron set off for North Tower where,

at the top of a tightly spiraling staircase, a silver

stepladder led to a circular trapdoor in the ceiling,

and the room where Professor Trelawney lived.

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The familiar sweet perfume spreading from the fire met their nostrils as they emerged at the top of the

stepladder. As ever, the curtains were all closed; the

circular room was bathed in a dim reddish light cast

by the many lamps, which were all draped with

scarves and shawls. Harry and Ron walked through

the mass of occupied chintz chairs and poufs that

cluttered the room, and sat down at the same small

circular table.

“Good day,” said the misty voice of Professor

Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump.

A very thin woman with enormous glasses that made

her eyes appear far too large for her face, Professor

Trelawney was peering down at Harry with the tragic

expression she always wore whenever she saw him.

The usual large amount of beads, chains, and bangles

glittered upon her person in the firelight.

“You are preoccupied, my dear,” she said mournfully

to Harry. “My inner eye sees past your brave face to

the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your

worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead

for you, alas … most difficult … I fear the thing you

dread will indeed come to pass … and perhaps sooner

than you think. …”

Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron rolled his

eyes at Harry, who looked stonily back. Professor

Trelawney swept past them and seated herself in a

large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class.

Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply

admired Professor Trelawney, were sitting on poufs

very close to her.

“My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars,” she

said. “The movements of the planets and the

mysterious portents they reveal only to those who

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understand the steps of the celestial dance. Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays,

which intermingle …”

But Harry’s thoughts had drifted. The perfumed fire

always made him feel sleepy and dull-witted, and

Professor Trelawney’s rambling talks on fortune-

telling never held him exactly spellbound — though

he couldn’t help thinking about what she had just

said to him. “ ‘ I fear the thing you dread will indeed

come to pass …’ ”

But Hermione was right, Harry thought irritably,

Professor Trelawney really was an old fraud. He

wasn’t dreading anything at the moment at all … well,

unless you counted his fears that Sirius had been

caught … but what did Professor Trelawney know? He

had long since come to the conclusion that her brand

of fortune-telling was really no more than lucky

guesswork and a spooky manner.

Except, of course, for that time at the end of last

term, when she had made the prediction about

Voldemort rising again … and Dumbledore himself

had said that he thought that trance had been

genuine, when Harry had described it to him. …

“Harry!” Ron muttered.

“What?”

Harry looked around; the whole class was staring at

him. He sat up straight; he had been almost dozing

off, lost in the heat and his thoughts.

“I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born

under the baleful influence of Saturn,” said Professor

Trelawney, a faint note of resentment in her voice at

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the fact that he had obviously not been hanging on her words.

“Born under — what, sorry?” said Harry.

“Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!” said Professor

Trelawney, sounding definitely irritated that he wasn’t

riveted by this news. “I was saying that Saturn was

surely in a position of power in the heavens at the

moment of your birth. … Your dark hair … your mean

stature … tragic losses so young in life … I think I am

right in saying, my dear, that you were born in

midwinter?”

“No,” said Harry, “I was born in July.”

Ron hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough.

Half an hour later, each of them had been given a

complicated circular chart, and was attempting to fill

in the position of the planets at their moment of birth.

It was dull work, requiring much consultation of

timetables and calculation of angles.

“I’ve got two Neptunes here,” said Harry after a while,

frowning down at his piece of parchment, “that can’t

be right, can it?”

“Aaaaah,” said Ron, imitating Professor Trelawney’s

mystical whisper, “when two Neptunes appear in the

sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being

born, Harry …”

Seamus and Dean, who were working nearby,

sniggered loudly, though not loudly enough to mask

the excited squeals from Lavender Brown — “Oh

Professor, look! I think I’ve got an unaspected planet!

Oooh, which one’s that, Professor?”

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“It is Uranus, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, peering down at the chart.

“Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?” said

Ron.

Most unfortunately, Professor Trelawney heard him,

and it was this, perhaps, that made her give them so

much homework at the end of the class.

“A detailed analysis of the way the planetary

movements in the coming month will affect you, with

reference to your personal chart,” she snapped,

sounding much more like Professor McGonagall than

her usual airy-fairy self. “I want it ready to hand in

next Monday, and no excuses!”

“Miserable old bat,” said Ron bitterly as they joined

the crowds descending the staircases back to the

Great Hall and dinner. “That’ll take all weekend, that

will. …”

“Lots of homework?” said Hermione brightly, catching

up with them. “Professor Vector didn’t give us any at

all!”

“Well, bully for Professor Vector,” said Ron moodily.

They reached the entrance hall, which was packed

with people queuing for dinner. They had just joined

the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind

them.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned. Malfoy, Crabbe,

and Goyle were standing there, each looking

thoroughly pleased about something.

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“What?” said Ron shortly.

“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” said Malfoy,

brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking

very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance

hall could hear. “Listen to this!

FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are

not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special

Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd

control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to

account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the

Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment

yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the

Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

Malfoy looked up.

“Imagine them not even getting his name right,

Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete

nonentity, isn’t it?” he crowed.

Everyone in the entrance hall was listening now.

Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and

read on:

Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of

a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in

a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”)

over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr.

Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of “Mad-

Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the

Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference

between a handshake and attempted murder.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr.

Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had

once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was

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forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer

Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved

the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially

embarrassing scene.

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” said Malfoy, flipping

the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your

parents outside their house — if you can call it a

house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of

weight, couldn’t she?”

Ron was shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at

him.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron. …”

“Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer,

weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is

his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?”

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry — both

he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s

robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy —

“that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under

her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it

just because you were with her?”

Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink.

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.”

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning

away.

BANG!

Several people screamed — Harry felt something

white-hot graze the side of his face — he plunged his

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hand into his robes for his wand, but before he’d even touched it, he heard a second loud BANG, and a roar

that echoed through the entrance hall.

“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!”

Harry spun around. Professor Moody was limping

down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it

was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was

shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where

Malfoy had been standing.

There was a terrified silence in the entrance hall.

Nobody but Moody was moving a muscle. Moody

turned to look at Harry — at least, his normal eye was

looking at Harry; the other one was pointing into the

back of his head.

“Did he get you?” Moody growled. His voice was low

and gravelly.

“No,” said Harry, “missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted.

“Leave — what?” Harry said, bewildered.

“Not you — him!” Moody growled, jerking his thumb

over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen,

about to pick up the white ferret. It seemed that

Moody’s rolling eye was magical and could see out of

the back of his head.

Moody started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the

ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off,

streaking toward the dungeons.

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at

the ferret again — it flew ten feet into the air, fell with

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a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once more.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s

back’s turned,” growled Moody as the ferret bounced

higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking,

cowardly, scummy thing to do. …”

The ferret flew through the air, its legs and tail flailing

helplessly.

“Never — do — that — again —” said Moody, speaking

each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and

bounced upward again.

“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice.

Professor McGonagall was coming down the marble

staircase with her arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Moody calmly,

bouncing the ferret still higher.

“What — what are you doing?” said Professor

McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s

progress through the air.

“Teaching,” said Moody.

“Teach — Moody, is that a student?” shrieked

Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her

arms.

“Yep,” said Moody.

“No!” cried Professor McGonagall, running down the

stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with

a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy had reappeared,

lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blond hair

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all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his feet, wincing.

“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a

punishment!” said Professor McGonagall weakly.

“Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody,

scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a

good sharp shock —”

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s

Head of House!”

“I’ll do that, then,” said Moody, staring at Malfoy with

great dislike.

Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain

and humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody

and muttered something in which the words “my

father” were distinguishable.

“Oh yeah?” said Moody quietly, limping forward a few

steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around

the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy. … You

tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son … you

tell him that from me. … Now, your Head of House’ll

be Snape, will it?”

“Yes,” said Malfoy resentfully.

“Another old friend,” growled Moody. “I’ve been

looking forward to a chat with old Snape. … Come on,

you. …”

And he seized Malfoy’s upper arm and marched him

off toward the dungeons.

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Professor McGonagall stared anxiously after them for a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen

books, causing them to soar up into the air and back

into her arms.

“Don’t talk to me,” Ron said quietly to Harry and

Hermione as they sat down at the Gryffindor table a

few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all

sides about what had just happened.

“Why not?” said Hermione in surprise.

“Because I want to fix that in my memory forever,”

said Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression

on his face. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing

ferret …”

Harry and Hermione both laughed, and Hermione

began doling beef casserole onto each of their plates.

“He could have really hurt Malfoy, though,” she said.

“It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall

stopped it —”

“Hermione!” said Ron furiously, his eyes snapping

open again, “you’re ruining the best moment of my

life!”

Hermione made an impatient noise and began to eat

at top speed again.

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to the library this

evening?” said Harry, watching her.

“Got to,” said Hermione thickly. “Loads to do.”

“But you told us Professor Vector —”

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“It’s not schoolwork,” she said. Within five minutes, she had cleared her plate and departed. No sooner

had she gone than her seat was taken by Fred

Weasley.

“Moody!” he said. “How cool is he?”

“Beyond cool,” said George, sitting down opposite

Fred.

“Supercool,” said the twins’ best friend, Lee Jordan,

sliding into the seat beside George. “We had him this

afternoon,” he told Harry and Ron.

“What was it like?” said Harry eagerly.

Fred, George, and Lee exchanged looks full of

meaning.

“Never had a lesson like it,” said Fred.

“He knows, man,” said Lee.

“Knows what?” said Ron, leaning forward.

“Knows what it’s like to be out there doing it,” said

George impressively.

“Doing what?” said Harry.

“Fighting the Dark Arts,” said Fred.

“He’s seen it all,” said George.

“ ’Mazing,” said Lee.

Ron dived into his bag for his schedule.

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“We haven’t got him till Thursday!” he said in a

disappointed voice.

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THE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES

The next two days passed without great incident,

unless you counted Neville melting his sixth cauldron

in Potions. Professor Snape, who seemed to have

attained new levels of vindictiveness over the

summer, gave Neville detention, and Neville returned

from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been

made to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads.

“You know why Snape’s in such a foul mood, don’t

you?” said Ron to Harry as they watched Hermione

teaching Neville a Scouring Charm to remove the frog

guts from under his fingernails.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Moody.”

It was common knowledge that Snape really wanted

the Dark Arts job, and he had now failed to get it for

the fourth year running. Snape had disliked all of

their previous Dark Arts teachers, and shown it —

but he seemed strangely wary of displaying overt

animosity to Mad-Eye Moody. Indeed, whenever Harry

saw the two of them together — at mealtimes, or

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when they passed in the corridors — he had the

distinct impression that Snape was avoiding Moody’s

eye, whether magical or normal.

“I reckon Snape’s a bit scared of him, you know,”

Harry said thoughtfully.

“Imagine if Moody turned Snape into a horned toad,”

said Ron, his eyes misting over, “and bounced him all

around his dungeon. …”

The Gryffindor fourth years were looking forward to

Moody’s first lesson so much that they arrived early

on Thursday lunchtime and queued up outside his

classroom before the bell had even rung. The only

person missing was Hermione, who turned up just in

time for the lesson.

“Been in the —”

“Library.” Harry finished her sentence for her.

“C’mon, quick, or we won’t get decent seats.”

They hurried into three chairs right in front of the

teacher’s desk, took out their copies of The Dark

Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and waited,

unusually quiet. Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive

clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he

entered the room, looking as strange and frightening

as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot

protruding from underneath his robes.

“You can put those away,” he growled, stumping over

to his desk and sitting down, “those books. You won’t

need them.”

They returned the books to their bags, Ron looking

excited.

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Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of

grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face,

and began to call out names, his normal eye moving

steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled

around, fixing upon each student as he or she

answered.

“Right then,” he said, when the last person had

declared themselves present, “I’ve had a letter from

Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a

pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures

— you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks,

grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with

curses,” said Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to

scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got

one year to teach you how to deal with Dark —”

“What, aren’t you staying?” Ron blurted out.

Moody’s magical eye spun around to stare at Ron;

Ron looked extremely apprehensive, but after a

moment Moody smiled — the first time Harry had

seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily

scarred face look more twisted and contorted than

ever, but it was nevertheless good to know that he

ever did anything as friendly as smile. Ron looked

deeply relieved.

“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody said.

“Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few

days ago. … Yeah, I’m staying just the one year.

Special favor to Dumbledore. … One year, and then

back to my quiet retirement.”

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He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together.

“So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many

strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry

of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses

and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you

what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the

sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to

deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got

a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can

cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up

against, the better. How are you supposed to defend

yourself against something you’ve never seen? A

wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t

going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going

to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be

prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You

need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m

talking.”

Lavender jumped and blushed. She had been showing

Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk.

Apparently Moody’s magical eye could see through

solid wood, as well as out of the back of his head.

“So … do any of you know which curses are most

heavily punished by wizarding law?”

Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including

Ron’s and Hermione’s. Moody pointed at Ron, though

his magical eye was still fixed on Lavender.

“Er,” said Ron tentatively, “my dad told me about one.

… Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?”

“Ah, yes,” said Moody appreciatively. “Your father

would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of

trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.”

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Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large

black spiders were scuttling around inside it. Harry

felt Ron recoil slightly next to him — Ron hated

spiders.

Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders,

and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could

all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and

muttered, “Imperio!”

The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread

of silk and began to swing backward and forward as

though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly,

then did a back flip, breaking the thread and landing

on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles.

Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two

of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably

a tap dance.

Everyone was laughing — everyone except Moody.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it,

would you, if I did it to you?”

The laughter died away almost instantly.

“Total control,” said Moody quietly as the spider

balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I

could make it jump out of the window, drown itself,

throw itself down one of your throats …”

Ron gave an involuntary shudder.

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards

being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” said Moody,

and Harry knew he was talking about the days in

which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for

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the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be

teaching you how, but it takes real strength of

character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid

being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

he barked, and everyone jumped.

Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw

it back into the jar.

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

Hermione’s hand flew into the air again and so, to

Harry’s slight surprise, did Neville’s. The only class in

which Neville usually volunteered information was

Herbology, which was easily his best subject. Neville

looked surprised at his own daring.

“Yes?” said Moody, his magical eye rolling right over

to fix on Neville.

“There’s one — the Cruciatus Curse,” said Neville in a

small but distinct voice.

Moody was looking very intently at Neville, this time

with both eyes.

“Your name’s Longbottom?” he said, his magical eye

swooping down to check the register again.

Neville nodded nervously, but Moody made no further

inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he

reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it

upon the desktop, where it remained motionless,

apparently too scared to move.

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“The Cruciatus Curse,” said Moody. “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea,” he said, pointing his

wand at the spider. “Engorgio!”

The spider swelled. It was now larger than a

tarantula. Abandoning all pretense, Ron pushed his

chair backward, as far away from Moody’s desk as

possible.

Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider,

and muttered, “Crucio!”

At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it

rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from

side to side. No sound came from it, but Harry was

sure that if it could have given voice, it would have

been screaming. Moody did not remove his wand, and

the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently

—

“Stop it!” Hermione said shrilly.

Harry looked around at her. She was looking, not at

the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her

gaze, saw that Neville’s hands were clenched upon the

desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes

wide and horrified.

Moody raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but

it continued to twitch.

“Reducio, ” Moody muttered, and the spider shrank

back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar.

“Pain,” said Moody softly. “You don’t need

thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can

perform the Cruciatus Curse. … That one was very

popular once too.

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“Right … anyone know any others?”

Harry looked around. From the looks on everyone’s

faces, he guessed they were all wondering what was

going to happen to the last spider. Hermione’s hand

shook slightly as, for the third time, she raised it into

the air.

“Yes?” said Moody, looking at her.

“Avada Kedavra, ” Hermione whispered.

Several people looked uneasily around at her,

including Ron.

“Ah,” said Moody, another slight smile twisting his

lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada

Kedavra … the Killing Curse.”

He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as

though it knew what was coming, the third spider

scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar,

trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he trapped it, and

placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle

frantically across the wooden surface.

Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill

of foreboding.

“Avada Kedavra!” Moody roared.

There was a flash of blinding green light and a

rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something

was soaring through the air — instantaneously the

spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but

unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled

cries; Ron had thrown himself backward and almost

toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward him.

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Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the

floor.

“Not nice,” he said calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s

no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one

known person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting

right in front of me.”

Harry felt his face redden as Moody’s eyes (both of

them) looked into his own. He could feel everyone else

looking around at him too. Harry stared at the blank

blackboard as though fascinated by it, but not really

seeing it at all. …

So that was how his parents had died … exactly like

that spider. Had they been unblemished and

unmarked too? Had they simply seen the flash of

green light and heard the rush of speeding death,

before life was wiped from their bodies?

Harry had been picturing his parents’ deaths over

and over again for three years now, ever since he’d

found out they had been murdered, ever since he’d

found out what had happened that night: Wormtail

had betrayed his parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort,

who had come to find them at their cottage. How

Voldemort had killed Harry’s father first. How James

Potter had tried to hold him off, while he shouted at

his wife to take Harry and run … Voldemort had

advanced on Lily Potter, told her to move aside so

that he could kill Harry … how she had begged him to

kill her instead, refused to stop shielding her son …

and so Voldemort had murdered her too, before

turning his wand on Harry. …

Harry knew these details because he had heard his

parents’ voices when he had fought the dementors

last year — for that was the terrible power of the

dementors: to force their victims to relive the worst

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memories of their lives, and drown, powerless, in their own despair. …

Moody was speaking again, from a great distance, it

seemed to Harry. With a massive effort, he pulled

himself back to the present and listened to what

Moody was saying.

“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of

magic behind it — you could all get your wands out

now and point them at me and say the words, and I

doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that

doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.

“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing

you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to

appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find

yourself in a situation where you’re facing it.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, and the whole

class jumped again.

“Now … those three curses — Avada Kedavra,

Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the

Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a

fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence

in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s

what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need

preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you

need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get

out your quills … copy this down. …”

They spent the rest of the lesson taking notes on each

of the Unforgivable Curses. No one spoke until the

bell rang — but when Moody had dismissed them and

they had left the classroom, a torrent of talk burst

forth. Most people were discussing the curses in awed

voices — “Did you see it twitch?” “— and when he

killed it — just like that!”

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They were talking about the lesson, Harry thought, as though it had been some sort of spectacular show,

but he hadn’t found it very entertaining — and nor, it

seemed, had Hermione.

“Hurry up,” she said tensely to Harry and Ron.

“Not the ruddy library again?” said Ron.

“No,” said Hermione curtly, pointing up a side

passage. “Neville.”

Neville was standing alone, halfway up the passage,

staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same

horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody

had demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse.

“Neville?” Hermione said gently.

Neville looked around.

“Oh hello,” he said, his voice much higher than usual.

“Interesting lesson, wasn’t it? I wonder what’s for

dinner, I’m — I’m starving, aren’t you?”

“Neville, are you all right?” said Hermione.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” Neville gabbled in the same

unnaturally high voice. “Very interesting dinner — I

mean lesson — what’s for eating?”

Ron gave Harry a startled look.

“Neville, what — ?”

But an odd clunking noise sounded behind them, and

they turned to see Professor Moody limping toward

them. All four of them fell silent, watching him

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apprehensively, but when he spoke, it was in a much lower and gentler growl than they had yet heard.

“It’s all right, sonny,” he said to Neville. “Why don’t

you come up to my office? Come on … we can have a

cup of tea. …”

Neville looked even more frightened at the prospect of

tea with Moody. He neither moved nor spoke. Moody

turned his magical eye upon Harry.

“You all right, are you, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry, almost defiantly.

Moody’s blue eye quivered slightly in its socket as it

surveyed Harry. Then he said, “You’ve got to know. It

seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point

pretending … well … come on, Longbottom, I’ve got

some books that might interest you.”

Neville looked pleadingly at Harry, Ron, and

Hermione, but they didn’t say anything, so Neville

had no choice but to allow himself to be steered away,

one of Moody’s gnarled hands on his shoulder.

“What was that about?” said Ron, watching Neville

and Moody turn the corner.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, looking pensive.

“Some lesson, though, eh?” said Ron to Harry as they

set off for the Great Hall. “Fred and George were right,

weren’t they? He really knows his stuff, Moody,

doesn’t he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that

spider just died, just snuffed it right —”

But Ron fell suddenly silent at the look on Harry’s

face and didn’t speak again until they reached the

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Great Hall, when he said he supposed they had better make a start on Professor Trelawney’s predictions

tonight, since they would take hours.

Hermione did not join in with Harry and Ron’s

conversation during dinner, but ate furiously fast,

and then left for the library again. Harry and Ron

walked back to Gryffindor Tower, and Harry, who had

been thinking of nothing else all through dinner, now

raised the subject of the Unforgivable Curses himself.

“Wouldn’t Moody and Dumbledore be in trouble with

the Ministry if they knew we’d seen the curses?”

Harry asked as they approached the Fat Lady.

“Yeah, probably,” said Ron. “But Dumbledore’s always

done things his way, hasn’t he, and Moody’s been

getting in trouble for years, I reckon. Attacks first and

asks questions later — look at his dustbins.

Balderdash.”

The Fat Lady swung forward to reveal the entrance

hole, and they climbed into the Gryffindor common

room, which was crowded and noisy.

“Shall we get our Divination stuff, then?” said Harry.

“I s’pose,” Ron groaned.

They went up to the dormitory to fetch their books

and charts, to find Neville there alone, sitting on his

bed, reading. He looked a good deal calmer than at

the end of Moody’s lesson, though still not entirely

normal. His eyes were rather red.

“You all right, Neville?” Harry asked him.

“Oh yes,” said Neville, “I’m fine, thanks. Just reading

this book Professor Moody lent me. …”

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He held up the book: Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean.

“Apparently, Professor Sprout told Professor Moody

I’m really good at Herbology,” Neville said. There was

a faint note of pride in his voice that Harry had rarely

heard there before. “He thought I’d like this.”

Telling Neville what Professor Sprout had said, Harry

thought, had been a very tactful way of cheering

Neville up, for Neville very rarely heard that he was

good at anything. It was the sort of thing Professor

Lupin would have done.

Harry and Ron took their copies of Unfogging the

Future back down to the common room, found a

table, and set to work on their predictions for the

coming month. An hour later, they had made very

little progress, though their table was littered with

bits of parchment bearing sums and symbols, and

Harry’s brain was as fogged as though it had been

filled with the fumes from Professor Trelawney’s fire.

“I haven’t got a clue what this lot’s supposed to

mean,” he said, staring down at a long list of

calculations.

“You know,” said Ron, whose hair was on end

because of all the times he had run his fingers

through it in frustration, “I think it’s back to the old

Divination standby.”

“What — make it up?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, sweeping the jumble of scrawled

notes off the table, dipping his pen into some ink, and

starting to write.

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“Next Monday,” he said as he scribbled, “I am likely to develop a cough, owing to the unlucky conjunction of

Mars and Jupiter.” He looked up at Harry. “You know

her — just put in loads of misery, she’ll lap it up.”

“Right,” said Harry, crumpling up his first attempt

and lobbing it over the heads of a group of chattering

first years into the fire. “Okay … on Monday, I will be

in danger of — er — burns.”

“Yeah, you will be,” said Ron darkly, “we’re seeing the

skrewts again on Monday. Okay, Tuesday, I’ll … erm

…”

“Lose a treasured possession,” said Harry, who was

flicking through Unfogging the Future for ideas.

“Good one,” said Ron, copying it down. “Because of

… erm … Mercury. Why don’t you get stabbed in the

back by someone you thought was a friend?”

“Yeah … cool …” said Harry, scribbling it down,

“because … Venus is in the twelfth house.”

“And on Wednesday, I think I’ll come off worst in a

fight.”

“Aaah, I was going to have a fight. Okay, I’ll lose a

bet.”

“Yeah, you’ll be betting I’ll win my fight. …”

They continued to make up predictions (which grew

steadily more tragic) for another hour, while the

common room around them slowly emptied as people

went up to bed. Crookshanks wandered over to them,

leapt lightly into an empty chair, and stared

inscrutably at Harry, rather as Hermione might look if

she knew they weren’t doing their homework properly.

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Staring around the room, trying to think of a kind of misfortune he hadn’t yet used, Harry saw Fred and

George sitting together against the opposite wall,

heads together, quills out, poring over a single piece

of parchment. It was most unusual to see Fred and

George hidden away in a corner and working silently;

they usually liked to be in the thick of things and the

noisy center of attention. There was something

secretive about the way they were working on the

piece of parchment, and Harry was reminded of how

they had sat together writing something back at the

Burrow. He had thought then that it was another

order form for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but it didn’t

look like that this time; if it had been, they would

surely have let Lee Jordan in on the joke. He

wondered whether it had anything to do with entering

the Triwizard Tournament.

As Harry watched, George shook his head at Fred,

scratched out something with his quill, and said, in a

very quiet voice that nevertheless carried across the

almost deserted room, “No — that sounds like we’re

accusing him. Got to be careful …”

Then George looked over and saw Harry watching

him. Harry grinned and quickly returned to his

predictions — he didn’t want George to think he was

eavesdropping. Shortly after that, the twins rolled up

their parchment, said good night, and went off to bed.

Fred and George had been gone ten minutes or so

when the portrait hole opened and Hermione climbed

into the common room carrying a sheaf of parchment

in one hand and a box whose contents rattled as she

walked in the other. Crookshanks arched his back,

purring.

“Hello,” she said, “I’ve just finished!”

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“So have I!” said Ron triumphantly, throwing down

his quill.

Hermione sat down, laid the things she was carrying

in an empty armchair, and pulled Ron’s predictions

toward her.

“Not going to have a very good month, are you?” she

said sardonically as Crookshanks curled up in her

lap.

“Ah well, at least I’m forewarned,” Ron yawned.

“You seem to be drowning twice,” said Hermione.

“Oh am I?” said Ron, peering down at his predictions.

“I’d better change one of them to getting trampled by

a rampaging hippogriff.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious you’ve made these

up?” said Hermione.

“How dare you!” said Ron, in mock outrage. “We’ve

been working like house-elves here!”

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“It’s just an expression,” said Ron hastily.

Harry laid down his quill too, having just finished

predicting his own death by decapitation.

“What’s in the box?” he asked, pointing at it.

“Funny you should ask,” said Hermione, with a nasty

look at Ron. She took off the lid and showed them the

contents.

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Inside were about fifty badges, all of different colors, but all bearing the same letters: S.P.E.W.

“ ‘Spew’?” said Harry, picking up a badge and looking

at it. “What’s this about?”

“Not spew, ” said Hermione impatiently. “It’s S-P-E-W.

Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish

Welfare.”

“Never heard of it,” said Ron.

“Well, of course you haven’t,” said Hermione briskly,

“I’ve only just started it.”

“Yeah?” said Ron in mild surprise. “How many

members have you got?”

“Well — if you two join — three,” said Hermione.

“And you think we want to walk around wearing

badges saying ‘spew,’ do you?” said Ron.

“S-P-E-W!” said Hermione hotly. “I was going to put

Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical

Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal

Status — but it wouldn’t fit. So that’s the heading of

our manifesto.”

She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them.

“I’ve been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf

enslavement goes back centuries. I can’t believe no

one’s done anything about it before now.”

“Hermione — open your ears,” said Ron loudly. “They.

Like. It. They like being enslaved!”

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“Our short-term aims,” said Hermione, speaking even more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she

hadn’t heard a word, “are to secure house-elves fair

wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims

include changing the law about non-wand use, and

trying to get an elf into the Department for the

Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because

they’re shockingly underrepresented.”

“And how do we do all this?” Harry asked.

“We start by recruiting members,” said Hermione

happily. “I thought two Sickles to join — that buys a

badge — and the proceeds can fund our leaflet

campaign. You’re treasurer, Ron — I’ve got you a

collecting tin upstairs — and Harry, you’re secretary,

so you might want to write down everything I’m

saying now, as a record of our first meeting.”

There was a pause in which Hermione beamed at the

pair of them, and Harry sat, torn between

exasperation at Hermione and amusement at the look

on Ron’s face. The silence was broken, not by Ron,

who in any case looked as though he was temporarily

dumbstruck, but by a soft tap, tap on the window.

Harry looked across the now empty common room

and saw, illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl

perched on the windowsill.

“Hedwig!” he shouted, and he launched himself out of

his chair and across the room to pull open the

window.

Hedwig flew inside, soared across the room, and

landed on the table on top of Harry’s predictions.

“About time!” said Harry, hurrying after her.

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“She’s got an answer!” said Ron excitedly, pointing at the grubby piece of parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg.

Harry hastily untied it and sat down to read,

whereupon Hedwig fluttered onto his knee, hooting

softly.

“What does it say?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

The letter was very short, and looked as though it had

been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry read it aloud:

Harry —

I’m flying north immediately. This news about your

scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that

have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to

Dumbledore — they’re saying he’s got Mad-Eye out of

retirement, which means he’s reading the signs, even if

no one else is.

I’ll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione.

Keep your eyes open, Harry.

Sirius

Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione, who stared

back at him.

“He’s flying north?” Hermione whispered. “He’s

coming back?”

“Dumbledore’s reading what signs?” said Ron, looking

perplexed. “Harry — what’s up?”

For Harry had just hit himself in the forehead with

his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap.

“I shouldn’t’ve told him!” Harry said furiously.

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“What are you on about?” said Ron in surprise.

“It’s made him think he’s got to come back!” said

Harry, now slamming his fist on the table so that

Hedwig landed on the back of Ron’s chair, hooting

indignantly. “Coming back, because he thinks I’m in

trouble! And there’s nothing wrong with me! And I

haven’t got anything for you,” Harry snapped at

Hedwig, who was clicking her beak expectantly,

“you’ll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food.”

Hedwig gave him an extremely offended look and took

off for the open window, cuffing him around the head

with her outstretched wing as she went.

“Harry,” Hermione began, in a pacifying sort of voice.

“I’m going to bed,” said Harry shortly. “See you in the

morning.”

Upstairs in the dormitory he pulled on his pajamas

and got into his four-poster, but he didn’t feel

remotely tired.

If Sirius came back and got caught, it would be his,

Harry’s, fault. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? A

few seconds’ pain and he’d had to blab. … If he’d just

had the sense to keep it to himself. …

He heard Ron come up into the dormitory a short

while later, but did not speak to him. For a long time,

Harry lay staring up at the dark canopy of his bed.

The dormitory was completely silent, and, had he

been less preoccupied, Harry would have realized that

the absence of Neville’s usual snores meant that he

was not the only one lying awake.

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BEAUXBATONS AND DRUMSTRANG

Early next morning, Harry woke with a plan fully

formed in his mind, as though his sleeping brain had

been working on it all night. He got up, dressed in the

pale dawn light, left the dormitory without waking

Ron, and went back down to the deserted common

room. Here he took a piece of parchment from the

table upon which his Divination homework still lay

and wrote the following letter:

Dear Sirius,

I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half

asleep when I wrote to you last time. There’s no point

coming back, everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about

me, my head feels completely normal.

Harry

He then climbed out of the portrait hole, up through

the silent castle (held up only briefly by Peeves, who

tried to overturn a large vase on him halfway along

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the fourth-floor corridor), finally arriving at the Owlery, which was situated at the top of West Tower.

The Owlery was a circular stone room, rather cold

and drafty, because none of the windows had glass in

them. The floor was entirely covered in straw, owl

droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and

voles. Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every

breed imaginable were nestled here on perches that

rose right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of

them asleep, though here and there a round amber

eye glared at Harry. He spotted Hedwig nestled

between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurried over to

her, sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor.

It took him a while to persuade her to wake up and

then to look at him, as she kept shuffling around on

her perch, showing him her tail. She was evidently

still furious about his lack of gratitude the previous

night. In the end, it was Harry suggesting she might

be too tired, and that perhaps he would ask Ron to

borrow Pigwidgeon, that made her stick out her leg

and allow him to tie the letter to it.

“Just find him, all right?” Harry said, stroking her

back as he carried her on his arm to one of the holes

in the wall. “Before the dementors do.”

She nipped his finger, perhaps rather harder than she

would ordinarily have done, but hooted softly in a

reassuring sort of way all the same. Then she spread

her wings and took off into the sunrise. Harry

watched her fly out of sight with the familiar feeling of

unease back in his stomach. He had been so sure

that Sirius’s reply would alleviate his worries rather

than increasing them.

“That was a lie, Harry,” said Hermione sharply over

breakfast, when he told her and Ron what he had

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done. “You didn’t imagine your scar hurting and you know it.”

“So what?” said Harry. “He’s not going back to

Azkaban because of me.”

“Drop it,” said Ron sharply to Hermione as she

opened her mouth to argue some more, and for once,

Hermione heeded him, and fell silent.

Harry did his best not to worry about Sirius over the

next couple of weeks. True, he could not stop himself

from looking anxiously around every morning when

the post owls arrived, nor, late at night before he went

to sleep, prevent himself from seeing horrible visions

of Sirius, cornered by dementors down some dark

London street, but betweentimes he tried to keep his

mind off his godfather. He wished he still had

Quidditch to distract him; nothing worked so well on

a troubled mind as a good, hard training session. On

the other hand, their lessons were becoming more

difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly

Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts.

To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced

that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each

of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see

whether they could resist its effects.

“But — but you said it’s illegal, Professor,” said

Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away the

desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear

space in the middle of the room. “You said — to use it

against another human was —”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,”

said Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione

and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If

you’d rather learn the hard way — when someone’s

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putting it on you so they can control you completely

— fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.”

He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door.

Hermione went very pink and muttered something

about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry

and Ron grinned at each other. They knew Hermione

would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an

important lesson.

Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and

put the Imperius Curse upon them. Harry watched

as, one by one, his classmates did the most

extraordinary things under its influence. Dean

Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing

the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitated a

squirrel. Neville performed a series of quite

astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have

been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them

seemed to be able to fight off the curse, and each of

them recovered only when Moody had removed it.

“Potter,” Moody growled, “you next.”

Harry moved forward into the middle of the

classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of

desks. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry,

and said, “Imperio!”

It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating

sensation as every thought and worry in his head was

wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague,

untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling

immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone

watching him.

And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in

some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto

the desk … jump onto the desk. …

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Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring.

Jump onto the desk. …

Why, though? Another voice had awoken in the back

of his brain.

Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice.

Jump onto the desk. …

No, I don’t think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a

little more firmly … no, I don’t really want to. …

Jump! NOW!

The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He

had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from

jumping — the result was that he’d smashed

headlong into the desk, knocking it over, and, by the

feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps.

“Now, that’s more like it!” growled Moody’s voice, and

suddenly, Harry felt the empty, echoing feeling in his

head disappear. He remembered exactly what was

happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to

double.

“Look at that, you lot … Potter fought! He fought it,

and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter,

and the rest of you, pay attention — watch his eyes,

that’s where you see it — very good, Potter, very good

indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!”

“The way he talks,” Harry muttered as he hobbled out

of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour

later (Moody had insisted on putting Harry through

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his paces four times in a row, until Harry could throw off the curse entirely), “you’d think we were all going

to be attacked any second.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, who was skipping on every

alternate step. He had had much more difficulty with

the curse than Harry, though Moody assured him the

effects would wear off by lunch-time. “Talk about

paranoid …” Ron glanced nervously over his shoulder

to check that Moody was definitely out of earshot and

went on. “No wonder they were glad to get shot of him

at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus

what he did to that witch who shouted ‘Boo’ behind

him on April Fools’ Day? And when are we supposed

to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with

everything else we’ve got to do?”

All the fourth years had noticed a definite increase in

the amount of work they were required to do this

term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the

class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of

Transfiguration homework she had assigned.

“You are now entering a most important phase of your

magical education!” she told them, her eyes glinting

dangerously behind her square spectacles. “Your

Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer —”

“We don’t take O.W.L.s till fifth year!” said Dean

Thomas indignantly.

“Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the

preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the

only person in this class who has managed to turn a

hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might

remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls

up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!”

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Hermione, who had turned rather pink again, seemed to be trying not to look too pleased with herself.

Harry and Ron were deeply amused when Professor

Trelawney told them that they had received top marks

for their homework in their next Divination class. She

read out large portions of their predictions,

commending them for their unflinching acceptance of

the horrors in store for them — but they were less

amused when she asked them to do the same thing

for the month after next; both of them were running

out of ideas for catastrophes.

Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who taught

History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on

the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century.

Professor Snape was forcing them to research

antidotes. They took this one seriously, as he had

hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before

Christmas to see if their antidote worked. Professor

Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books in

preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms.

Even Hagrid was adding to their workload. The Blast-

Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace

given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate.

Hagrid was delighted, and as part of their “project,”

suggested that they come down to his hut on

alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make

notes on their extraordinary behavior.

“I will not,” said Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid had

proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling

an extra-large toy out of his sack. “I see enough of

these foul things during lessons, thanks.”

Hagrid’s smile faded off his face.

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“Yeh’ll do wha’ yer told,” he growled, “or I’ll be takin’ a leaf outta Professor Moody’s book. … I hear yeh made

a good ferret, Malfoy.”

The Gryffindors roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed

with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s

punishment was still sufficiently painful to stop him

from retorting. Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned to

the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits;

seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy was particularly

satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his

very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year.

When they arrived in the entrance hall, they found

themselves unable to proceed owing to the large

crowd of students congregated there, all milling

around a large sign that had been erected at the foot

of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of the three,

stood on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of them

and read the sign aloud to the other two:

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

will be arriving at 6 o’clock on Friday the 30th of

October. Lessons will end half an hour early —

“Brilliant!” said Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on

Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!”

Students will return their bags and books to their

dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to

greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast.

“Only a week away!” said Ernie Macmillan of

Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes

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gleaming. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him. …”

“Cedric?” said Ron blankly as Ernie hurried off.

“Diggory,” said Harry. “He must be entering the

tournament.”

“That idiot, Hogwarts champion?” said Ron as they

pushed their way through the chattering crowd

toward the staircase.

“He’s not an idiot. You just don’t like him because he

beat Gryffindor at Quidditch,” said Hermione. “I’ve

heard he’s a really good student — and he’s a

prefect.”

She spoke as though this settled the matter.

“You only like him because he’s handsome, ” said Ron

scathingly.

“Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re

handsome!” said Hermione indignantly.

Ron gave a loud false cough, which sounded oddly

like “Lockhart!”

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a

marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle.

During the following week, there seemed to be only

one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry

went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumors were flying

from student to student like highly contagious germs:

who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what

the tournament would involve, how the students from

Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from

themselves.

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Harry noticed too that the castle seemed to be

undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy

portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure

of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames

muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their raw

pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly

gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus

Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to

any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he

terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

Other members of the staff seemed oddly tense too.

“Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can’t even

perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone

from Durmstrang!” Professor McGonagall barked at

the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during

which Neville had accidentally transplanted his own

ears onto a cactus.

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of

the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great

Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk

banners hung from the walls, each of them

representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion

for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for

Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff,

and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind

the teachers’ table, the largest banner of all bore the

Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake

united around a large letter H.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down beside Fred and

George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most

unusually, they were sitting apart from everyone else

and conversing in low voices. Ron led the way over to

them.

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“It’s a bummer, all right,” George was saying gloomily to Fred. “But if he won’t talk to us in person, we’ll

have to send him the letter after all. Or we’ll stuff it

into his hand. He can’t avoid us forever.”

“Who’s avoiding you?” said Ron, sitting down next to

them.

“Wish you would,” said Fred, looking irritated at the

interruption.

“What’s a bummer?” Ron asked George.

“Having a nosy git like you for a brother,” said George.

“You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament

yet?” Harry asked. “Thought any more about trying to

enter?”

“I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen

but she wasn’t telling,” said George bitterly. “She just

told me to shut up and get on with transfiguring my

raccoon.”

“Wonder what the tasks are going to be?” said Ron

thoughtfully. “You know, I bet we could do them,

Harry. We’ve done dangerous stuff before. …”

“Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven’t,” said

Fred. “McGonagall says the champions get awarded

points according to how well they’ve done the tasks.”

“Who are the judges?” Harry asked.

“Well, the Heads of the participating schools are

always on the panel,” said Hermione, and everyone

looked around at her, rather surprised, “because all

three of them were injured during the Tournament of

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1792, when a cockatrice the champions were

supposed to be catching went on the rampage.”

She noticed them all looking at her and said, with her

usual air of impatience that nobody else had read all

the books she had, “It’s all in Hogwarts, A History.

Though, of course, that book’s not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more

accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective

History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier

Aspects of the School. ”

“What are you on about?” said Ron, though Harry

thought he knew what was coming.

“House-elves!” said Hermione, her eyes flashing. “Not

once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts, A

History mention that we are all colluding in the

oppression of a hundred slaves!”

Harry shook his head and applied himself to his

scrambled eggs. His and Ron’s lack of enthusiasm

had done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione’s

determination to pursue justice for house-elves. True,

both of them had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W.

badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet.

Their Sickles had been wasted, however; if anything,

they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous.

She had been badgering Harry and Ron ever since,

first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do

the same, and she had also taken to rattling around

the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering

people and shaking the collecting tin under their

noses.

“You do realize that your sheets are changed, your

fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food

cooked by a group of magical creatures who are

unpaid and enslaved?” she kept saying fiercely.

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Some people, like Neville, had paid up just to stop Hermione from glowering at them. A few seemed

mildly interested in what she had to say, but were

reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning.

Many regarded the whole thing as a joke.

Ron now rolled his eyes at the ceiling, which was

flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and Fred

became extremely interested in his bacon (both twins

had refused to buy a S.P.E.W. badge). George,

however, leaned in toward Hermione.

“Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens,

Hermione?”

“No, of course not,” said Hermione curtly, “I hardly

think students are supposed to —”

“Well, we have,” said George, indicating Fred, “loads

of times, to nick food. And we’ve met them, and

they’re happy. They think they’ve got the best job in

the world —”

“That’s because they’re uneducated and

brainwashed!” Hermione began hotly, but her next

few words were drowned out by the sudden

whooshing noise from overhead, which announced

the arrival of the post owls. Harry looked up at once,

and saw Hedwig soaring toward him. Hermione

stopped talking abruptly; she and Ron watched

Hedwig anxiously as she fluttered down onto Harry’s

shoulder, folded her wings, and held out her leg

wearily.

Harry pulled off Sirius’s reply and offered Hedwig his

bacon rinds, which she ate gratefully. Then, checking

that Fred and George were safely immersed in further

discussions about the Tri-wizard Tournament, Harry

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read out Sirius’s letter in a whisper to Ron and

Hermione.

Nice try, Harry.

I’m back in the country and well hidden. I want you to

keep me posted on everything that’s going on at

Hogwarts. Don’t use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and

don’t worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don’t

forget what I said about your scar.

Sirius

“Why d’you have to keep changing owls?” Ron asked

in a low voice.

“Hedwig’ll attract too much attention,” said Hermione

at once. “She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps

returning to wherever he’s hiding … I mean, they’re

not native birds, are they?”

Harry rolled up the letter and slipped it inside his

robes, wondering whether he felt more or less worried

than before. He supposed that Sirius managing to get

back without being caught was something. He

couldn’t deny either that the idea that Sirius was

much nearer was reassuring; at least he wouldn’t

have to wait so long for a response every time he

wrote.

“Thanks, Hedwig,” he said, stroking her. She hooted

sleepily, dipped her beak briefly into his goblet of

orange juice, then took off again, clearly desperate for

a good long sleep in the Owlery.

There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air

that day. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being

much more interested in the arrival that evening of

the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even

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Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half an hour shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry,

Ron, and Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower,

deposited their bags and books as they had been

instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back

downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses were ordering their students

into lines.

“Weasley, straighten your hat,” Professor McGonagall

snapped at Ron. “Miss Patil, take that ridiculous

thing out of your hair.”

Parvati scowled and removed a large ornamental

butterfly from the end of her plait.

“Follow me, please,” said Professor McGonagall. “First

years in front … no pushing. …”

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the

castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling

and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already

shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing

between Ron and Hermione in the fourth row from

the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering

with anticipation among the other first years.

“Nearly six,” said Ron, checking his watch and then

staring down the drive that led to the front gates.

“How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?”

“I doubt it,” said Hermione.

“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, looking

up at the starry sky.

“I don’t think so … not from that far away. …”

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“A Portkey?” Ron suggested. “Or they could Apparate

— maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen

wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds,

how often do I have to tell you?” said Hermione

impatiently.

They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but

nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and

quite as usual. Harry was starting to feel cold. He

wished they’d hurry up. … Maybe the foreign

students were preparing a dramatic entrance. … He

remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the

campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the

same — we can’t resist showing off when we get

together. …”

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row

where he stood with the other teachers —

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation

from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in

different directions.

“There!” yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick —

or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — was hurtling

across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing

larger all the time.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first years, losing

her head completely.

“Don’t be stupid … it’s a flying house!” said Dennis

Creevey.

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Dennis’s guess was closer. … As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden

Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows

hit it, they saw a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn

carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward

them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged

horses, all palominos, and each the size of an

elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backward as

the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a

tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash

that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin

fifth year’s foot, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner

plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage

landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the

golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled

large, fiery red eyes.

Harry just had time to see that the door of the

carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden

wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the

carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with

something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of

golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then

Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging

from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a

child’s sled — followed, almost immediately, by the

largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of

the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately

explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this

woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted

whether there was an inch difference in their heights.

Yet somehow — maybe simply because he was used

to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps,

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and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped

into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was

revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face;

large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky

nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at

the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to

foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals

gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following

his lead, broke into applause too, many of them

standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked

forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering

hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to

bend to kiss it.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he said. “Welcome to

Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” said Madame Maxime in a deep voice.

“I ’ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you,” said Dumbledore.

“My pupils,” said Madame Maxime, waving one of her

enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely

upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a

dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their

late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were

now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were

shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their

robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of

them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves

and shawls around their heads. From what Harry

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could see of them (they were standing in Madame

Maxime’s enormous shadow), they were staring up at

Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

“ ’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked.

“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore.

“Would you like to wait here and greet him or would

you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think,” said Madame Maxime. “But ze

’orses —”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be

delighted to take care of them,” said Dumbledore, “the

moment he has returned from dealing with a slight

situation that has arisen with some of his other — er

— charges.”

“Skrewts,” Ron muttered to Harry, grinning.

“My steeds require — er — forceful ’andling,” said

Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted

whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at

Hogwarts could be up to the job. “Zey are very strong.

…”

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,”

said Dumbledore, smiling.

“Very well,” said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly.

“Will you please inform zis ’Agrid zat ze ’orses drink

only single-malt whiskey?”

“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing.

“Come,” said Madame Maxime imperiously to her

students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her

and her students to pass up the stone steps.

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“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Seamus Finnigan said, leaning around

Lavender and Parvati to address Harry and Ron.

“Well, if they’re any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid

won’t be able to handle them,” said Harry. “That’s if

he hasn’t been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder

what’s up with them?”

“Maybe they’ve escaped,” said Ron hopefully.

“Oh don’t say that,” said Hermione with a shudder.

“Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. …”

They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the

Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing

hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the

silence was broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge

horses snorting and stamping. But then —

“Can you hear something?” said Ron suddenly.

Harry listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise was

drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a

muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an

immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a

riverbed. …

“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it.

“Look at the lake!”

From their position at the top of the lawns

overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the

smooth black surface of the water — except that the

surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some

disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great

bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now

washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in

the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if

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a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s floor. …

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise

slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool … and then

Harry saw the rigging. …

“It’s a mast!” he said to Ron and Hermione.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water,

gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal

look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck,

and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes

looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing

noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the

turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank.

A few moments later, they heard the splash of an

anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the

thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking; they could see their

silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes.

All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along

the lines of Crabbe and Goyle … but then, as they

drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light

streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their

bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing

cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the

man who was leading them up to the castle was

wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like

his hair.

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily as he walked up the

slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,”

Dumbledore replied.

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Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he

stepped into the light pouring from the front doors of

the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like

Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his

goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide

his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore,

he shook hands with both of his own.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, looking up at the castle

and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry

noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes,

which remained cold and shrewd. “How good it is to

be here, how good. … Viktor, come along, into the

warmth … you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a

slight head cold. …”

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As

the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a

prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He

didn’t need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or

the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.

“Harry — it’s Krum!”

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THE GOBLET OF FIRE

“I don’t believe it!” Ron said, in a stunned voice, as

the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind

the party from Durmstrang. “Krum, Harry! Viktor

Krum!”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch

player,” said Hermione.

“Only a Quidditch player?” Ron said, looking at her as

though he couldn’t believe his ears. “Hermione — he’s

one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he

was still at school!”

As they recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of

the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall,

Harry saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the

soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of

Krum’s head. Several sixth-year girls were frantically

searching their pockets as they walked —

“Oh I don’t believe it, I haven’t got a single quill on me

—”

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“D’you think he’d sign my hat in lipstick?”

“Really, ” Hermione said loftily as they passed the

girls, now squabbling over the lipstick.

“I’m getting his autograph if I can,” said Ron. “You

haven’t got a quill, have you, Harry?”

“Nope, they’re upstairs in my bag,” said Harry.

They walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat

down. Ron took care to sit on the side facing the

doorway, because Krum and his fellow Durmstrang

students were still gathered around it, apparently

unsure about where they should sit. The students

from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw

table. They were looking around the Great Hall with

glum expressions on their faces. Three of them were

still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads.

“It’s not that cold,” said Hermione defensively. “Why

didn’t they bring cloaks?”

“Over here! Come and sit over here!” Ron hissed.

“Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space —”

“What?”

“Too late,” said Ron bitterly.

Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students had

settled themselves at the Slytherin table. Harry could

see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug

about this. As he watched, Malfoy bent forward to

speak to Krum.

“Yeah, that’s right, smarm up to him, Malfoy,” said

Ron scathingly. “I bet Krum can see right through

him, though … bet he gets people fawning over him

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all the time. … Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory,

Harry … I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could

kip on a camp bed.”

Hermione snorted.

“They look a lot happier than the Beauxbatons lot,”

said Harry.

The Durmstrang students were pulling off their heavy

furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with

expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking

up the golden plates and goblets and examining

them, apparently impressed.

Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, was adding

chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in

honor of the occasion. Harry was surprised to see

that he added four chairs, two on either side of

Dumbledore’s.

“But there are only two extra people,” Harry said.

“Why’s Filch putting out four chairs, who else is

coming?”

“Eh?” said Ron vaguely. He was still staring avidly at

Krum.

When all the students had entered the Hall and

settled down at their House tables, the staff entered,

filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last

in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor

Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their

headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons

leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students

laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite

unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their

seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on

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Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Dumbledore remained

standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and —

most particularly — guests,” said Dumbledore,

beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great

pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and

trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and

enjoyable.”

One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler

around her head gave what was unmistakably a

derisive laugh.

“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispered,

bristling at her.

“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of

the feast,” said Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to

eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at

once and engage him in conversation.

The plates in front of them filled with food as usual.

The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled

out all the stops; there was a greater variety of dishes

in front of them than Harry had ever seen, including

several that were definitely foreign.

“What’s that?” said Ron, pointing at a large dish of

some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large

steak-and-kidney pudding.

“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione.

“Bless you,” said Ron.

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“It’s French, ” said Hermione, “I had it on holiday summer before last. It’s very nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Ron, helping himself

to black pudding.

The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded

than usual, even though there were barely twenty

additional students there; perhaps it was because

their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly

against the black of the Hogwarts’ robes. Now that

they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang

students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep

bloodred.

Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the

staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast.

He slid into his seat at the end and waved at Harry,

Ron, and Hermione with a very heavily bandaged

hand.

“Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?” Harry called.

“Thrivin’,” Hagrid called back happily.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet they are,” said Ron quietly. “Looks

like they’ve finally found a food they like, doesn’t it?

Hagrid’s fingers.”

At that moment, a voice said, “Excuse me, are you

wanting ze bouillabaisse?”

It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed

during Dumbledore’s speech. She had finally removed

her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell

almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes,

and very white, even teeth.

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Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his

mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint

gurgling noise.

“Yeah, have it,” said Harry, pushing the dish toward

the girl.

“You ’ave finished wiz it?”

“Yeah,” Ron said breathlessly. “Yeah, it was

excellent.”

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off

to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still goggling at the

girl as though he had never seen one before. Harry

started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back

to his senses.

“She’s a veela!” he said hoarsely to Harry.

“Of course she isn’t!” said Hermione tartly. “I don’t see

anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!”

But she wasn’t entirely right about that. As the girl

crossed the Hall, many boys’ heads turned, and some

of them seemed to have become temporarily

speechless, just like Ron.

“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” said Ron,

leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her.

“They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!”

“They make them okay at Hogwarts,” said Harry

without thinking. Cho happened to be sitting only a

few places away from the girl with the silvery hair.

“When you’ve both put your eyes back in,” said

Hermione briskly, “you’ll be able to see who’s just

arrived.”

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She was pointing up at the staff table. The two

remaining empty seats had just been filled. Ludo

Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s

other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, was next

to Madame Maxime.

“What are they doing here?” said Harry in surprise.

“They organized the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t

they?” said Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be

here to see it start.”

When the second course arrived they noticed a

number of unfamiliar desserts too. Ron examined an

odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moved it

carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be

clearly visible from the Ravenclaw table. The girl who

looked like a veela appeared to have eaten enough,

however, and did not come over to get it.

Once the golden plates had been wiped clean,

Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of

tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Harry felt a slight

thrill of excitement, wondering what was coming.

Several seats down from them, Fred and George were

leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great

concentration.

“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling

around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard

Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few

words of explanation before we bring in the casket —”

“The what?” Harry muttered.

Ron shrugged.

“— just to clarify the procedure that we will be

following this year. But first, let me introduce, for

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those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch,

Head of the Department of International Magical

Cooperation” — there was a smattering of polite

applause — “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the

Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

There was a much louder round of applause for

Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his

fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so

much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial

wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or

wave when his name was announced. Remembering

him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup,

Harry thought he looked strange in wizard’s robes.

His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked

very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and

beard.

“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly

over the last few months on the arrangements for the

Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “and

they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and

Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the

champions’ efforts.”

At the mention of the word “champions,” the

attentiveness of the listening students seemed to

sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their

sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, “The

casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner

of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a

great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked

extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from

the watching students; Dennis Creevey actually stood

on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his

head hardly rose above anyone else’s.

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“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr.

Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” said Dumbledore as Filch

placed the chest carefully on the table before him,

“and they have made the necessary arrangements for

each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced

throughout the school year, and they will test the

champions in many different ways … their magical

prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction

— and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so

absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.

“As you know, three champions compete in the

tournament,” Dumbledore went on calmly, “one from

each of the participating schools. They will be marked

on how well they perform each of the Tournament

tasks and the champion with the highest total after

task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions

will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of

Fire.”

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three

times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked

slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled

out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have

been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the

brim with dancing blue-white flames.

Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet

carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible

to everyone in the Hall.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion

must write their name and school clearly upon a slip

of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said

Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four

hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow

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night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their

schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall

tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those

wishing to compete.

“To ensure that no underage student yields to

temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an

Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been

placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of

seventeen will be able to cross this line.

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to

compete that this tournament is not to be entered

into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by

the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the

tournament through to the end. The placing of your

name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical

contract. There can be no change of heart once you

have become a champion. Please be very sure,

therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to

play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now,

I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley said, his eyes glinting, as

they all made their way across the Hall to the doors

into the entrance hall. “Well, that should be fooled by

an Aging Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s

in that goblet, you’re laughing — it can’t tell whether

you’re seventeen or not!”

“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand

a chance,” said Hermione, “we just haven’t learned

enough …”

“Speak for yourself,” said George shortly. “You’ll try

and get in, won’t you, Harry?”

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Harry thought briefly of Dumbledore’s insistence that nobody under seventeen should submit their name,

but then the wonderful picture of himself winning the

Triwizard Tournament filled his mind again. … He

wondered how angry Dumbledore would be if

someone younger than seventeen did find a way to get

over the Age Line. …

“Where is he?” said Ron, who wasn’t listening to a

word of this conversation, but looking through the

crowd to see what had become of Krum. “Dumbledore

didn’t say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping,

did he?”

But this query was answered almost instantly; they

were level with the Slytherin table now, and Karkaroff

had just bustled up to his students.

“Back to the ship, then,” he was saying. “Viktor, how

are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send

for some mulled wine from the kitchens?”

Harry saw Krum shake his head as he pulled his furs

back on.

“Professor, I vood like some vine,” said one of the

other Durmstrang boys hopefully.

“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” snapped

Karkaroff, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an

instant. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the

front of your robes again, disgusting boy —”

Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the

doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as

Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry stopped to let him

walk through first.

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“Thank you,” said Karkaroff carelessly, glancing at him.

And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to

Harry and stared at him as though he couldn’t believe

his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from

Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff’s eyes

moved slowly up Harry’s face and fixed upon his scar.

The Durmstrang students were staring curiously at

Harry too. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw

comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy

with food all down his front nudged the girl next to

him and pointed openly at Harry’s forehead.

“Yeah, that’s Harry Potter,” said a growling voice from

behind them.

Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody

was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his

magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang

headmaster.

The color drained from Karkaroff’s face as Harry

watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came

over him.

“You!” he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he

was really seeing him.

“Me,” said Moody grimly. “And unless you’ve got

anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want

to move. You’re blocking the doorway.”

It was true; half the students in the Hall were now

waiting behind them, looking over one another’s

shoulders to see what was causing the holdup.

Without another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his

students away with him. Moody watched him until he

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was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face.

As the next day was Saturday, most students would

normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione, however, were not alone in rising much

earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they

went down into the entrance hall, they saw about

twenty people milling around it, some of them eating

toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been

placed in the center of the hall on the stool that

normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had

been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet

around it in every direction.

“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third-

year girl eagerly.

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t

seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all

gone to bed,” said Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me

… wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if

the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?”

Someone laughed behind Harry. Turning, he saw

Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the

staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited.

“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry,

Ron, and Hermione. “Just taken it.”

“What?” said Ron.

“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” said Fred.

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“One drop each,” said George, rubbing his hands

together with glee. “We only need to be a few months

older.”

“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between

the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee, grinning

broadly.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” said

Hermione warningly “I’m sure Dumbledore will have

thought of this.”

Fred, George, and Lee ignored her.

“Ready?” Fred said to the other two, quivering with

excitement. “C’mon, then — I’ll go first —”

Harry watched, fascinated, as Fred pulled a slip of

parchment out of his pocket bearing the words Fred

Weasley — Hogwarts. Fred walked right up to the

edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes

like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with

the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon

him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line.

For a split second Harry thought it had worked —

George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of

triumph and leapt after Fred — but next moment,

there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were

hurled out of the golden circle as though they had

been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed

painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to

add insult to injury, there was a loud popping noise,

and both of them sprouted identical long white

beards.

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and

George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet

and taken a good look at each other’s beards.

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“I did warn you,” said a deep, amused voice, and

everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore coming

out of the Great Hall. He surveyed Fred and George,

his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to

Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss

Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of

Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves

up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their

beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing,

accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter,

and Harry, Ron, and Hermione, also chortling, went

in to breakfast.

The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this

morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was

fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while

hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every

corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus,

who were discussing those Hogwarts students of

seventeen or over who might be entering.

“There’s a rumor going around that Warrington got up

early and put his name in,” Dean told Harry. “That

big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.”

Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington,

shook his head in disgust.

“We can’t have a Slytherin champion!”

“And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,”

said Seamus contemptuously. “But I wouldn’t have

thought he’d have wanted to risk his good looks.”

“Listen!” said Hermione suddenly.

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People were cheering out in the entrance hall. They all swiveled around in their seats and saw Angelina

Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an

embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl who played

Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Angelina

came over to them, sat down, and said, “Well, I’ve

done it! Just put my name in!”

“You’re kidding!” said Ron, looking impressed.

“Are you seventeen, then?” asked Harry.

“ ’Course she is, can’t see a beard, can you?” said

Ron.

“I had my birthday last week,” said Angelina.

“Well, I’m glad someone from Gryffindor’s entering,”

said Hermione. “I really hope you get it, Angelina!”

“Thanks, Hermione,” said Angelina, smiling at her.

“Yeah, better you than Pretty-Boy Diggory,” said

Seamus, causing several Hufflepuffs passing their

table to scowl heavily at him.

“What’re we going to do today, then?” Ron asked

Harry and Hermione when they had finished

breakfast and were leaving the Great Hall.

“We haven’t been down to visit Hagrid yet,” said

Harry.

“Okay,” said Ron, “just as long as he doesn’t ask us to

donate a few fingers to the skrewts.”

A look of great excitement suddenly dawned on

Hermione’s face.

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“I’ve just realized — I haven’t asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. yet!” she said brightly. “Wait for me, will

you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?”

“What is it with her?” said Ron, exasperated, as

Hermione ran away up the marble staircase.

“Hey, Ron,” said Harry suddenly. “It’s your friend …”

The students from Beauxbatons were coming through

the front doors from the grounds, among them, the

veela-girl. Those gathered around the Goblet of Fire

stood back to let them pass, watching eagerly.

Madame Maxime entered the hall behind her students

and organized them into a line. One by one, the

Beauxbatons students stepped across the Age Line

and dropped their slips of parchment into the blue-

white flames. As each name entered the fire, it turned

briefly red and emitted sparks.

“What d’you reckon’ll happen to the ones who aren’t

chosen?” Ron muttered to Harry as the veela-girl

dropped her parchment into the Goblet of Fire.

“Reckon they’ll go back to school, or hang around to

watch the tournament?”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “Hang around, I suppose. …

Madame Maxime’s staying to judge, isn’t she?”

When all the Beauxbatons students had submitted

their names, Madame Maxime led them back out of

the hall and out onto the grounds again.

“Where are they sleeping, then?” said Ron, moving

toward the front doors and staring after them.

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A loud rattling noise behind them announced

Hermione’s reappearance with the box of S.P.E.W.

badges.

“Oh good, hurry up,” said Ron, and he jumped down

the stone steps, keeping his eyes on the back of the

veela-girl, who was now halfway across the lawn with

Madame Maxime.

As they neared Hagrid’s cabin on the edge of the

Forbidden Forest, the mystery of the Beauxbatons’

sleeping quarters was solved. The gigantic powder-

blue carriage in which they had arrived had been

parked two hundred yards from Hagrid’s front door,

and the students were climbing back inside it. The

elephantine flying horses that had pulled the carriage

were now grazing in a makeshift paddock alongside it.

Harry knocked on Hagrid’s door, and Fang’s booming

barks answered instantly

“ ’Bout time!” said Hagrid, when he’d flung open the

door. “Thought you lot’d forgotten where I live!”

“We’ve been really busy, Hag —” Hermione started to

say, but then she stopped dead, looking up at Hagrid,

apparently lost for words.

Hagrid was wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy

brown suit, plus a checked yellow-and-orange tie.

This wasn’t the worst of it, though; he had evidently

tried to tame his hair, using large quantities of what

appeared to be axle grease. It was now slicked down

into two bunches — perhaps he had tried a ponytail

like Bill’s, but found he had too much hair. The look

didn’t really suit Hagrid at all. For a moment,

Hermione goggled at him, then, obviously deciding

not to comment, she said, “Erm — where are the

skrewts?”

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“Out by the pumpkin patch,” said Hagrid happily.

“They’re gettin’ massive, mus’ be nearly three foot

long now. On’y trouble is, they’ve started killin’ each

other.”

“Oh no, really?” said Hermione, shooting a repressive

look at Ron, who, staring at Hagrid’s odd hairstyle,

had just opened his mouth to say something about it.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid sadly. “ ’S’ okay, though, I’ve got

’em in separate boxes now. Still got abou’ twenty.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” said Ron. Hagrid missed the

sarcasm.

Hagrid’s cabin comprised a single room, in one corner

of which was a gigantic bed covered in a patchwork

quilt. A similarly enormous wooden table and chairs

stood in front of the fire beneath the quantity of cured

hams and dead birds hanging from the ceiling. They

sat down at the table while Hagrid started to make

tea, and were soon immersed in yet more discussion

of the Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid seemed quite as

excited about it as they were.

“You wait,” he said, grinning. “You jus’ wait. Yer going

ter see some stuff yeh’ve never seen before. Firs’ task

… ah, but I’m not supposed ter say.”

“Go on, Hagrid!” Harry, Ron, and Hermione urged

him, but he just shook his head, grinning.

“I don’ want ter spoil it fer yeh,” said Hagrid. “But it’s

gonna be spectacular, I’ll tell yeh that. Them

champions’re going ter have their work cut out. Never

thought I’d live ter see the Triwizard Tournament

played again!”

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They ended up having lunch with Hagrid, though they didn’t eat much — Hagrid had made what he said was

a beef casserole, but after Hermione unearthed a

large talon in hers, she, Harry, and Ron rather lost

their appetites. However, they enjoyed themselves

trying to make Hagrid tell them what the tasks in the

tournament were going to be, speculating which of

the entrants were likely to be selected as champions,

and wondering whether Fred and George were

beardless yet.

A light rain had started to fall by midafternoon; it was

very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle

patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid

darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about

house-elves — for he flatly refused to join S.P.E.W.

when she showed him her badges.

“It’d be doin’ ’em an unkindness, Hermione,” he said

gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick

yellow yarn. “It’s in their nature ter look after

humans, that’s what they like, see? Yeh’d be makin’

’em unhappy ter take away their work, an’ insultin’

’em if yeh tried ter pay ’em.”

“But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon

about it!” said Hermione. “And we heard he’s asking

for wages now!”

“Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I’m not

sayin’ there isn’t the odd elf who’d take freedom, but

yeh’ll never persuade most of ’em ter do it — no,

nothin’ doin’, Hermione.”

Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her

box of badges back into her cloak pocket.

By half past five it was growing dark, and Ron, Harry,

and Hermione decided it was time to get back up to

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the castle for the Halloween feast — and, more

important, the announcement of the school

champions.

“I’ll come with yeh,” said Hagrid, putting away his

darning. “Jus’ give us a sec.”

Hagrid got up, went across to the chest of drawers

beside his bed, and began searching for something

inside it. They didn’t pay too much attention until a

truly horrible smell reached their nostrils. Coughing,

Ron said, “Hagrid, what’s that?”

“Eh?” said Hagrid, turning around with a large bottle

in his hand. “Don’ yeh like it?”

“Is that aftershave?” said Hermione in a slightly

choked voice.

“Er — eau de cologne,” Hagrid muttered. He was

blushing. “Maybe it’s a bit much,” he said gruffly. “I’ll

go take it off, hang on …

He stumped out of the cabin, and they saw him

washing himself vigorously in the water barrel outside

the window.

“Eau de cologne?” said Hermione in amazement.

“Hagrid?”

“And what’s with the hair and the suit?” said Harry in

an undertone.

“Look!” said Ron suddenly, pointing out of the

window.

Hagrid had just straightened up and turned ’round. If

he had been blushing before, it was nothing to what

he was doing now. Getting to their feet very

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cautiously, so that Hagrid wouldn’t spot them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione peered through the window and

saw that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons

students had just emerged from their carriage, clearly

about to set off for the feast too. They couldn’t hear

what Hagrid was saying, but he was talking to

Madame Maxime with a rapt, misty-eyed expression

Harry had only ever seen him wear once before —

when he had been looking at the baby dragon,

Norbert.

“He’s going up to the castle with her!” said Hermione

indignantly. “I thought he was waiting for us!”

Without so much as a backward glance at his cabin,

Hagrid was trudging off up the grounds with Madame

Maxime, the Beauxbatons students following in their

wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides.

“He fancies her!” said Ron incredulously. “Well, if they

end up having children, they’ll be setting a world

record — bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a

ton.”

They let themselves out of the cabin and shut the

door behind them. It was surprisingly dark outside.

Drawing their cloaks more closely around themselves,

they set off up the sloping lawns.

“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispered.

The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the

castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by

side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang

students were straggling along behind them. Ron

watched Krum excitedly, but Krum did not look

around as he reached the front doors a little ahead of

Hermione, Ron, and Harry and proceeded through

them.

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When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was

almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was

now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at

the teachers’ table. Fred and George — clean-shaven

again — seemed to have taken their disappointment

fairly well.

“Hope it’s Angelina,” said Fred as Harry, Ron, and

Hermione sat down.

“So do I!” said Hermione breathlessly. “Well, we’ll

soon know!”

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than

usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in

two days, Harry didn’t seem to fancy the

extravagantly prepared food as much as he would

have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging

by the constantly craning necks, the impatient

expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the

standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished

eating yet, Harry simply wanted the plates to clear,

and to hear who had been selected as champions.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their

original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in

the level of noise within the Hall, which died away

almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On

either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame

Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone.

Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various

students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite

uninterested, almost bored.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,”

said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one

more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are

called, I would ask them please to come up to the top

of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through

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into the next chamber” — he indicated the door

behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving

their first instructions.”

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave

with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the

carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them

into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now

shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall,

the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames

almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched,

waiting. … A few people kept checking their watches.

…

“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away

from Harry.

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red

again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a

tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of

parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room

gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held

it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light

of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong,

clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of

applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw

Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch

up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along

the staff table, and disappeared through the door into

the next chamber.

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“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that

everyone could hear him, even over all the applause.

“Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s

attention was focused again on the goblet, which,

seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece

of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore,

“is Fleur Delacour!”

“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl who so

resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook

back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up

between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione said

over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the

Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” was a bit of an

understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who

had not been selected had dissolved into tears and

were sobbing with their heads on their arms.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side

chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a

silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste

it. The Hogwarts champion next …

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks

showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into

the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third

piece of parchment.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric

Diggory!”

“No!” said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except

Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great.

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Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way

past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward

the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the

applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some

time before Dumbledore could make himself heard

again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the

tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three

champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you,

including the remaining students from Beauxbatons

and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce

of support you can muster. By cheering your

champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it

was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again.

Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot

suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another

piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a

long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out

and stared at the name written upon it. There was a

long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the

slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at

Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat

and read out —

“Harry Potter. ”

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THE FOUR CHAMPIONS

Harry sat there, aware that every head in the Great

Hall had turned to look at him. He was stunned. He

felt numb. He was surely dreaming. He had not heard

correctly.

There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry

bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were

standing up to get a better look at Harry as he sat,

frozen, in his seat.

Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got to

her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor

Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor

Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning

slightly.

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione; beyond them, he

saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him,

openmouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You

know I didn’t.”

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Both of them stared just as blankly back.

At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had

straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

“Harry Potter!” he called again. “Harry! Up here, if you

please!”

“Go on,” Hermione whispered, giving Harry a slight

push.

Harry got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes,

and stumbled slightly. He set off up the gap between

the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. It felt like an

immensely long walk; the top table didn’t seem to be

getting any nearer at all, and he could feel hundreds

and hundreds of eyes upon him, as though each were

a searchlight. The buzzing grew louder and louder.

After what seemed like an hour, he was right in front

of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers

upon him.

“Well … through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

He wasn’t smiling.

Harry moved off along the teachers’ table. Hagrid was

seated right at the end. He did not wink at Harry, or

wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting. He

looked completely astonished and stared at Harry as

he passed like everyone else. Harry went through the

door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a

smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and

wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace

opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he

entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame

of her picture and into the one next to it, which

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contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The

wizened witch started whispering in his ear.

Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour

were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely

impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum,

hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the

mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Cedric

was standing with his hands behind his back, staring

into the fire. Fleur Delacour looked around when

Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long,

silvery hair.

“What is it?” she said. “Do zey want us back in ze

Hall?”

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Harry

didn’t know how to explain what had just happened.

He just stood there, looking at the three champions. It

struck him how very tall all of them were.

There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and

Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the

arm and led him forward.

“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm.

“Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen … lady,” he

added, approaching the fireside and addressing the

other three. “May I introduce — incredible though it

may seem — the fourth Triwizard champion?”

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened

as he surveyed Harry. Cedric looked nonplussed. He

looked from Bagman to Harry and back again as

though sure he must have misheard what Bagman

had said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair,

smiling, and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester

Bagman.”

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“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!”

Krum’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was

still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned.

“But evidently zair ’as been a mistake,” she said

contemptuously to Bagman. “ ’E cannot compete. ’E is

too young.”

“Well … it is amazing,” said Bagman, rubbing his

smooth chin and smiling down at Harry. “But, as you

know, the age restriction was only imposed this year

as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come

out of the goblet … I mean, I don’t think there can be

any ducking out at this stage. … It’s down in the

rules, you’re obliged … Harry will just have to do the

best he —”

The door behind them opened again, and a large

group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore,

followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff,

Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and

Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of the

hundreds of students on the other side of the wall,

before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

“Madame Maxime!” said Fleur at once, striding over to

her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is

to compete also!”

Somewhere under Harry’s numb disbelief he felt a

ripple of anger. Little boy?

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full,

and considerable, height. The top of her handsome

head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her

gigantic black-satin bosom swelled.

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“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” she said imperiously.

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,”

said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely

smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two

Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone

telling me the host school is allowed two champions

— or have I not read the rules carefully enough?”

He gave a short and nasty laugh.

“C’est impossible, ” said Madame Maxime, whose

enormous hand with its many superb opals was

resting upon Fleur’s shoulder. “ ’Ogwarts cannot ’ave

two champions. It is most injust.”

“We were under the impression that your Age Line

would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,”

said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though

his eyes were colder than ever. “Otherwise, we would,

of course, have brought along a wider selection of

candidates from our own schools.”

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff,” said Snape

softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t

go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to

break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he

arrived here —”

“Thank you, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly, and

Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted

malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair.

Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at

Harry, who looked right back at him, trying to discern

the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon

spectacles.

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“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire,

Harry?” he asked calmly.

“No,” said Harry. He was very aware of everybody

watching him closely. Snape made a soft noise of

impatient disbelief in the shadows.

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet

of Fire for you?” said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring

Snape.

“No, ” said Harry vehemently.

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime.

Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling.

“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” said

Professor McGonagall sharply. “I am sure we are all

agreed on that —”

“Dumbly-dorr must ’ave made a mistake wiz ze line,”

said Madame Maxime, shrugging.

“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not

make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily.

“Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed

the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore

believes that he did not persuade an older student to

do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for

everybody else!”

She shot a very angry look at Professor Snape.

“Mr. Crouch … Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice

unctuous once more, “you are our — er — objective

judges. Surely you will agree that this is most

irregular?”

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Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his

handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was

standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face

half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the

half darkness making him look much older, giving

him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke,

however, it was in his usual curt voice.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly

that those people whose names come out of the

Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the

tournament.”

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said

Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and

Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now

closed.

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of

my students,” said Karkaroff. He had dropped his

unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a

very ugly look indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of

Fire once more, and we will continue adding names

until each school has two champions. It’s only fair,

Dumbledore.”

“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said

Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out — it won’t

reignite until the start of the next tournament —”

“— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be

competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our

meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little

expected something of this nature to occur! I have

half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near

the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s

got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding

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magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?”

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward

the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a

loud clunk.

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t

understand you, Moody.”

Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as

though what Moody was saying was barely worth his

notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled

themselves into fists.

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “It’s very simple,

Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet

knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”

“Evidently, someone ’oo wished to give ’Ogwarts two

bites at ze apple!” said Madame Maxime.

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff,

bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the

Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation

of Wizards —”

“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,”

growled Moody, “but … funny thing … I don’t hear

him saying a word. …”

“Why should ’e complain?” burst out Fleur Delacour,

stamping her foot. “ ’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t

’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and

weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons

in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!”

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,”

said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

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An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed,

bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said,

“Moody, old man … what a thing to say!”

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning

wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him

before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently

he is now teaching his students to fear assassination

too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark

Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your

reasons.”

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing

things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put

the boy’s name in that goblet. …”

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame

Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical

object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an

exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle

that goblet into forgetting that only three schools

compete in the tournament. … I’m guessing they

submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to

make sure he was the only one in his category. …”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought,

Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious

theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently

got it into your head that one of your birthday

presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk

egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a

carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take

you entirely seriously. …”

“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to

their advantage,” Moody retorted in a menacing voice.

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“It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do,

Karkaroff — as you ought to remember. …”

“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Harry

wondered for a moment whom he was speaking to,

but then realized “Mad-Eye” could hardly be Moody’s

real first name. Moody fell silent, though still

surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction — Karkaroff’s

face was burning.

“How this situation arose, we do not know,” said

Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the

room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no

choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have

been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This,

therefore, they will do. …”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr —”

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative,

I would be delighted to hear it.”

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not

speak, she merely glared. She wasn’t the only one

either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman,

however, looked rather excited.

“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his

hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to

give our champions their instructions, haven’t we?

Barty, want to do the honors?”

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie.

“Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes … the first task …”

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry

thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows

beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his

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wrinkled skin that had not been there at the

Quidditch World Cup.

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told

Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going

to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the

unknown is an important quality in a wizard … very

important. …

“The first task will take place on November the

twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the

panel of judges.

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept

help of any kind from their teachers to complete the

tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the

first challenge armed only with their wands. They will

receive information about the second task when the

first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-

consuming nature of the tournament, the champions

are exempted from end-of-year tests.”

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.

“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”

“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr.

Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you

wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”

“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,”

said Mr. Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time

at the moment. … I’ve left young Weatherby in

charge. … Very enthusiastic … a little

overenthusiastic, if truth be told. …”

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at

least?” said Dumbledore.

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“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly.

“It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much

more exciting here than at the office!”

“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of his

old impatience.

“Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — a

nightcap?” said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm

around Fleur’s shoulders and was leading her swiftly

out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking

very fast in French as they went off into the Great

Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too,

exited, though in silence.

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed,” said

Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. “I am sure

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with

you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this

excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and

noise.”

Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left

together.

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had

burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins

an eerie, flickering quality.

“So,” said Cedric, with a slight smile. “We’re playing

against each other again!”

“I s’pose,” said Harry. He really couldn’t think of

anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be

in complete disarray, as though his brain had been

ransacked.

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“So … tell me …” said Cedric as they reached the

entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in

the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How did you get

your name in?”

“I didn’t,” said Harry, staring up at him. “I didn’t put

it in. I was telling the truth.”

“Ah … okay,” said Cedric. Harry could tell Cedric

didn’t believe him. “Well … see you, then.”

Instead of going up the marble staircase, Cedric

headed for a door to its right. Harry stood listening to

him going down the stone steps beyond it, then,

slowly, he started to climb the marble ones.

Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to

believe him, or would they all think he’d put himself

in for the tournament? Yet how could anyone think

that, when he was facing competitors who’d had three

years’ more magical education than he had — when

he was now facing tasks that not only sounded very

dangerous, but which were to be performed in front of

hundreds of people? Yes, he’d thought about it … he’d

fantasized about it … but it had been a joke, really,

an idle sort of dream … he’d never really, seriously

considered entering. …

But someone else had considered it … someone else

had wanted him in the tournament, and had made

sure he was entered. Why? To give him a treat? He

didn’t think so, somehow. …

To see him make a fool of himself? Well, they were

likely to get their wish. …

But to get him killed?

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Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self?

Couldn’t someone have put Harry’s name in the

goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really

want him dead?

Harry was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone

wanted him dead, someone had wanted him dead

ever since he had been a year old … Lord Voldemort.

But how could Voldemort have ensured that Harry’s

name got into the Goblet of Fire? Voldemort was

supposed to be far away, in some distant country, in

hiding, alone … feeble and powerless. …

Yet in that dream he had had, just before he had

awoken with his scar hurting, Voldemort had not

been alone … he had been talking to Wormtail …

plotting Harry’s murder. …

Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady

already. He had barely noticed where his feet were

carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that she

was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who

had flitted into her neighbor’s painting when he had

joined the champions downstairs was now sitting

smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed

through every picture lining seven staircases to reach

here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were

looking down at him with the keenest interest.

“Well, well, well,” said the Fat Lady, “Violet’s just told

me everything. Who’s just been chosen as school

champion, then?”

“Balderdash,” said Harry dully.

“It most certainly isn’t!” said the pale witch

indignantly.

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“No, no, Vi, it’s the password,” said the Fat Lady soothingly, and she swung forward on her hinges to

let Harry into the common room.

The blast of noise that met Harry’s ears when the

portrait opened almost knocked him backward. Next

thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the

common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and

was facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom

were screaming, applauding, and whistling.

“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellowed Fred;

he looked half annoyed, half deeply impressed.

“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!”

roared George.

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “I don’t know how —”

But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; “Oh

if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor —”

“You’ll be able to pay back Diggory for that last

Quidditch match, Harry!” shrieked Katie Bell, another

of the Gryffindor Chasers.

“We’ve got food, Harry, come and have some —”

“I’m not hungry, I had enough at the feast —”

But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn’t hungry;

nobody wanted to hear that he hadn’t put his name in

the goblet; not one single person seemed to have

noticed that he wasn’t at all in the mood to celebrate.

… Lee Jordan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner

from somewhere, and he insisted on draping it

around Harry like a cloak. Harry couldn’t get away;

whenever he tried to sidle over to the staircase up to

the dormitories, the crowd around him closed ranks,

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forcing another butterbeer on him, stuffing crisps and peanuts into his hands. … Everyone wanted to know

how he had done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore’s

Age Line and managed to get his name into the

goblet. …

“I didn’t,” he said, over and over again, “I don’t know

how it happened.”

But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as

well not have answered at all.

“I’m tired!” he bellowed finally, after nearly half an

hour. “No, seriously, George — I’m going to bed —”

He wanted more than anything to find Ron and

Hermione, to find a bit of sanity, but neither of them

seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he

needed to sleep, and almost flattening the little

Creevey brothers as they attempted to waylay him at

the foot of the stairs, Harry managed to shake

everyone off and climb up to the dormitory as fast as

he could.

To his great relief, he found Ron was lying on his bed

in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed.

He looked up when Harry slammed the door behind

him.

“Where’ve you been?” Harry said.

“Oh hello,” said Ron.

He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort

of grin. Harry suddenly became aware that he was

still wearing the scarlet Gryffindor banner that Lee

had tied around him. He hastened to take it off, but it

was knotted very tightly. Ron lay on the bed without

moving, watching Harry struggle to remove it.

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“So,” he said, when Harry had finally removed the

banner and thrown it into a corner.

“Congratulations.”

“What d’you mean, congratulations?” said Harry,

staring at Ron. There was definitely something wrong

with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a

grimace.

“Well … no one else got across the Age Line,” said

Ron. “Not even Fred and George. What did you use —

the Invisibility Cloak?”

“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t have got me over that

line,” said Harry slowly.

“Oh right,” said Ron. “I thought you might’ve told me

if it was the cloak … because it would’ve covered both

of us, wouldn’t it? But you found another way, did

you?”

“Listen,” said Harry, “I didn’t put my name in that

goblet. Someone else must’ve done it.”

Ron raised his eyebrows.

“What would they do that for?”

“I dunno,” said Harry. He felt it would sound very

melodramatic to say, “To kill me.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose so high that they were in danger

of disappearing into his hair.

“It’s okay, you know, you can tell me the truth,” he

said. “If you don’t want everyone else to know, fine,

but I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie, you

didn’t get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of

the Fat Lady’s, that Violet, she’s already told us all

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Dumbledore’s letting you enter. A thousand Galleons prize money, eh? And you don’t have to do end-of-year tests either. …”

“I didn’t put my name in that goblet!” said Harry,

starting to feel angry.

“Yeah, okay,” said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical

tone as Cedric. “Only you said this morning you’d

have done it last night, and no one would’ve seen you.

… I’m not stupid, you know.”

“You’re doing a really good impression of it,” Harry

snapped.

“Yeah?” said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin,

forced or otherwise, on his face now. “You want to get

to bed, Harry. I expect you’ll need to be up early

tomorrow for a photo-call or something.”

He wrenched the hangings shut around his four-

poster, leaving Harry standing there by the door,

staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding

one of the few people he had been sure would believe

him.

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THE WEIGHING OF THE WANDS

When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him

a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and

worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled

over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of

his own four-poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force

Ron to believe him — only to find that Ron’s bed was

empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast.

Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into

the common room. The moment he appeared, the

people who had already finished breakfast broke into

applause again. The prospect of going down into the

Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all

treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting;

it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to

be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both

beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked

resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open,

climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with

Hermione.

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“Hello,” she said, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin. “I brought you this. …

Want to go for a walk?”

“Good idea,” said Harry gratefully.

They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall

quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were

soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where

the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in

the water. It was a chilly morning, and they kept

moving, munching their toast, as Harry told

Hermione exactly what had happened after he had left

the Gryffindor table the night before. To his immense

relief, Hermione accepted his story without question.

“Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,”

she said when he’d finished telling her about the

scene in the chamber off the Hall. “The look on your

face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the

question is, who did put it in? Because Moody’s right,

Harry … I don’t think any student could have done it

… they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over

Dumbledore’s —”

“Have you seen Ron?” Harry interrupted.

Hermione hesitated.

“Erm … yes … he was at breakfast,” she said.

“Does he still think I entered myself?”

“Well … no, I don’t think so … not really, ” said

Hermione awkwardly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really’?”

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“Oh Harry, isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said

despairingly. “He’s jealous!”

“Jealous?” Harry said incredulously. “Jealous of

what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of

the whole school, does he?”

“Look,” said Hermione patiently, “it’s always you who

gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it’s not

your fault,” she added quickly, seeing Harry open his

mouth furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it … but —

well — you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to

compete against at home, and you’re his best friend,

and you’re really famous — he’s always shunted to

one side whenever people see you, and he puts up

with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this

is just one time too many. …”

“Great,” said Harry bitterly. “Really great. Tell him

from me I’ll swap any time he wants. Tell him from

me he’s welcome to it. … People gawping at my

forehead everywhere I go. …”

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said shortly.

“Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.”

“I’m not running around after him trying to make him

grow up!” Harry said, so loudly that several owls in a

nearby tree took flight in alarm. “Maybe he’ll believe

I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken

or —”

“That’s not funny,” said Hermione quietly. “That’s not

funny at all.” She looked extremely anxious. “Harry,

I’ve been thinking — you know what we’ve got to do,

don’t you? Straight away, the moment we get back to

the castle?”

“Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the —”

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“Write to Sirius. You’ve got to tell him what’s happened. He asked you to keep him posted on

everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. … It’s almost

as if he expected something like this to happen. I

brought some parchment and a quill out with me —”

“Come off it,” said Harry, looking around to check

that they couldn’t be overheard, but the grounds were

quite deserted. “He came back to the country just

because my scar twinged. He’ll probably come

bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone’s

entered me in the Triwizard Tournament —”

“He’d want you to tell him, ” said Hermione sternly.

“He’s going to find out anyway —”

“How?”

“Harry, this isn’t going to be kept quiet,” said

Hermione, very seriously. “This tournament’s famous,

and you’re famous. I’ll be really surprised if there isn’t

anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing. …

You’re already in half the books about You-Know-

Who, you know … and Sirius would rather hear it

from you, I know he would.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll write to him,” said Harry, throwing

his last piece of toast into the lake. They both stood

and watched it floating there for a moment, before a

large tentacle rose out of the water and scooped it

beneath the surface. Then they returned to the castle.

“Whose owl am I going to use?” Harry said as they

climbed the stairs. “He told me not to use Hedwig

again.”

“Ask Ron if you can borrow —”

“I’m not asking Ron for anything,” Harry said flatly.

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“Well, borrow one of the school owls, then, anyone can use them,” said Hermione.

They went up to the Owlery Hermione gave Harry a

piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then

strolled around the long lines of perches, looking at

all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a

wall and wrote his letter.

Dear Sirius,

You told me to keep you posted on what’s happening

at Hogwarts, so here goes — I don’t know if you’ve

heard, but the Tri-wizard Tournament’s happening this

year and on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth

champion. I don’t know who put my name in the Goblet

of Fire, because I didn’t. The other Hogwarts champion

is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff.

He paused at this point, thinking. He had an urge to

say something about the large weight of anxiety that

seemed to have settled inside his chest since last

night, but he couldn’t think how to translate this into

words, so he simply dipped his quill back into the ink

bottle and wrote,

Hope you’re okay, and Buckbeak — Harry

“Finished,” he told Hermione, getting to his feet and

brushing straw off his robes. At this, Hedwig came

fluttering down onto his shoulder and held out her

leg.

“I can’t use you,” Harry told her, looking around for

the school owls. “I’ve got to use one of these. …”

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Hedwig gave a very loud hoot and took off so suddenly that her talons cut into his shoulder. She kept her

back to Harry all the time he was tying his letter to

the leg of a large barn owl. When the barn owl had

flown off, Harry reached out to stroke Hedwig, but she

clicked her beak furiously and soared up into the

rafters out of reach.

“First Ron, then you,” said Harry angrily. “This isn’t

my fault. ”

If Harry had thought that matters would improve

once everyone got used to the idea of him being

champion, the following day showed him how

mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of

the school once he was back at lessons — and it was

clear that the rest of the school, just like the

Gryffindors, thought Harry had entered himself for

the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however,

they did not seem impressed.

The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms

with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold

toward the whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson

was enough to demonstrate this. It was plain that the

Hufflepuffs felt that Harry had stolen their

champion’s glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by

the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely got any

glory, and that Cedric was one of the few who had

ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at

Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-

Fletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well,

did not talk to him even though they were repotting

Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray — though they did

laugh rather unpleasantly when one of the Bouncing

Bulbs wriggled free from Harry’s grip and smacked

him hard in the face. Ron wasn’t talking to Harry

either. Hermione sat between them, making very

forced conversation, but though both answered her

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normally, they avoided making eye contact with each other. Harry thought even Professor Sprout seemed

distant with him — but then, she was Head of

Hufflepuff House.

He would have been looking forward to seeing Hagrid

under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical

Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too — the first

time he would come face-to-face with them since

becoming champion.

Predictably, Malfoy arrived at Hagrid’s cabin with his

familiar sneer firmly in place.

“Ah, look, boys, it’s the champion,” he said to Crabbe

and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry.

“Got your autograph books? Better get a signature

now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much

longer. … Half the Triwizard champions have died …

how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter?

Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but

Malfoy had to stop there, because Hagrid emerged

from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower

of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended

Skrewt. To the class’s horror, Hagrid proceeded to

explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing

one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and

that the solution would be for each student to fix a

leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The

only good thing about this plan was that it distracted

Malfoy completely.

“Take this thing for a walk?” he repeated in disgust,

staring into one of the boxes. “And where exactly are

we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the

blasting end, or the sucker?”

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“Roun’ the middle,” said Hagrid, demonstrating. “Er

— yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves,

jus’ as an extra precaution, like. Harry — you come

here an’ help me with this big one. …”

Hagrid’s real intention, however, was to talk to Harry

away from the rest of the class. He waited until

everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then

turned to Harry and said, very seriously, “So — yer

competin’, Harry. In the tournament. School

champion.”

“One of the champions,” Harry corrected him.

Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under

his wild eyebrows.

“No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?”

“You believe I didn’t do it, then?” said Harry,

concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he felt

at Hagrid’s words.

“ ’Course I do,” Hagrid grunted. “Yeh say it wasn’ you,

an’ I believe yeh — an’ Dumbledore believes yer, an’

all.”

“Wish I knew who did do it,” said Harry bitterly.

The pair of them looked out over the lawn; the class

was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty.

The skrewts were now over three feet long, and

extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless,

they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny

armor. They looked like a cross between giant

scorpions and elongated crabs — but still without

recognizable heads or eyes. They had become

immensely strong and very hard to control.

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“Look like they’re havin’ fun, don’ they?” Hagrid said happily. Harry assumed he was talking about the

skrewts, because his classmates certainly weren’t;

every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of

the skrewts’ ends would explode, causing it to shoot

forward several yards, and more than one person was

being dragged along on their stomach, trying

desperately to get back on their feet.

“Ah, I don’ know, Harry,” Hagrid sighed suddenly,

looking back down at him with a worried expression

on his face. “School champion … everythin’ seems ter

happen ter you, doesn’ it?”

Harry didn’t answer. Yes, everything did seem to

happen to him … that was more or less what

Hermione had said as they had walked around the

lake, and that was the reason, according to her, that

Ron was no longer talking to him.

The next few days were some of Harry’s worst at

Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come to feeling like

this had been during those months, in his second

year, when a large part of the school had suspected

him of attacking his fellow students. But Ron had

been on his side then. He thought he could have

coped with the rest of the school’s behavior if he could

just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn’t

going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron

didn’t want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike

pouring in on him from all sides.

He could understand the Hufflepuffs’ attitude, even if

he didn’t like it; they had their own champion to

support. He expected nothing less than vicious

insults from the Slytherins — he was highly

unpopular there and always had been, because he

had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at

Quidditch and in the Inter-House Championship. But

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he had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in their hearts to support him as much as Cedric. He

was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to

think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit

more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his

name.

Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of

a champion so much more than he did. Exceptionally

handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray

eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more

admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. Harry

actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been

so keen to get Krum’s autograph begging Cedric to

sign their school bags one lunchtime.

Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig

was refusing to come anywhere near him, Professor

Trelawney was predicting his death with even more

certainty than usual, and he did so badly at

Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that

he was given extra homework — the only person to

get any, apart from Neville.

“It’s really not that difficult, Harry,” Hermione tried to

reassure him as they left Flitwick’s class — she had

been making objects zoom across the room to her all

lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet

for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and

lunascopes. “You just weren’t concentrating properly

—”

“Wonder why that was,” said Harry darkly as Cedric

Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of

simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as

though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended

Skrewt. “Still — never mind, eh? Double Potions to

look forward to this afternoon. …”

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Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut

in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and

the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to

punish Harry as much as possible for daring to

become school champion, was about the most

unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had

already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with

Hermione sitting next to him intoning “ignore them,

ignore them, ignore them” under her breath, and he

couldn’t see why today should be any better.

When he and Hermione arrived at Snape’s dungeon

after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside,

each and every one of them wearing a large badge on

the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment

Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges — then he

saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous

red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit

underground passage:

Support CEDRIC DIGGORY —

The REAL Hogwarts Champion

“Like them, Potter?” said Malfoy loudly as Harry

approached. “And this isn’t all they do — look!”

He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message

upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one,

which glowed green:

POTTER STINKS

The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them

pressed their badges too, until the message POTTER

STINKS was shining brightly all around Harry. He felt

the heat rise in his face and neck.

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“Oh very funny,” Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were

laughing harder than anyone, “really witty. ”

Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and

Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking

up for Harry either.

“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a

badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch

my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want

a Mudblood sliming it up.”

Some of the anger Harry had been feeling for days

and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest.

He had reached for his wand before he’d thought

what he was doing. People all around them scrambled

out of the way, backing down the corridor.

“Harry!” Hermione said warningly.

“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, drawing out

his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you

now — do it, if you’ve got the guts —”

For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes,

then, at exactly the same time, both acted.

“Furnunculus!” Harry yelled.

“Densaugeo!” screamed Malfoy.

Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in

midair, and ricocheted off at angles — Harry’s hit

Goyle in the face, and Malfoy’s hit Hermione. Goyle

bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great

ugly boils were springing up — Hermione, whimpering

in panic, was clutching her mouth.

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“Hermione!”

Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with

her; Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione’s

hand away from her face. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Hermione’s front teeth — already larger than average

— were now growing at an alarming rate; she was

looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth

elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin —

panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified

cry.

“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly

voice.

Snape had arrived. The Slytherins clamored to give

their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger

at Malfoy and said, “Explain.”

“Potter attacked me, sir —”

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry

shouted.

“— and he hit Goyle — look —”

Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled

something that would have been at home in a book

on poisonous fungi.

“Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape said calmly.

“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron said. “Look!”

He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth — she

was doing her best to hide them with her hands,

though this was difficult as they had now grown down

past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other

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Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape’s back.

Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, “I see no

difference.”

Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears,

she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up

the corridor and out of sight.

It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron

started shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky

their voices echoed so much in the stone corridor, for

in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear

exactly what they were calling him. He got the gist,

however.

“Let’s see,” he said, in his silkiest voice. “Fifty points

from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and

Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of

detentions.”

Harry’s ears were ringing. The injustice of it made

him want to curse Snape into a thousand slimy

pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the

back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto

the table. Ron was shaking with anger too — for a

moment, it felt as though everything was back to

normal between them, but then Ron turned and sat

down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Harry

alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon,

Malfoy turned his back on Snape and pressed his

badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS flashed once more

across the room.

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began,

picturing horrific things happening to him. … If only

he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse … he’d have

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Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. …

“Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all,

his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You

should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you

to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting

someone on whom to test one. …”

Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was

coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry

imagined picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to

the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape’s

greasy head —

And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on

Harry’s thoughts.

It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room,

beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape’s desk at

the front of the room.

“Yes?” said Snape curtly.

“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter

upstairs.”

Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose

smile faded from his eager face.

“Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” said

Snape coldly. “He will come upstairs when this class

is finished.”

Colin went pink.

“Sir — sir, Mr. Bagman wants him,” he said

nervously. “All the champions have got to go, I think

they want to take photographs. …”

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Harry would have given anything he owned to have

stopped Colin saying those last few words. He

chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring

determinedly at the ceiling.

“Very well, very well,” Snape snapped. “Potter, leave

your things here, I want you back down here later to

test your antidote.”

“Please, sir — he’s got to take his things with him,”

squeaked Colin. “All the champions —”

“Very well!” said Snape. “Potter — take your bag and

get out of my sight!”

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and

headed for the door. As he walked through the

Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from

every direction.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Harry?” said Colin, starting to

speak the moment Harry had closed the dungeon

door behind him. “Isn’t it, though? You being

champion?”

“Yeah, really amazing,” said Harry heavily as they set

off toward the steps into the entrance hall. “What do

they want photos for, Colin?”

“The Daily Prophet, I think!”

“Great,” said Harry dully. “Exactly what I need. More

publicity.”

“Good luck!” said Colin when they had reached the

right room. Harry knocked on the door and entered.

He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks

had been pushed away to the back of the room,

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leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the

blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet.

Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered

desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them,

talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who

was wearing magenta robes.

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as

usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fleur

were in conversation. Fleur looked a good deal

happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept

throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair

caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large

black camera that was smoking slightly, was

watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.

Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and

bounded forward.

“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come,

Harry, in you come … nothing to worry about, it’s just

the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges

will be here in a moment —”

“Wand weighing?” Harry repeated nervously.

“We have to check that your wands are fully

functional, no problems, you know, as they’re your

most important tools in the tasks ahead,” said

Bagman. “The expert’s upstairs now with

Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little

photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he added,

gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. “She’s

doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily

Prophet. …”

“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” said Rita Skeeter, her

eyes on Harry.

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Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She

wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching

her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails,

painted crimson.

“I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry

before we start?” she said to Bagman, but still gazing

fixedly at Harry. “The youngest champion, you know

… to add a bit of color?”

“Certainly!” cried Bagman. “That is — if Harry has no

objection?”

“Er —” said Harry.

“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her

scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry’s upper arm in a

surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him

out of the room again and opening a nearby door.

“We don’t want to be in there with all that noise,” she

said. “Let’s see … ah, yes, this is nice and cozy.”

It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her.

“Come along, dear — that’s right — lovely,” said Rita

Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an

upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a

cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them

into darkness. “Let’s see now …”

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and

pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a

wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that

they could see what they were doing.

“You won’t mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes

Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. …”

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“A what?” said Harry.

Rita Skeeter’s smile widened. Harry counted three

gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag

and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of

parchment, which she stretched out between them on

a crate of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess

Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her

mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish,

then placed it upright on the parchment, where it

stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

“Testing … my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet

reporter.”

Harry looked down quickly at the quill. The moment

Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started

to scribble, skidding across the parchment:

Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose

savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations

—

“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped

the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and

stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward

Harry and said, “So, Harry … what made you decide

to enter the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Er —” said Harry again, but he was distracted by the

quill. Even though he wasn’t speaking, it was dashing

across the parchment, and in its wake he could make

out a fresh sentence:

An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the

otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes

—

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“Ignore the quill, Harry,” said Rita Skeeter firmly.

Reluctantly, Harry looked up at her instead. “Now —

why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?”

“I didn’t,” said Harry. “I don’t know how my name got

into the Goblet of Fire. I didn’t put it in there.”

Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow.

“Come now, Harry, there’s no need to be scared of

getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t really

have entered at all. But don’t worry about that. Our

readers love a rebel.”

“But I didn’t enter,” Harry repeated. “I don’t know

who —”

“How do you feel about the tasks ahead?” said Rita

Skeeter. “Excited? Nervous?”

“I haven’t really thought … yeah, nervous, I suppose,”

said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he

spoke.

“Champions have died in the past, haven’t they?” said

Rita Skeeter briskly. “Have you thought about that at

all?”

“Well … they say it’s going to be a lot safer this year,”

said Harry.

The quill whizzed across the parchment between

them, back and forward as though it were skating.

“Of course, you’ve looked death in the face before,

haven’t you?” said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely.

“How would you say that’s affected you?”

“Er,” said Harry, yet again.

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“Do you think that the trauma in your past might

have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to

your name? Do you think that perhaps you were

tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because

—”

“I didn’t enter, ” said Harry, starting to feel irritated.

“Can you remember your parents at all?” said Rita

Skeeter, talking over him.

“No,” said Harry.

“How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were

competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud?

Worried? Angry?”

Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth

was he to know how his parents would feel if they

were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him

very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and

looked down at words the quill had just written:

Tears fill those startling green eyes as our

conversation turns to the parents he can barely

remember.

“I have NOT got tears in my eyes!” said Harry loudly.

Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the

broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked

around, blinking in the bright light. Albus

Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of

them, squashed into the cupboard.

“Dumbledore!” cried Rita Skeeter, with every

appearance of delight — but Harry noticed that her

quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from

the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita’s clawed

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fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. “How are you?” she said, standing

up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands

to Dumbledore. “I hope you saw my piece over the

summer about the International Confederation of

Wizards’ Conference?”

“Enchantingly nasty,” said Dumbledore, his eyes

twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of

me as an obsolete dingbat.”

Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed.

“I was just making the point that some of your ideas

are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many

wizards in the street —”

“I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the

rudeness, Rita,” said Dumbledore, with a courteous

bow and a smile, “but I’m afraid we will have to

discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands

is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our

champions is hidden in a broom cupboard.”

Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry

hurried back into the room. The other champions

were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat

down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet-

covered table, where four of the five judges were now

sitting — Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr.

Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled

herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the

parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her

knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and

place it once more on the parchment.

“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” said Dumbledore,

taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the

champions. “He will be checking your wands to

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ensure that they are in good condition before the

tournament.”

Harry looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw

an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by

the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before —

he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had

bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon

Alley.

“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first,

please?” said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty

space in the middle of the room.

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Ollivander and

handed him her wand.

“Hmmm …” he said.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a

baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold

sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and

examined it carefully.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches …

inflexible … rosewood … and containing … dear me

…”

“An ’air from ze ’ead of a veela,” said Fleur. “One of

my grandmuzzer’s.”

So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a

mental note to tell Ron … then he remembered that

Ron wasn’t speaking to him.

“Yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, “yes, I’ve never used veela

hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather

temperamental wands … however, to each his own,

and if this suits you …”

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Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand,

apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he

muttered, “Orchideous!” and a bunch of flowers burst

from the wand tip.

“Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” said

Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing

them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr. Diggory, you next.”

Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he

passed her.

“Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it?” said Mr.

Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric

handed over his wand. “Yes, I remember it well.

Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly

fine male unicorn … must have been seventeen

hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked

his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches … ash …

pleasantly springy. It’s in fine condition. … You treat

it regularly?”

“Polished it last night,” said Cedric, grinning.

Harry looked down at his own wand. He could see

finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe

from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously.

Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur

Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he

desisted.

Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings

across the room from the tip of Cedric’s wand,

pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, “Mr.

Krum, if you please.”

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered

and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust

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out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Hmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, “this is a Gregorovitch

creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wand-

maker, though the styling is never quite what I …

however …”

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning

it over and over before his eyes.

“Yes … hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” he shot at

Krum, who nodded. “Rather thicker than one usually

sees … quite rigid … ten and a quarter inches …

Avis!”

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a

number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end

and through the open window into the watery

sunlight.

“Good,” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his

wand. “Which leaves … Mr. Potter.”

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr.

Ollivander. He handed over his wand.

“Aaaah, yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes

suddenly gleaming. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I

remember.”

Harry could remember too. He could remember it as

though it had happened yesterday…

Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had

entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with Hagrid to buy a

wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements

and then started handing him wands to try. Harry

had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until

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at last he had found the one that suited him — this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and

contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix.

Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry

had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious,” he

had said, “curious,” and not until Harry asked what

was curious had Mr. Ollivander explained that the

phoenix feather in Harry’s wand had come from the

same bird that had supplied the core of Lord

Voldemort’s.

Harry had never shared this piece of information with

anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as

he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand

was something it couldn’t help — rather as he

couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However,

he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to

tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita

Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with

excitement if he did.

Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry’s

wand than anyone else’s. Eventually, however, he

made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it

back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect

condition.

“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, standing up at the

judges’ table. “You may go back to your lessons now

— or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to

dinner, as they are about to end —”

Feeling that at last something had gone right today,

Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black

camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

“Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” cried Bagman

excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you

think, Rita?”

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“Er — yes, let’s do those first,” said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry again. “And then

perhaps some individual shots.”

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime

cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood,

and the photographer couldn’t stand far enough back

to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit

while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept

twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra

curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would

have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-

hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer

seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita

Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry

into greater prominence. Then she insisted on

separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were

free to go.

Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn’t there —

he supposed she was still in the hospital wing having

her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table,

then returned to Gryffindor Tower, thinking of all the

extra work on Summoning Charms that he had to do.

Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron.

“You’ve had an owl,” said Ron brusquely the moment

he walked in. He was pointing at Harry’s pillow. The

school barn owl was waiting for him there.

“Oh — right,” said Harry.

“And we’ve got to do our detentions tomorrow night,

Snape’s dungeon,” said Ron.

He then walked straight out of the room, not looking

at Harry. For a moment, Harry considered going after

him — he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk to

him or hit him, both seemed quite appealing — but

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the lure of Sirius’s answer was too strong. Harry

strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its leg,

and unrolled it.

Harry —

I can’t say everything I would like to in a letter, it’s too

risky in case the owl is intercepted — we need to talk

face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the

fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock in the morning

on the 22nd of November?

I know better than anyone that you can look after

yourself and while you’re around Dumbledore and

Moody I don’t think anyone will be able to hurt you.

However, someone seems to be having a good try.

Entering you in that tournament would have been very

risky, especially right under Dumbledore’s nose.

Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about

anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of

November as quickly as you can.

Sirius

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THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL

The prospect of talking face-to-face with Sirius was all

that sustained Harry over the next fortnight, the only

bright spot on a horizon that had never looked

darker. The shock of finding himself school champion

had worn off slightly now, and the fear of what was

facing him had started to sink in. The first task was

drawing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were

crouching ahead of him like some horrific monster,

barring his path. He had never suffered nerves like

these; they were way beyond anything he had

experienced before a Quidditch match, not even his

last one against Slytherin, which had decided who

would win the Quidditch Cup. Harry was finding it

hard to think about the future at all; he felt as though

his whole life had been leading up to, and would

finish with, the first task. …

Admittedly, he didn’t see how Sirius was going to

make him feel any better about having to perform an

unknown piece of difficult and dangerous magic in

front of hundreds of people, but the mere sight of a

friendly face would be something at the moment.

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Harry wrote back to Sirius saying that he would be beside the common room fire at the time Sirius had

suggested, and he and Hermione spent a long time

going over plans for forcing any stragglers out of the

common room on the night in question. If the worst

came to the worst, they were going to drop a bag of

Dungbombs, but they hoped they wouldn’t have to

resort to that — Filch would skin them alive.

In the meantime, life became even worse for Harry

within the confines of the castle, for Rita Skeeter had

published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament,

and it had turned out to be not so much a report on

the tournament as a highly colored life story of Harry.

Much of the front page had been given over to a

picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two,

six, and seven) had been all about Harry, the names

of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions

(misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of

the article, and Cedric hadn’t been mentioned at all.

The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still

got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach

every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had

reported him saying an awful lot of things that he

couldn’t remember ever saying in his life, let alone in

that broom cupboard.

I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know

they’d be very proud of me if they could see me now.

… Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I’m

not ashamed to admit it. … I know nothing will hurt

me during the tournament, because they’re watching

over me. …

But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than

transforming his “er’s” into long, sickly sentences:

She had interviewed other people about him too.

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Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen

out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a

stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is

one of the top students in the school.

From the moment the article had appeared, Harry

had had to endure people — Slytherins, mainly —

quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering

comments.

“Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in

Transfiguration?”

“Since when have you been one of the top students in

the school, Potter? Or is this a school you and

Longbottom have set up together?”

“Hey — Harry!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Harry found himself shouting as

he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just

about enough. “I’ve just been crying my eyes out over

my dead mum, and I’m just off to do a bit more. …”

“No — it was just — you dropped your quill.”

It was Cho. Harry felt the color rising in his face.

“Oh — right — sorry,” he muttered, taking the quill

back.

“Er … good luck on Tuesday,” she said. “I really hope

you do well.”

Which left Harry feeling extremely stupid.

Hermione had come in for her fair share of

unpleasantness too, but she hadn’t yet started yelling

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at innocent bystanders; in fact, Harry was full of admiration for the way she was handling the

situation.

“Stunningly pretty? Her?” Pansy Parkinson had

shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with

Hermione after Rita’s article had appeared. “What was

she judging against — a chipmunk?”

“Ignore it,” Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding

her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering

Slytherin girls as though she couldn’t hear them.

“Just ignore it, Harry.”

But Harry couldn’t ignore it. Ron hadn’t spoken to

him at all since he had told him about Snape’s

detentions. Harry had half hoped they would make

things up during the two hours they were forced to

pickle rats’ brains in Snape’s dungeon, but that had

been the day Rita’s article had appeared, which

seemed to have confirmed Ron’s belief that Harry was

really enjoying all the attention.

Hermione was furious with the pair of them; she went

from one to the other, trying to force them to talk to

each other, but Harry was adamant: He would talk to

Ron again only if Ron admitted that Harry hadn’t put

his name in the Goblet of Fire and apologized for

calling him a liar.

“I didn’t start this,” Harry said stubbornly. “It’s his

problem.”

“You miss him!” Hermione said impatiently. “And I

know he misses you —”

“Miss him?” said Harry. “I don’t miss him. …”

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But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn’t the same as Ron.

There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging

around in the library when Hermione was your best

friend. Harry still hadn’t mastered Summoning

Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a

block about them, and Hermione insisted that

learning the theory would help. They consequently

spent a lot of time poring over books during their

lunchtimes.

Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and

Harry wondered what he was up to. Was he studying,

or was he looking for things to help him through the

first task? Hermione often complained about Krum

being there — not that he ever bothered them — but

because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy

on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione

found the noise distracting.

“He’s not even good-looking!” she muttered angrily,

glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him

because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him

if he couldn’t do that Wonky-Faint thing —”

“Wronski Feint,” said Harry, through gritted teeth.

Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms

correct, it caused him another pang to imagine Ron’s

expression if he could have heard Hermione talking

about Wonky-Faints.

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading

something, and would give anything to slow down

time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The

days until the first task seemed to slip by as though

someone had fixed the clocks to work at double

speed. Harry’s feeling of barely controlled panic was

with him wherever he went, as everpresent as the

snide comments about the Daily Prophet article.

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On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above were permitted to visit the

village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Harry that it

would do him good to get away from the castle for a

bit, and Harry didn’t need much persuasion.

“What about Ron, though?” he said. “Don’t you want

to go with him?”

“Oh … well …” Hermione went slightly pink. “I

thought we might meet up with him in the Three

Broomsticks. …”

“No,” said Harry flatly.

“Oh Harry, this is so stupid —”

“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron, and I’m wearing

my Invisibility Cloak.”

“Oh all right then …” Hermione snapped, “but I hate

talking to you in that cloak, I never know if I’m

looking at you or not.”

So Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak in the

dormitory, went back downstairs, and together he

and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade.

Harry felt wonderfully free under the cloak; he

watched other students walking past them as they

entered the village, most of them sporting Support

Cedric Diggory! badges, but no horrible remarks came

his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that

stupid article.

“People keep looking at me now,” said Hermione

grumpily as they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop

later, eating large cream-filled chocolates. “They think

I’m talking to myself.”

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“Don’t move your lips so much then.”

“Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no

one’s going to bother you here.”

“Oh yeah?” said Harry. “Look behind you.”

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just

emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in

low voices, they passed right by Hermione without

looking at her. Harry backed into the wall of

Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from hitting him

with her crocodile-skin handbag. When they were

gone, Harry said, “She’s staying in the village. I bet

she’s coming to watch the first task.”

As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of

molten panic. He didn’t mention this; he and

Hermione hadn’t discussed what was coming in the

first task much; he had the feeling she didn’t want to

think about it.

“She’s gone,” said Hermione, looking right through

Harry toward the end of the street. “Why don’t we go

and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a

bit cold, isn’t it? You don’t have to talk to Ron!” she

added irritably, correctly interpreting his silence.

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with

Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but

also with a variety of magical people Harry rarely saw

anywhere else. Harry supposed that as Hogsmeade

was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit

of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as

adept as wizards at disguising themselves.

It was very hard to move through crowds in the

Invisibility Cloak, in case you accidentally trod on

someone, which tended to lead to awkward questions.

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Harry edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way

through the pub, Harry spotted Ron, who was sitting

with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge

to give Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head,

he finally reached the table and sat down at it.

Hermione joined him a moment later and slipped him

a butterbeer under his cloak.

“I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my own,” she

muttered. “Lucky I brought something to do.”

And she pulled out a notebook in which she had been

keeping a record of S.P.E.W. members. Harry saw his

and Ron’s names at the top of the very short list. It

seemed a long time ago that they had sat making up

those predictions together, and Hermione had turned

up and appointed them secretary and treasurer.

“You know, maybe I should try and get some of the

villagers involved in S.P.E.W.,” Hermione said

thoughtfully, looking around the pub.

“Yeah, right,” said Harry. He took a swig of butterbeer

under his cloak. “Hermione, when are you going to

give up on this spew stuff?”

“When house-elves have decent wages and working

conditions!” she hissed back. “You know, I’m starting

to think it’s time for more direct action. I wonder how

you get into the school kitchens?”

“No idea, ask Fred and George,” said Harry.

Hermione lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Harry

drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub.

All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie

Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were swapping

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Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges on their

cloaks. Right over by the door he saw Cho and a large

group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn’t wearing a

Cedric badge though. … This cheered up Harry very

slightly. …

What wouldn’t he have given to be one of these

people, sitting around laughing and talking, with

nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined

how it would have felt to be here if his name hadn’t

come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn’t be wearing

the Invisibility Cloak, for one thing. Ron would be

sitting with him. The three of them would probably be

happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the

school champions would be facing on Tuesday. He’d

have been really looking forward to it, watching them

do whatever it was … cheering on Cedric with

everyone else, safe in a seat at the back of the stands.

…

He wondered how the other champions were feeling.

Every time he had seen Cedric lately, he had been

surrounded by admirers and looking nervous but

excited. Harry glimpsed Fleur Delacour from time to

time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she

always did, haughty and unruffled. And Krum just

sat in the library, poring over books.

Harry thought of Sirius, and the tight, tense knot in

his chest seemed to ease slightly. He would be

speaking to him in just over twelve hours, for tonight

was the night they were meeting at the common room

fire — assuming nothing went wrong, as everything

else had done lately. …

“Look, it’s Hagrid!” said Hermione.

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The back of Hagrid’s enormous shaggy head — he

had mercifully abandoned his bunches — emerged

over the crowd. Harry wondered why he hadn’t

spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but

standing up carefully, he saw that Hagrid had been

leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Hagrid had

his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but

Moody was drinking from his hip flask. Madam

Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn’t seem to think

much of this; she was looking askance at Moody as

she collected glasses from tables around them.

Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled

mead, but Harry knew better. Moody had told them

all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts

lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and

drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards

to poison an unattended cup.

As Harry watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up

to leave. He waved, then remembered that Hagrid

couldn’t see him. Moody, however, paused, his

magical eye on the corner where Harry was standing.

He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back (being

unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to

him, and then the pair of them made their way back

across the pub toward Harry and Hermione’s table.

“All right, Hermione?” said Hagrid loudly.

“Hello,” said Hermione, smiling back.

Moody limped around the table and bent down; Harry

thought he was reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until

he muttered, “Nice cloak, Potter.”

Harry stared at him in amazement. The large chunk

missing from Moody’s nose was particularly obvious

at a few inches’ distance. Moody grinned.

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“Can your eye — I mean, can you — ?”

“Yeah, it can see through Invisibility Cloaks,” Moody

said quietly. “And it’s come in useful at times, I can

tell you.”

Hagrid was beaming down at Harry too. Harry knew

Hagrid couldn’t see him, but Moody had obviously

told Hagrid he was there. Hagrid now bent down on

the pretext of reading the S.P.E.W. notebook as well,

and said in a whisper so low that only Harry could

hear it, “Harry, meet me tonight at midnight at me

cabin. Wear that cloak.”

Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, “Nice ter see

yeh, Hermione,” winked, and departed. Moody

followed him.

“Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?”

Harry said, very surprised.

“Does he?” said Hermione, looking startled. “I wonder

what he’s up to? I don’t know whether you should go,

Harry. …” She looked nervously around and hissed,

“It might make you late for Sirius.”

It was true that going down to Hagrid’s at midnight

would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine

indeed; Hermione suggested sending Hedwig down to

Hagrid’s to tell him he couldn’t go — always assuming

she would consent to take the note, of course —

Harry, however, thought it better just to be quick at

whatever Hagrid wanted him for. He was very curious

to know what this might be; Hagrid had never asked

Harry to visit him so late at night.

At half past eleven that evening, Harry, who had

pretended to go up to bed early, pulled the Invisibility

Cloak back over himself and crept back downstairs

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through the common room. Quite a few people were

still in there. The Creevey brothers had managed to

get hold of a stack of Support Cedric Diggory! badges

and were trying to bewitch them to make them say

Support Harry Potter! instead. So far, however, all they

had managed to do was get the badges stuck on

POTTER STINKS. Harry crept past them to the portrait

hole and waited for a minute or so, keeping an eye on

his watch. Then Hermione opened the Fat Lady for

him from outside as they had planned. He slipped

past her with a whispered “Thanks!” and set off

through the castle.

The grounds were very dark. Harry walked down the

lawn toward the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin. The

inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage was

also lit up; Harry could hear Madame Maxime talking

inside it as he knocked on Hagrid’s front door.

“You there, Harry?” Hagrid whispered, opening the

door and looking around.

“Yeah,” said Harry, slipping inside the cabin and

pulling the cloak down off his head. “What’s up?”

“Got summat ter show yeh,” said Hagrid.

There was an air of enormous excitement about

Hagrid. He was wearing a flower that resembled an

oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as

though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but

he had certainly attempted to comb his hair — Harry

could see the comb’s broken teeth tangled in it.

“What’re you showing me?” Harry said warily,

wondering if the skrewts had laid eggs, or Hagrid had

managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a

stranger in a pub.

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“Come with me, keep quiet, an’ keep yerself covered with that cloak,” said Hagrid. “We won’ take Fang, he

won’ like it. …”

“Listen, Hagrid, I can’t stay long. … I’ve got to be back

up at the castle by one o’clock —”

But Hagrid wasn’t listening; he was opening the cabin

door and striding off into the night. Harry hurried to

follow and found, to his great surprise, that Hagrid

was leading him to the Beauxbatons carriage.

“Hagrid, what — ?”

“Shhh!” said Hagrid, and he knocked three times on

the door bearing the crossed golden wands.

Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk

shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She

smiled when she saw Hagrid.

“Ah, ’Agrid … it is time?”

“Bong-sewer,” said Hagrid, beaming at her, and

holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps.

Madame Maxime closed the door behind her, Hagrid

offered her his arm, and they set off around the edge

of the paddock containing Madame Maxime’s giant

winged horses, with Harry, totally bewildered,

running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to

show him Madame Maxime? He could see her any old

time he wanted … she wasn’t exactly hard to miss. …

But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the

same treat as Harry, because after a while she said

playfully, “Wair is it you are taking me, ’Agrid?”

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“Yeh’ll enjoy this,” said Hagrid gruffly, “worth seein’, trust me. On’y — don’ go tellin’ anyone I showed yeh,

right? Yeh’re not s’posed ter know.”

“Of course not,” said Madame Maxime, fluttering her

long black eyelashes.

And still they walked, Harry getting more and more

irritated as he jogged along in their wake, checking

his watch every now and then. Hagrid had some

harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him

miss Sirius. If they didn’t get there soon, he was going

to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and

leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame

Maxime. …

But then — when they had walked so far around the

perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake

were out of sight — Harry heard something. Men were

shouting up ahead … then came a deafening,

earsplitting roar. …

Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees

and came to a halt. Harry hurried up alongside them

— for a split second, he thought he was seeing

bonfires, and men darting around them — and then

his mouth fell open.

Dragons.

Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons

were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure

fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and

snorting — torrents of fire were shooting into the dark

sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above

the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a

silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping

and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-

scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping

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with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting

mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a

gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others,

which was nearest to them.

At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon,

were attempting to control them, pulling on the

chains connected to heavy leather straps around their

necks and legs. Mesmerized, Harry looked up, high

above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with

vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or

rage, he couldn’t tell which. … It was making a

horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. …

“Keep back there, Hagrid!” yelled a wizard near the

fence, straining on the chain he was holding. “They

can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve

seen this Horntail do forty!”

“Is’n’ it beautiful?” said Hagrid softly.

“It’s no good!” yelled another wizard. “Stunning

Spells, on the count of three!”

Harry saw each of the dragon keepers pull out his

wand.

“Stupefy!” they shouted in unison, and the Stunning

Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets,

bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly

hides —

Harry watched the dragon nearest to them teeter

dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide

in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of

flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it

fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the

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ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn

made the trees behind him quake.

The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked

forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the

size of a small hill. They hurried to tighten the chains

and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they

forced deep into the ground with their wands.

“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asked Madame Maxime

excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the

fence, and Harry followed. The wizard who had

warned Hagrid not to come any closer turned, and

Harry realized who it was: Charlie Weasley.

“All right, Hagrid?” he panted, coming over to talk.

“They should be okay now — we put them out with a

Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be

better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet

— but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at

all —”

“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” said Hagrid,

gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with

something close to reverence. Its eyes were still just

open. Harry could see a strip of gleaming yellow

beneath its wrinkled black eyelid.

“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” said Charlie. “There’s

a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one —

a Swedish Short-Snout, that blue-gray — and a

Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.”

Charlie looked around; Madame Maxime was strolling

away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the

stunned dragons.

“I didn’t know you were bringing her, Hagrid,” Charlie

said, frowning. “The champions aren’t supposed to

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know what’s coming — she’s bound to tell her

student, isn’t she?”

“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ’em,” shrugged Hagrid,

still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons.

“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” said Charlie, shaking

his head.

“Four …” said Hagrid, “so it’s one fer each o’ the

champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do — fight ’em?”

“Just get past them, I think,” said Charlie. “We’ll be

on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the

ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know

why … but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who

gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as

dangerous as its front, look.”

Charlie pointed toward the Horntail’s tail, and Harry

saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it

every few inches.

Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers staggered up to the

Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge

granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They

placed them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid let

out a moan of longing.

“I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” said Charlie sternly.

Then he said, “How’s Harry?”

“Fine,” said Hagrid. He was still gazing at the eggs.

“Just hope he’s still fine after he’s faced this lot,” said

Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons’

enclosure. “I didn’t dare tell Mum what he’s got to do

for the first task; she’s already having kittens about

him. …” Charlie imitated his mother’s anxious voice. “

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‘ How could they let him enter that tournament, he’s much too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit!’ She was in floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. ‘ He still

cries about his parents! Oh bless him, I never knew!’ ”

Harry had had enough. Trusting to the fact that

Hagrid wouldn’t miss him, with the attractions of four

dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, he

turned silently and began to walk away, back to the

castle.

He didn’t know whether he was glad he’d seen what

was coming or not. Perhaps this way was better. The

first shock was over now. Maybe if he’d seen the

dragons for the first time on Tuesday, he would have

passed out cold in front of the whole school … but

maybe he would anyway. … He was going to be armed

with his wand — which, just now, felt like nothing

more than a narrow strip of wood — against a fifty-

foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-breathing dragon.

And he had to get past it. With everyone watching.

How?

Harry sped up, skirting the edge of the forest; he had

just under fifteen minutes to get back to the fireside

and talk to Sirius, and he couldn’t remember, ever,

wanting to talk to someone more than he did right

now — when, without warning, he ran into something

very solid.

Harry fell backward, his glasses askew, clutching the

cloak around him. A voice nearby said, “Ouch! Who’s

there?”

Harry hastily checked that the cloak was covering

him and lay very still, staring up at the dark outline

of the wizard he had hit. He recognized the goatee …

it was Karkaroff.

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“Who’s there?” said Karkaroff again, very

suspiciously, looking around in the darkness. Harry

remained still and silent. After a minute or so,

Karkaroff seemed to decide that he had hit some sort

of animal; he was looking around at waist height, as

though expecting to see a dog. Then he crept back

under the cover of the trees and started to edge

forward toward the place where the dragons were.

Very slowly and very carefully, Harry got to his feet

and set off again as fast as he could without making

too much noise, hurrying through the darkness back

toward Hogwarts.

He had no doubt whatsoever what Karkaroff was up

to. He had sneaked off his ship to try and find out

what the first task was going to be. He might even

have spotted Hagrid and Madame Maxime heading off

around the forest together — they were hardly

difficult to spot at a distance … and now all Karkaroff

had to do was follow the sound of voices, and he, like

Madame Maxime, would know what was in store for

the champions.

By the looks of it, the only champion who would be

facing the unknown on Tuesday was Cedric.

Harry reached the castle, slipped in through the front

doors, and began to climb the marble stairs; he was

very out of breath, but he didn’t dare slow down. …

He had less than five minutes to get up to the fire. …

“Balderdash!” he gasped at the Fat Lady, who was

snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole.

“If you say so,” she muttered sleepily, without opening

her eyes, and the picture swung forward to admit

him. Harry climbed inside. The common room was

deserted, and, judging by the fact that it smelled quite

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normal, Hermione had not needed to set off any

Dungbombs to ensure that he and Sirius got privacy.

Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and threw

himself into an armchair in front of the fire. The room

was in semidarkness; the flames were the only source

of light. Nearby, on a table, the Support Cedric

Diggory! badges the Creeveys had been trying to

improve were glinting in the firelight. They now read

POTTER REALLY STINKS. Harry looked back into the

flames, and jumped.

Sirius’s head was sitting in the fire. If Harry hadn’t

seen Mr. Diggory do exactly this back in the Weasleys’

kitchen, it would have scared him out of his wits.

Instead, his face breaking into the first smile he had

worn for days, he scrambled out of his chair,

crouched down by the hearth, and said, “Sirius —

how’re you doing?”

Sirius looked different from Harry’s memory of him.

When they had said good-bye, Sirius’s face had been

gaunt and sunken, surrounded by a quantity of long,

black, matted hair — but the hair was short and

clean now, Sirius’s face was fuller, and he looked

younger, much more like the only photograph Harry

had of him, which had been taken at the Potters’

wedding.

“Never mind me, how are you?” said Sirius seriously.

“I’m —” For a second, Harry tried to say “fine” — but

he couldn’t do it. Before he could stop himself, he was

talking more than he’d talked in days — about how

no one believed he hadn’t entered the tournament of

his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him

in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn’t walk down a

corridor without being sneered at — and about Ron,

Ron not believing him, Ron’s jealousy …

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“… and now Hagrid’s just shown me what’s coming in the first task, and it’s dragons, Sirius, and I’m a

goner,” he finished desperately.

Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern, eyes that

had not yet lost the look that Azkaban had given

them — that deadened, haunted look. He had let

Harry talk himself into silence without interruption,

but now he said, “Dragons we can deal with, Harry,

but we’ll get to that in a minute — I haven’t got long

here … I’ve broken into a wizarding house to use the

fire, but they could be back at any time. There are

things I need to warn you about.”

“What?” said Harry, feeling his spirits slip a further

few notches. … Surely there could be nothing worse

than dragons coming?

“Karkaroff,” said Sirius. “Harry, he was a Death Eater.

You know what Death Eaters are, don’t you?”

“Yes — he — what?”

“He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he

got released. I’d bet everything that’s why Dumbledore

wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year — to keep an

eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into

Azkaban in the first place.”

“Karkaroff got released?” Harry said slowly — his

brain seemed to be struggling to absorb yet another

piece of shocking information. “Why did they release

him?”

“He did a deal with the Ministry of Magic,” said Sirius

bitterly. “He said he’d seen the error of his ways, and

then he named names … he put a load of other people

into Azkaban in his place. … He’s not very popular in

there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from what I

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can tell, he’s been teaching the Dark Arts to every student who passes through that school of his. So

watch out for the Durmstrang champion as well.”

“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “But … are you saying

Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he

did, he’s a really good actor. He seemed furious about

it. He wanted to stop me from competing.”

“We know he’s a good actor,” said Sirius, “because he

convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn’t

he? Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the Daily

Prophet, Harry —”

“— you and the rest of the world,” said Harry bitterly.

“— and reading between the lines of that Skeeter

woman’s article last month, Moody was attacked the

night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she

says it was another false alarm,” Sirius said hastily,

seeing Harry about to speak, “but I don’t think so,

somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from

getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job

would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no

one’s going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye’s heard

intruders a bit too often. But that doesn’t mean he

can’t still spot the real thing. Moody was the best

Auror the Ministry ever had.”

“So … what are you saying?” said Harry slowly.

“Karkaroff’s trying to kill me? But — why?”

Sirius hesitated.

“I’ve been hearing some very strange things,” he said

slowly. “The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active

than usual lately. They showed themselves at the

Quidditch World Cup, didn’t they? Someone set off

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the Dark Mark … and then — did you hear about that Ministry of Magic witch who’s gone missing?”

“Bertha Jorkins?” said Harry.

“Exactly … she disappeared in Albania, and that’s

definitely where Voldemort was rumored to be last …

and she would have known the Triwizard Tournament

was coming up, wouldn’t she?”

“Yeah, but … it’s not very likely she’d have walked

straight into Voldemort, is it?” said Harry.

“Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins,” said Sirius grimly.

“She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above

your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy,

but no brains, none at all. It’s not a good

combination, Harry. I’d say she’d be very easy to lure

into a trap.

“So … so Voldemort could have found out about the

tournament?” said Harry. “Is that what you mean?

You think Karkaroff might be here on his orders?”

“I don’t know,” said Sirius slowly, “I just don’t know

… Karkaroff doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go

back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was

powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put

your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I

can’t help thinking the tournament would be a very

good way to attack you and make it look like an

accident.”

“Looks like a really good plan from where I’m

standing,” said Harry grinning bleakly. “They’ll just

have to stand back and let the dragons do their stuff.”

“Right — these dragons,” said Sirius, speaking very

quickly now. “There’s a way, Harry. Don’t be tempted

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to try a Stunning Spell — dragons are strong and too powerfully magical to be knocked out by a single

Stunner, you need about half a dozen wizards at a

time to overcome a dragon —”

“Yeah, I know, I just saw,” said Harry.

“But you can do it alone,” said Sirius. “There is a way,

and a simple spell’s all you need. Just —”

But Harry held up a hand to silence him, his heart

suddenly pounding as though it would burst. He

could hear footsteps coming down the spiral staircase

behind him.

“Go!” he hissed at Sirius. “Go! There’s someone

coming!”

Harry scrambled to his feet, hiding the fire — if

someone saw Sirius’s face within the walls of

Hogwarts, they would raise an almighty uproar — the

Ministry would get dragged in — he, Harry, would be

questioned about Sirius’s whereabouts —

Harry heard a tiny pop! in the fire behind him and

knew Sirius had gone. He watched the bottom of the

spiral staircase. Who had decided to go for a stroll at

one o’clock in the morning, and stopped Sirius from

telling him how to get past a dragon?

It was Ron. Dressed in his maroon paisley pajamas,

Ron stopped dead facing Harry across the room, and

looked around.

“Who were you talking to?” he said.

“What’s that got to do with you?” Harry snarled.

“What are you doing down here at this time of night?”

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“I just wondered where you —” Ron broke off,

shrugging. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed.”

“Just thought you’d come nosing around, did you?”

Harry shouted. He knew that Ron had no idea what

he’d walked in on, knew he hadn’t done it on purpose,

but he didn’t care — at this moment he hated

everything about Ron, right down to the several

inches of bare ankle showing beneath his pajama

trousers.

“Sorry about that,” said Ron, his face reddening with

anger. “Should’ve realized you didn’t want to be

disturbed. I’ll let you get on with practicing for your

next interview in peace.”

Harry seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS

badges off the table and chucked it, as hard as he

could, across the room. It hit Ron on the forehead

and bounced off.

“There you go,” Harry said. “Something for you to

wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if

you’re lucky. … That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He strode across the room toward the stairs; he half

expected Ron to stop him, he would even have liked

Ron to throw a punch at him, but Ron just stood

there in his too-small pajamas, and Harry, having

stormed upstairs, lay awake in bed fuming for a long

time afterward and didn’t hear him come up to bed.

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THE FIRST TASK

Harry got up on Sunday morning and dressed so

inattentively that it was a while before he realized he

was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his

sock. When he’d finally got all his clothes on the right

parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione,

locating her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall,

where she was eating breakfast with Ginny. Feeling

too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had

swallowed her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged

her out onto the grounds. There, he told her all about

the dragons, and about everything Sirius had said,

while they took another long walk around the lake.

Alarmed as she was by Sirius’s warnings about

Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons

were the more pressing problem.

“Let’s just try and keep you alive until Tuesday

evening,” she said desperately, “and then we can

worry about Karkaroff.”

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They walked three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple spell that would subdue

a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so

they retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled

down every book he could find on dragons, and both

of them set to work searching through the large pile.

“ ‘ Talon-clipping by charms … treating scale-rot …’

This is no good, this is for nutters like Hagrid who

want to keep them healthy. …”

“ ‘ Dragons are extremely difficult to slay, owing to the

ancient magic that imbues their thick hides, which

none but the most powerful spells can penetrate …’

But Sirius said a simple one would do it. …”

“Let’s try some simple spellbooks, then,” said Harry,

throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much.

He returned to the table with a pile of spellbooks, set

them down, and began to flick through each in turn,

Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow.

“Well, there are Switching Spells … but what’s the

point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs

for wine-gums or something that would make it less

dangerous. … The trouble is, like that book said, not

much is going to get through a dragon’s hide. … I’d

say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really

haven’t got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall

… unless you’re supposed to put the spell on

yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But

they’re not simple spells, I mean, we haven’t done any

of those in class, I only know about them because I’ve

been doing O.W.L. practice papers. …”

“Hermione,” Harry said, through gritted teeth, “will

you shut up for a bit, please? I’m trying to

concentrate.”

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But all that happened, when Hermione fell silent, was that Harry’s brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing,

which didn’t seem to allow room for concentration. He

stared hopelessly down the index of Basic Hexes for

the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping … but dragons

had no hair … pepper breath … that would probably

increase a dragon’s firepower … horn tongue … just

what he needed, to give it an extra weapon …

“Oh no, he’s back again, why can’t he read on his

stupid ship?” said Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum

slouched in, cast a surly look over at the pair of them,

and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of

books. “Come on, Harry, we’ll go back to the common

room … his fan club’ll be here in a moment, twittering

away. …”

And sure enough, as they left the library, a gang of

girls tiptoed past them, one of them wearing a

Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist.

Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on

Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first

time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as

he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time,

and thought about what leaving the castle would

mean, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the only place

he had ever been happy … well, he supposed he must

have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn’t

remember that.

Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be

here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive

with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel

slightly calmer. He finished his bacon with difficulty

(his throat wasn’t working too well), and as he and

Hermione got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the

Hufflepuff table.

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Cedric still didn’t know about the dragons … the only champion who didn’t, if Harry was right in thinking

that Maxime and Karkaroff would have told Fleur and

Krum. …

“Hermione, I’ll see you in the greenhouses,” Harry

said, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric

leaving the Hall. “Go on, I’ll catch you up.”

“Harry, you’ll be late, the bell’s about to ring —”

“I’ll catch you up, okay?”

By the time Harry reached the bottom of the marble

staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of

sixth-year friends. Harry didn’t want to talk to Cedric

in front of them; they were among those who had

been quoting Rita Skeeter’s article at him every time

he went near them. He followed Cedric at a distance

and saw that he was heading toward the Charms

corridor. This gave Harry an idea. Pausing at a

distance from them, he pulled out his wand, and took

careful aim.

“Diffindo!”

Cedric’s bag split. Parchment, quills, and books

spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles of ink

smashed.

“Don’t bother,” said Cedric in an exasperated voice as

his friends bent down to help him. “Tell Flitwick I’m

coming, go on. …”

This was exactly what Harry had been hoping for. He

slipped his wand back into his robes, waited until

Cedric’s friends had disappeared into their classroom,

and hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of

everyone but himself and Cedric.

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“Hi,” said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration that was now splattered

with ink. “My bag just split … brand-new and all …”

“Cedric,” said Harry, “the first task is dragons.”

“What?” said Cedric, looking up.

“Dragons,” said Harry, speaking quickly, in case

Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had

got to. “They’ve got four, one for each of us, and we’ve

got to get past them.”

Cedric stared at him. Harry saw some of the panic

he’d been feeling since Saturday night flickering in

Cedric’s gray eyes.

“Are you sure?” Cedric said in a hushed voice.

“Dead sure,” said Harry. “I’ve seen them.”

“But how did you find out? We’re not supposed to

know. …”

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly — he knew Hagrid

would be in trouble if he told the truth. “But I’m not

the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know

by now — Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the

dragons too.”

Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills,

parchment, and books, his ripped bag dangling off

one shoulder. He stared at Harry, and there was a

puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes.

“Why are you telling me?” he asked.

Harry looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric

wouldn’t have asked that if he had seen the dragons

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himself. Harry wouldn’t have let his worst enemy face those monsters unprepared — well, perhaps Malfoy or

Snape …

“It’s just … fair, isn’t it?” he said to Cedric. “We all

know now … we’re on an even footing, aren’t we?”

Cedric was still looking at him in a slightly suspicious

way when Harry heard a familiar clunking noise

behind him. He turned around and saw Mad-Eye

Moody emerging from a nearby classroom.

“Come with me, Potter,” he growled. “Diggory, off you

go.”

Harry stared apprehensively at Moody. Had he

overheard them?

“Er — Professor, I’m supposed to be in Herbology —”

“Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please. …”

Harry followed him, wondering what was going to

happen to him now. What if Moody wanted to know

how he’d found out about the dragons? Would Moody

go to Dumbledore and tell on Hagrid, or just turn

Harry into a ferret? Well, it might be easier to get past

a dragon if he were a ferret, Harry thought dully, he’d

be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty

feet …

He followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the

door behind them and turned to look at Harry, his

magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one.

“That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter,”

Moody said quietly.

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Harry didn’t know what to say; this wasn’t the

reaction he had expected at all.

“Sit down,” said Moody, and Harry sat, looking

around.

He had visited this office under two of its previous

occupants. In Professor Lockhart’s day, the walls had

been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of

Professor Lockhart himself. When Lupin had lived

here, you were more likely to come across a specimen

of some fascinating new Dark creature he had

procured for them to study in class. Now, however,

the office was full of a number of exceptionally odd

objects that Harry supposed Moody had used in the

days when he had been an Auror.

On his desk stood what looked like a large, cracked,

glass spinning top; Harry recognized it at once as a

Sneakoscope, because he owned one himself, though

it was much smaller than Moody’s. In the corner on a

small table stood an object that looked something like

an extra-squiggly, golden television aerial. It was

humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung

opposite Harry on the wall, but it was not reflecting

the room. Shadowy figures were moving around

inside it, none of them clearly in focus.

“Like my Dark Detectors, do you?” said Moody, who

was watching Harry closely.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, pointing at the squiggly

golden aerial.

“Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects

concealment and lies … no use here, of course, too

much interference — students in every direction lying

about why they haven’t done their homework. Been

humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my

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Sneakoscope because it wouldn’t stop whistling. It’s extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of

course, it could be picking up more than kid stuff,” he

added in a growl.

“And what’s the mirror for?”

“Oh that’s my Foe-Glass. See them out there,

skulking around? I’m not really in trouble until I see

the whites of their eyes. That’s when I open my

trunk.”

He let out a short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the

large trunk under the window. It had seven keyholes

in a row. Harry wondered what was in there, until

Moody’s next question brought him sharply back to

earth.

“So … found out about the dragons, have you?”

Harry hesitated. He’d been afraid of this — but he

hadn’t told Cedric, and he certainly wasn’t going to

tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules.

“It’s all right,” said Moody, sitting down and

stretching out his wooden leg with a groan.

“Cheating’s a traditional part of the Tri-wizard

Tournament and always has been.”

“I didn’t cheat,” said Harry sharply. “It was — a sort

of accident that I found out.”

Moody grinned. “I wasn’t accusing you, laddie. I’ve

been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as

high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old

Karkaroff and Maxime won’t be. They’ll have told their

champions everything they can. They want to win.

They want to beat Dumbledore. They’d like to prove

he’s only human.”

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Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye swiveled around so fast it made Harry feel queasy to

watch it.

“So … got any ideas how you’re going to get past your

dragon yet?” said Moody.

“No,” said Harry.

“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I

don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you

some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play

to your strengths. ”

“I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop

himself.

“Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I

say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best

at?”

Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best at?

Well, that was easy, really —

“Quidditch,” he said dully, “and a fat lot of help —”

“That’s right,” said Moody, staring at him very hard,

his magical eye barely moving at all. “You’re a damn

good flier from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, but …” Harry stared at him. “I’m not allowed a

broom, I’ve only got my wand —”

“My second piece of general advice,” said Moody

loudly, interrupting him, “is to use a nice, simple

spell that will enable you to get what you need. ”

Harry looked at him blankly. What did he need?

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“Come on, boy …” whispered Moody. “Put them

together … it’s not that difficult. …”

And it clicked. He was best at flying. He needed to

pass the dragon in the air. For that, he needed his

Firebolt. And for his Firebolt, he needed —

“Hermione,” Harry whispered, when he had sped into

greenhouse three minutes later, uttering a hurried

apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her.

“Hermione — I need you to help me.”

“What d’you think I’ve been trying to do, Harry?” she

whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the

top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she was pruning.

“Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning

Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon.”

And so they practiced. They didn’t have lunch, but

headed for a free classroom, where Harry tried with

all his might to make various objects fly across the

room toward him. He was still having problems. The

books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the

room and dropping like stones to the floor.

“Concentrate, Harry, concentrate. …”

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” said Harry

angrily. “A great big dragon keeps popping up in my

head for some reason. … Okay, try again. …”

He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but

Hermione refused point-blank to skive off

Arithmancy, and there was no point in staying

without her. He therefore had to endure over an hour

of Professor Trelawney, who spent half the lesson

telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation

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to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths.

“Well, that’s good,” said Harry loudly, his temper

getting the better of him, “just as long as it’s not

drawn-out. I don’t want to suffer.”

Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to

laugh; he certainly caught Harry’s eye for the first

time in days, but Harry was still feeling too resentful

toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson

trying to attract small objects toward him under the

table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom

straight into his hand, though he wasn’t entirely sure

that was his prowess at Summoning Charms —

perhaps the fly was just stupid.

He forced down some dinner after Divination, then

returned to the empty classroom with Hermione,

using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers.

They kept practicing until past midnight. They would

have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and,

pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown

at him, started chucking chairs across the room.

Harry and Hermione left in a hurry before the noise

attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor

common room, which was now mercifully empty.

At two o’clock in the morning, Harry stood near the

fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books,

quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of

Gobstones, and Neville’s toad, Trevor. Only in the last

hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning

Charm.

“That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione

said, looking exhausted but very pleased.

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“Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t

manage a spell,” Harry said, throwing a rune

dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try again,

“threaten me with a dragon. Right …” He raised his

wand once more. “Accio Dictionary!”

The heavy book soared out of Hermione’s hand, flew

across the room, and Harry caught it.

“Harry, I really think you’ve got it!” said Hermione

delightedly.

“Just as long as it works tomorrow,” Harry said. “The

Firebolt’s going to be much farther away than the

stuff in here, it’s going to be in the castle, and I’m

going to be out there on the grounds. …”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Hermione firmly “Just as

long as you’re concentrating really, really hard on it,

it’ll come. Harry, we’d better get some sleep … you’re

going to need it.”

Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the

Summoning Charm that evening that some of his

blind panic had left him. It returned in full measure,

however, on the following morning. The atmosphere

in the school was one of great tension and excitement.

Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the

students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure

— though of course, they didn’t yet know what they

would find there.

Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him,

whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing

“We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter” as he

passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced

that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his

head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon,

and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was

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behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever,

rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he

seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History

of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch … and

then (where had the morning gone? the last of the

dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was

hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people

were watching.

“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the

grounds now. … You have to get ready for your first

task.”

“Okay,” said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto

his plate with a clatter.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You’ll be

fine!”

“Yeah,” said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his

own.

He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She

didn’t seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly

as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the

stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon,

she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Now, don’t panic,” she said, “just keep a cool head.

… We’ve got wizards standing by to control the

situation if it gets out of hand. … The main thing is

just to do your best, and nobody will think any the

worse of you. … Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Harry heard himself say. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She was leading him toward the place where the

dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when

they approached the clump of trees behind which the

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enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them,

screening the dragons from view.

“You’re to go in here with the other champions,” said

Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice,

“and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in

there … he’ll be telling you the — the procedure. …

Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. She left

him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside.

Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a low

wooden stool. She didn’t look nearly as composed as

usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum

looked even surlier than usual, which Harry

supposed was his way of showing nerves. Cedric was

pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric

gave him a small smile, which Harry returned, feeling

the muscles in his face working rather hard, as

though they had forgotten how to do it.

“Harry! Good-o!” said Bagman happily, looking

around at him. “Come in, come in, make yourself at

home!”

Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown

cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced

champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again.

“Well, now we’re all here — time to fill you in!” said

Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled,

I’m going to be offering each of you this bag” — he

held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at

them — “from which you will each select a small

model of the thing you are about to face! There are

different — er — varieties, you see. And I have to tell

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you something else too … ah, yes … your task is to collect the golden egg!”

Harry glanced around. Cedric had nodded once, to

show that he understood Bagman’s words, and then

started pacing around the tent again; he looked

slightly green. Fleur Delacour and Krum hadn’t

reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be

sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly

how Harry felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for

this. …

And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of

pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their

owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking. … Harry

felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a

different species. And then — it seemed like about a

second later to Harry — Bagman was opening the

neck of the purple silk sack.

“Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour.

She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out

a tiny, perfect model of a dragon — a Welsh Green. It

had the number two around its neck. And Harry

knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of

surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he

had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what

was coming.

The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the

scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three

around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back

down and stared at the ground.

Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the

blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout, the number one

tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry

put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the

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Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It

stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared

its minuscule fangs.

“Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each

pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers

refer to the order in which you are to take on the

dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave

you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr.

Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure

when you hear a whistle, all right? Now … Harry …

could I have a quick word? Outside?”

“Er … yes,” said Harry blankly, and he got up and

went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a

short distance away, into the trees, and then turned

to him with a fatherly expression on his face.

“Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?”

“What?” said Harry. “I — no, nothing.”

“Got a plan?” said Bagman, lowering his voice

conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind sharing a few

pointers, if you’d like them, you know. I mean,”

Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further,

“you’re the underdog here, Harry. … Anything I can

do to help …”

“No,” said Harry so quickly he knew he had sounded

rude, “no — I — I know what I’m going to do, thanks.”

“Nobody would know, Harry,” said Bagman, winking

at him.

“No, I’m fine,” said Harry, wondering why he kept

telling people this, and wondering whether he had

ever been less fine. “I’ve got a plan worked out, I —”

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A whistle had blown somewhere.

“Good lord, I’ve got to run!” said Bagman in alarm,

and he hurried off.

Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric

emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to

wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came

out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt.

Harry went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds

later, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant

Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face-

to-face with the living counterpart of his model. …

It was worse than Harry could ever have imagined,

sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed …

yelled … gasped like a single many-headed entity, as

Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the

Swedish Short-Snout. Krum was still staring at the

ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric’s

steps, around and around the tent. And Bagman’s

commentary made everything much, much worse. …

Horrible pictures formed in Harry’s mind as he heard:

“Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow” … “He’s

taking risks, this one!” … “Clever move — pity it

didn’t work!”

And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard

the deafening roar that could mean only one thing:

Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured the

golden egg.

“Very good indeed!” Bagman was shouting. “And now

the marks from the judges!”

But he didn’t shout out the marks; Harry supposed

the judges were holding them up and showing them

to the crowd.

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“One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. “Miss Delacour, if you please!”

Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more

warmly toward her than he had done so far as she left

the tent with her head held high and her hand

clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at

opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other’s gaze.

The same process started again. … “Oh I’m not sure

that was wise!” they could hear Bagman shouting

gleefully. “Oh … nearly! Careful now … good lord, I

thought she’d had it then!”

Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into

applause once more. … Fleur must have been

successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks were

being shown … more clapping … then, for the third

time, the whistle.

“And here comes Mr. Krum!” cried Bagman, and

Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone.

He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very

aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his

fingers tingling with fear … yet at the same time, he

seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the

tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away.

…

“Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard

the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek,

while the crowd drew its collective breath. “That’s

some nerve he’s showing — and — yes, he’s got the

egg!”

Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking

glass; Krum had finished — it would be Harry’s turn

any moment.

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He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard

the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance

of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside

him. And now he was walking past the trees, through

a gap in the enclosure fence.

He saw everything in front of him as though it was a

very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and

hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands

that had been magicked there since he’d last stood on

this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other

end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of

eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon

him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her

spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard

ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise,

but whether friendly or not, Harry didn’t know or

care. It was time to do what he had to do … to focus

his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that

was his only chance. …

He raised his wand.

“Accio Firebolt!” he shouted.

Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping, praying. … If

it hadn’t worked … if it wasn’t coming … He seemed

to be looking at everything around him through some

sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat

haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of

faces around him swim strangely. …

And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind

him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward

him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the

enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him,

waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making

even more noise. … Bagman was shouting something

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… but Harry’s ears were not working properly

anymore … listening wasn’t important. …

He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from

the ground. And a second later, something

miraculous happened. …

As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his

hair, as the crowd’s faces became mere flesh-colored

pinpricks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size

of a dog, he realized that he had left not only the

ground behind, but also his fear. … He was back

where he belonged. …

This was just another Quidditch match, that was all

… just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail

was just another ugly opposing team. …

He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the

gold one, gleaming against its cement-colored fellows,

residing safely between the dragon’s front legs.

“Okay,” Harry told himself, “diversionary tactics …

let’s go. …”

He dived. The Horntail’s head followed him; he knew

what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just

in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where

he would have been had he not swerved away … but

Harry didn’t care … that was no more than dodging a

Bludger. …

“Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd

shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr.

Krum?”

Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still

following his progress; its head revolving on its long

neck — if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy —

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but better not push it too long, or it would be

breathing fire again —

Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its

mouth, but this time he was less lucky — he missed

the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet

him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the

long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes —

He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and

groans from the crowd, but the cut didn’t seem to be

deep. … Now he zoomed around the back of the

Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him. …

The Horntail didn’t seem to want to take off, she was

too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and

twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping

those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid

to move too far from them … but he had to persuade

her to do it, or he’d never get near them. … The trick

was to do it carefully, gradually. …

He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not

near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off,

but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept

her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that,

watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs

bared. …

He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her

neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying,

like a snake before its charmer. …

Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of

exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was

longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was

too high to reach now. … She shot fire into the air,

which he dodged. … Her jaws opened wide. …

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“Come on,” Harry hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, “come on, come and get me … up you get now …”

And then she reared, spreading her great, black,

leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small

airplane — and Harry dived. Before the dragon knew

what he had done, or where he had disappeared to,

he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he

could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her

clawed front legs — he had taken his hands off his

Firebolt — he had seized the golden egg —

And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was

soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely

under his uninjured arm, and it was as though

somebody had just turned the volume back up — for

the first time, he became properly aware of the noise

of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as

loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup —

“Look at that!” Bagman was yelling. “Will you look at

that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his

egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr.

Potter!”

Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to

subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the

enclosure, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody,

and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving

him toward them, their smiles evident even from this

distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of

the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in

smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in

weeks. … He had got through the first task, he had

survived. …

“That was excellent, Potter!” cried Professor

McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt — which from

her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand

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shook as she pointed at his shoulder. “You’ll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your

score. … Over there, she’s had to mop up Diggory

already. …”

“Yeh did it, Harry!” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Yeh did it!

An’ agains’ the Horntail an’ all, an’ yeh know Charlie

said that was the wors’ —”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, so that Hagrid

wouldn’t blunder on and reveal that he had shown

Harry the dragons beforehand.

Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical

eye was dancing in its socket.

“Nice and easy does the trick, Potter,” he growled.

“Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please …” said

Professor McGonagall.

Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and

saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a

second tent, looking worried.

“Dragons!” she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling

Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles; he

could make out Cedric’s shadow through the canvas,

but Cedric didn’t seem to be badly injured; he was

sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey examined Harry’s

shoulder, talking furiously all the while. “Last year

dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to

bring into this school next? You’re very lucky … this

is quite shallow … it’ll need cleaning before I heal it

up, though. …”

She cleaned the cut with a dab of some purple liquid

that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder

with her wand, and he felt it heal instantly.

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“Now, just sit quietly for a minute — sit! And then you can go and get your score.”

She bustled out of the tent and he heard her go next

door and say, “How does it feel now, Diggory?”

Harry didn’t want to sit still: He was too full of

adrenaline. He got to his feet, wanting to see what

was going on outside, but before he’d reached the

mouth of the tent, two people had come darting inside

— Hermione, followed closely by Ron.

“Harry, you were brilliant!” Hermione said squeakily.

There were fingernail marks on her face where she

had been clutching it in fear. “You were amazing! You

really were!”

But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very white

and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost.

“Harry,” he said, very seriously, “whoever put your

name in that goblet — I — I reckon they’re trying to

do you in!”

It was as though the last few weeks had never

happened — as though Harry were meeting Ron for

the first time, right after he’d been made champion.

“Caught on, have you?” said Harry coldly. “Took you

long enough.”

Hermione stood nervously between them, looking

from one to the other. Ron opened his mouth

uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize

and suddenly he found he didn’t need to hear it.

“It’s okay,” he said, before Ron could get the words

out. “Forget it.”

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“No,” said Ron, “I shouldn’t’ve —”

“Forget it, ” Harry said.

Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned

back.

Hermione burst into tears.

“There’s nothing to cry about!” Harry told her,

bewildered.

“You two are so stupid!” she shouted, stamping her

foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front.

Then, before either of them could stop her, she had

given both of them a hug and dashed away, now

positively howling.

“Barking mad,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Harry,

c’mon, they’ll be putting up your scores. …”

Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling

more elated than he would have believed possible an

hour ago, Harry ducked out of the tent, Ron by his

side, talking fast.

“You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric

did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on

the ground … turned it into a dog … he was trying to

make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well,

it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort

of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got

burned as well — the dragon changed its mind

halfway through and decided it would rather have

him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And

that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she

was trying to put it into a trance — well, that kind of

worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and

this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught

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fire — she put it out with a bit of water out of her wand. And Krum — you won’t believe this, but he

didn’t even think of flying! He was probably the best

after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right

in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in

agony and squashed half the real eggs — they took

marks off for that, he wasn’t supposed to do any

damage to them.”

Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached the edge of

the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken

away, Harry could see where the five judges were

sitting — right at the other end, in raised seats

draped in gold.

“It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron said, and

Harry, squinting up the field, saw the first judge —

Madame Maxime — raise her wand in the air. What

looked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which

twisted itself into a large figure eight.

“Not bad!” said Ron as the crowd applauded. “I

suppose she took marks off for your shoulder. …”

Mr. Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into

the air.

“Looking good!” Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the

back.

Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd

was cheering harder than ever.

Ludo Bagman — ten.

“Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. “But … I got hurt. …

What’s he playing at?”

“Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yelled excitedly.

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And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too

— four.

“What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy,

biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!”

But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if

Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron’s indignation on

his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him.

He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt

lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure.

And it wasn’t just Ron … those weren’t only

Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come

to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of

the school had been on his side as well as Cedric’s. …

He didn’t care about the Slytherins, he could stand

whatever they threw at him now.

“You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said

Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off

back toward the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve

got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her

what happened — but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah

— and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang

around for a few more minutes. … Bagman wants a

word, back in the champions’ tent.”

Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent,

which somehow looked quite different now: friendly

and welcoming. He thought back to how he’d felt

while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the

long wait before he’d walked out to face it. … There

was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably

worse.

Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in together. One

side of Cedric’s face was covered in a thick orange

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paste, which was presumably mending his burn. He

grinned at Harry when he saw him.

“Good one, Harry.”

“And you,” said Harry, grinning back.

“Well done, all of you!” said Ludo Bagman, bouncing

into the tent and looking as pleased as though he

personally had just got past a dragon. “Now, just a

quick few words. You’ve got a nice long break before

the second task, which will take place at half past

nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth —

but we’re giving you something to think about in the

meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs

you’re all holding, you will see that they open … see

the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside

the egg — because it will tell you what the second

task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear?

Sure? Well, off you go, then!”

Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started to

walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard;

Harry wanted to hear what the other champions had

done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the clump

of trees behind which Harry had first heard the

dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them.

It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes

today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended

perfectly against them.

“Congratulations, Harry!” she said, beaming at him. “I

wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you

felt facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the

fairness of the scoring?”

“Yeah, you can have a word,” said Harry savagely.

“Good-bye. ”

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And he set off back to the castle with Ron.

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THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery that

evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry could send

Sirius a letter telling him that he had managed to get

past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry filled

Ron in on everything Sirius had told him about

Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that

Karkaroff had been a Death Eater, by the time they

entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to

have suspected it all along.

“Fits, doesn’t it?” he said. “Remember what Malfoy

said on the train, about his dad being friends with

Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other.

They were probably running around in masks

together at the World Cup. … I’ll tell you one thing,

though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name

in the goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid

now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a

scratch! Come here — I’ll do it —”

Pigwidgeon was so overexcited at the idea of a delivery

he was flying around and around Harry’s head,

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hooting incessantly. Ron snatched Pigwidgeon out of the air and held him still while Harry attached the

letter to his leg.

“There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be

that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron went on as

he carried Pigwidgeon to the window. “You know

what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry,

I’m serious.”

Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up

for his behavior of the last few weeks, but he

appreciated it all the same. Hermione, however,

leaned against the Owlery wall, folded her arms, and

frowned at Ron.

“Harry’s got a long way to go before he finishes this

tournament,” she said seriously. “If that was the first

task, I hate to think what’s coming next.”

“Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Ron.

“You and Professor Trelawney should get together

sometime.”

He threw Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon

plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull

himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg

was much longer and heavier than usual — Harry

hadn’t been able to resist giving Sirius a blow-by-blow

account of exactly how he had swerved, circled, and

dodged the Horntail. They watched Pigwidgeon

disappear into the darkness, and then Ron said,

“Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise

party, Harry — Fred and George should have nicked

enough food from the kitchens by now.”

Sure enough, when they entered the Gryffindor

common room it exploded with cheers and yells again.

There were mountains of cakes and flagons of

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pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan had let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that

the air was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean

Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up

some impressive new banners, most of which depicted

Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his

Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his

head on fire.

Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten

what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down

with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how

happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d

gotten through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to

face the second one for three months.

“Blimey, this is heavy,” said Lee Jordan, picking up

the golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and

weighing it in his hands. “Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s

just see what’s inside it!”

“He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,”

Hermione said swiftly. “It’s in the tournament rules.

…”

“I was supposed to work out how to get past the

dragon on my own too,” Harry muttered, so only

Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather

guiltily.

“Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!” several people echoed.

Lee passed Harry the egg, and Harry dug his

fingernails into the groove that ran all the way around

it and prised it open.

It was hollow and completely empty — but the

moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a

loud and screechy wailing, filled the room. The

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nearest thing to it Harry had ever heard was the ghost orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party,

who had all been playing the musical saw.

“Shut it!” Fred bellowed, his hands over his ears.

“What was that?” said Seamus Finnigan, staring at

the egg as Harry slammed it shut again. “Sounded

like a banshee. … Maybe you’ve got to get past one of

those next, Harry!”

“It was someone being tortured!” said Neville, who

had gone very white and spilled sausage rolls all over

the floor. “You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus

Curse!”

“Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,” said George.

“They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the

champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy

singing … maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s

in the shower, Harry.”

“Want a jam tart, Hermione?” said Fred.

Hermione looked doubtfully at the plate he was

offering her. Fred grinned.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to

them. It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch —”

Neville, who had just bitten into a custard cream,

choked and spat it out. Fred laughed.

“Just my little joke, Neville. …”

Hermione took a jam tart. Then she said, “Did you get

all this from the kitchens, Fred?”

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“Yep,” said Fred, grinning at her. He put on a high-pitched squeak and imitated a house-elf. “ ‘Anything

we can get you, sir, anything at all!’ They’re dead

helpful … get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish.”

“How do you get in there?” Hermione said in an

innocently casual sort of voice.

“Easy,” said Fred, “concealed door behind a painting

of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles

and —” He stopped and looked suspiciously at her.

“Why?”

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly.

“Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike

now, are you?” said George. “Going to give up all the

leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?”

Several people chortled. Hermione didn’t answer.

“Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve

got to take clothes and salaries!” said Fred warningly.

“You’ll put them off their cooking!”

Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by turning

into a large canary.

“Oh — sorry, Neville!” Fred shouted over all the

laughter. “I forgot — it was the custard creams we

hexed —”

Within a minute, however, Neville had molted, and

once his feathers had fallen off, he reappeared looking

entirely normal. He even joined in laughing.

“Canary Creams!” Fred shouted to the excitable

crowd. “George and I invented them — seven Sickles

each, a bargain!”

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It was nearly one in the morning when Harry finally went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus,

and Dean. Before he pulled the curtains of his four-

poster shut, Harry set his tiny model of the

Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed,

where it yawned, curled up, and closed its eyes.

Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on

his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point … they

were all right, really, dragons. …

The start of December brought wind and sleet to

Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always was in

winter, Harry was glad of its fires and thick walls

every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the

lake, which was pitching in the high winds, its black

sails billowing against the dark skies. He thought the

Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly

too. Hagrid, he noticed, was keeping Madame

Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred

drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from

the trough in the corner of their paddock was enough

to make the entire Care of Magical Creatures class

light-headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still

tending the horrible skrewts and needed their wits

about them.

“I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid

told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch

next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an’ see if they

fancied a kip … we’ll jus’ settle ’em down in these

boxes. …”

There were now only ten skrewts left; apparently their

desire to kill one another had not been exercised out

of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet

in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful,

scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings

and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the

most repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class

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looked dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid had brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets.

“We’ll jus’ lead ’em in here,” Hagrid said, “an’ put the

lids on, and we’ll see what happens.”

But the skrewts, it transpired, did not hibernate, and

did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes

and nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, “Don’ panic,

now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampaged around

the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering

wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class — Malfoy,

Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead — had fled into

Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded

themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however,

were among those who remained outside trying to

help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and

tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of

numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt

was left.

“Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouted as Ron and

Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at

the skrewt, which was advancing menacingly on

them, its sting arched, quivering, over its back. “Jus’

try an’ slip the rope ’round his sting, so he won’ hurt

any o’ the others!”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouted angrily

as he and Harry backed into the wall of Hagrid’s

cabin, still holding the skrewt off with their sparks.

“Well, well, well … this does look like fun.”

Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid’s garden fence,

looking in at the mayhem. She was wearing a thick

magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and

her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.

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Hagrid launched himself forward on top of the skrewt that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a

blast of fire shot out of its end, withering the

pumpkin plants nearby.

“Who’re you?” Hagrid asked Rita Skeeter as he

slipped a loop of rope around the skrewt’s sting and

tightened it.

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,” Rita replied,

beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted.

“Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside

the school anymore,” said Hagrid, frowning slightly as

he got off the slightly squashed skrewt and started

tugging it over to its fellows.

Rita acted as though she hadn’t heard what Hagrid

had said.

“What are these fascinating creatures called?” she

asked, beaming still more widely.

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” grunted Hagrid.

“Really?” said Rita, apparently full of lively interest.

“I’ve never heard of them before … where do they

come from?”

Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of

Hagrid’s wild black beard, and his heart sank. Where

had Hagrid got the skrewts from? Hermione, who

seemed to be thinking along these lines, said quickly,

“They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Aren’t they,

Harry?”

“What? Oh yeah … ouch … interesting,” said Harry as

she stepped on his foot.

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“Ah, you’re here, Harry!” said Rita Skeeter as she looked around. “So you like Care of Magical

Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?”

“Yes,” said Harry stoutly. Hagrid beamed at him.

“Lovely,” said Rita. “Really lovely. Been teaching

long?” she added to Hagrid.

Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a

nasty cut across one cheek), Lavender (whose robes

were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing several

burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where

most of the class stood, their noses pressed against

the glass waiting to see if the coast was clear.

“This is o’ny me second year,” said Hagrid.

“Lovely… I don’t suppose you’d like to give an

interview, would you? Share some of your experience

of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological

column every Wednesday, as I’m sure you know. We

could feature these — er — Bang-Ended Scoots.”

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Hagrid said eagerly. “Er —

yeah, why not?”

Harry had a very bad feeling about this, but there was

no way of communicating it to Hagrid without Rita

Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in

silence as Hagrid and Rita Skeeter made

arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a

good long interview later that week. Then the bell

rang up at the castle, signaling the end of the lesson.

“Well, good-bye, Harry!” Rita Skeeter called merrily to

him as he set off with Ron and Hermione. “Until

Friday night, then, Hagrid!”

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“She’ll twist everything he says,” Harry said under his breath.

“Just as long as he didn’t import those skrewts

illegally or anything,” said Hermione desperately.

They looked at one another — it was exactly the sort

of thing Hagrid might do.

“Hagrid’s been in loads of trouble before, and

Dumbledore’s never sacked him,” said Ron

consolingly. “Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have

to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry … did I say worst? I

meant best.”

Harry and Hermione laughed, and, feeling slightly

more cheerful, went off to lunch.

Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that

afternoon; they were still doing star charts and

predictions, but now that he and Ron were friends

once more, the whole thing seemed very funny again.

Professor Trelawney, who had been so pleased with

the pair of them when they had been predicting their

own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they

sniggered through her explanation of the various

ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life.

“I would think, ” she said, in a mystical whisper that

did not conceal her obvious annoyance, “that some of

us” — she stared very meaningfully at Harry —

“might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I

have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat

here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult

the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself

before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths … and

what do you think I saw gazing back at me?”

“An ugly old bat in outsize specs?” Ron muttered

under his breath.

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Harry fought hard to keep his face straight.

“Death, my dears.”

Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their

mouths, looking horrified.

“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively,

“it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a

vulture, ever lower … ever lower over the castle. …”

She stared pointedly at Harry, who yawned very

widely and obviously.

“It’d be a bit more impressive if she hadn’t done it

about eighty times before,” Harry said as they finally

regained the fresh air of the staircase beneath

Professor Trelawney’s room. “But if I’d dropped dead

every time she’s told me I’m going to, I’d be a medical

miracle.”

“You’d be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost,” said

Ron, chortling, as they passed the Bloody Baron going

in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring

sinisterly. “At least we didn’t get homework. I hope

Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not

working when she is. …”

But Hermione wasn’t at dinner, nor was she in the

library when they went to look for her afterward. The

only person in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered

behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum,

debating in whispers with Harry whether he should

ask for an autograph — but then Ron realized that six

or seven girls were lurking in the next row of books,

debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his

enthusiasm for the idea.

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“Wonder where she’s got to?” Ron said as he and

Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Dunno … balderdash.”

But the Fat Lady had barely begun to swing forward

when the sound of racing feet behind them

announced Hermione’s arrival.

“Harry!” she panted, skidding to a halt beside him

(the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised).

“Harry, you’ve got to come — you’ve got to come, the

most amazing thing’s happened — please —”

She seized Harry’s arm and started to try to drag him

back along the corridor.

“What’s the matter?” Harry said.

“I’ll show you when we get there — oh come on, quick

—”

Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry,

intrigued.

“Okay,” Harry said, starting off back down the

corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to keep up.

“Oh don’t mind me!” the Fat Lady called irritably after

them. “Don’t apologize for bothering me! I’ll just hang

here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?”

“Yeah, thanks!” Ron shouted over his shoulder.

“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asked, after

she had led them down through six floors, and

started down the marble staircase into the entrance

hall.

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“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” said Hermione excitedly.

She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and

hurried toward the door through which Cedric

Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire

had regurgitated his and Harry’s names. Harry had

never been through here before. He and Ron followed

Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of

ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the

one that led to Snape’s dungeon, they found

themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with

torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that

were mainly of food.

“Oh hang on …” said Harry slowly, halfway down the

corridor. “Wait a minute, Hermione. …”

“What?” She turned around to look at him,

anticipation all over her face.

“I know what this is about,” said Harry.

He nudged Ron and pointed to the painting just

behind Hermione. It showed a gigantic silver fruit

bowl.

“Hermione!” said Ron, cottoning on. “You’re trying to

rope us into that spew stuff again!”

“No, no, I’m not!” she said hastily. “And it’s not spew,

Ron —”

“Changed the name, have you?” said Ron, frowning at

her. “What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation

Front? I’m not barging into that kitchen and trying to

make them stop work, I’m not doing it —”

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“I’m not asking you to!” Hermione said impatiently. “I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I

found — oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!”

She seized his arm again, pulled him in front of the

picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her

forefinger, and tickled the huge green pear. It began

to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turned into a

large green door handle. Hermione seized it, pulled

the door open, and pushed Harry hard in the back,

forcing him inside.

He had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-

ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with

mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped

around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at

the other end, when something small hurtled toward

him from the middle of the room, squealing, “Harry

Potter, sir! Harry Potter!”

Next second all the wind had been knocked out of

him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff,

hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would

break.

“D-Dobby?” Harry gasped.

“It is Dobby, sir, it is!” squealed the voice from

somewhere around his navel. “Dobby has been

hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry

Potter has come to see him, sir!”

Dobby let go and stepped back a few paces, beaming

up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped

eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looked

almost exactly as Harry remembered him; the pencil-

shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and

feet — all except the clothes, which were very

different.

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When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had

always worn the same filthy old pillowcase. Now,

however, he was wearing the strangest assortment of

garments Harry had ever seen; he had done an even

worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the

World Cup. He was wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on

which he had pinned a number of bright badges; a tie

patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of

what looked like children’s soccer shorts, and odd

socks. One of these, Harry saw, was the black one

Harry had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr.

Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free.

The other was covered in pink and orange stripes.

“Dobby, what’re you doing here?” Harry said in

amazement.

“Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!” Dobby

squealed excitedly. “Professor Dumbledore gave

Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!”

“Winky?” said Harry. “She’s here too?”

“Yes, sir, yes!” said Dobby, and he seized Harry’s

hand and pulled him off into the kitchen between the

four long wooden tables that stood there. Each of

these tables, Harry noticed as he passed them, was

positioned exactly beneath the four House tables

above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they were

clear of food, dinner having finished, but he supposed

that an hour ago they had been laden with dishes

that were then sent up through the ceiling to their

counterparts above.

At least a hundred little elves were standing around

the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as

Dobby led Harry past them. They were all wearing the

same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts

crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga.

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Dobby stopped in front of the brick fireplace and

pointed.

“Winky, sir!” he said.

Winky was sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike

Dobby, she had obviously not foraged for clothes. She

was wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a

matching blue hat, which had holes in it for her large

ears. However, while every one of Dobby’s strange

collection of garments was so clean and well cared for

that it looked brand-new, Winky was plainly not

taking care of her clothes at all. There were soup

stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt.

“Hello, Winky,” said Harry.

Winky’s lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which

spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed

down her front, just as they had done at the

Quidditch World Cup.

“Oh dear,” said Hermione. She and Ron had followed

Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. “Winky,

don’t cry, please don’t …”

But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the

other hand, beamed up at Harry.

“Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?” he squeaked

loudly, over Winky’s sobs.

“Er — yeah, okay,” said Harry.

Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up

behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a

teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk

jug, and a large plate of biscuits.

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“Good service!” Ron said, in an impressed voice.

Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked

delighted; they bowed very low and retreated.

“How long have you been here, Dobby?” Harry asked

as Dobby handed around the tea.

“Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!” said Dobby happily.

“Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You

see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has

been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult

indeed —”

At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed-

tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though

she made no effort to stem the flow.

“Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years,

sir, trying to find work!” Dobby squeaked. “But Dobby

hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying

now!”

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been

listening and watching with interest, all looked away

at these words, as though Dobby had said something

rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said,

“Good for you, Dobby!”

“Thank you, miss!” said Dobby, grinning toothily at

her. “But most wizards doesn’t want a house-elf who

wants paying, miss. ‘That’s not the point of a house-

elf,’ they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby’s

face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes

and he wants to be paid, Harry Potter. … Dobby likes

being free!”

The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging

away from Dobby, as though he were carrying

something contagious. Winky, however, remained

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where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume of her crying.

“And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky,

and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!” said

Dobby delightedly.

At this, Winky flung herself forward off her stool and

lay facedown on the flagged stone floor, beating her

tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with

misery. Hermione hastily dropped down to her knees

beside her and tried to comfort her, but nothing she

said made the slightest difference. Dobby continued

with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky’s

screeches.

“And then Dobby had the idea, Harry Potter, sir! ‘Why

doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ Dobby

says. ‘Where is there enough work for two house-

elves?’ says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes

to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to

see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor

Dumbledore took us on!”

Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled

in his eyes again.

“And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby,

sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf,

sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off

a month!”

“That’s not very much!” Hermione shouted

indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued

screaming and fist-beating.

“Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a

week, and weekends off,” said Dobby, suddenly giving

a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much

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leisure and riches were frightening, “but Dobby beat him down, miss. … Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he

isn’t wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.”

“And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you,

Winky?” Hermione asked kindly.

If she had thought this would cheer up Winky, she

was wildly mistaken. Winky did stop crying, but when

she sat up she was glaring at Hermione through her

massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and

suddenly furious.

“Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting

paid!” she squeaked. “Winky is not sunk so low as

that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!”

“Ashamed?” said Hermione blankly. “But — Winky,

come on! It’s Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not

you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really

horrible to you —”

But at these words, Winky clapped her hands over

the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she

couldn’t hear a word, and screeched, “You is not

insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr.

Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr.

Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!”

“Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter,”

squeaked Dobby confidentially. “Winky forgets she is

not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to

speak her mind now, but she won’t do it.”

“Can’t house-elves speak their minds about their

masters, then?” Harry asked.

“Oh no, sir, no,” said Dobby, looking suddenly

serious. “ ’Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir.

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We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We

upholds the family’s honor, and we never speaks ill of

them — though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he

does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said

we is free to — to —”

Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry

closer. Harry bent forward. Dobby whispered, “He

said we is free to call him a — a barmy old codger if

we likes, sir!”

Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle.

“But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter,” he said,

talking normally again, and shaking his head so that

his ears flapped. “Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore

very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and

our silence for him.”

“But you can say what you like about the Malfoys

now?” Harry asked him, grinning.

A slightly fearful look came into Dobby’s immense

eyes.

“Dobby — Dobby could,” he said doubtfully. He

squared his small shoulders. “Dobby could tell Harry

Potter that his old masters were — were — bad Dark

wizards!”

Dobby stood for a moment, quivering all over, horror-

struck by his own daring — then he rushed over to

the nearest table and began banging his head on it

very hard, squealing, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

Harry seized Dobby by the back of his tie and pulled

him away from the table.

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“Thank you, Harry Potter, thank you,” said Dobby

breathlessly, rubbing his head.

“You just need a bit of practice,” Harry said.

“Practice!” squealed Winky furiously. “You is ought to

be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way

about your masters!”

“They isn’t my masters anymore, Winky!” said Dobby

defiantly. “Dobby doesn’t care what they think

anymore!”

“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” moaned Winky, tears

leaking down her face once more. “My poor Mr.

Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is

needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after

the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it

before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her

… oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was

freed? Oh the shame, the shame!” She buried her face

in her skirt again and bawled.

“Winky,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr.

Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you.

We’ve seen him, you know —”

“You is seeing my master?” said Winky breathlessly,

raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more

and goggling at Hermione. “You is seeing him here at

Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges

in the Tri-wizard Tournament.”

“Mr. Bagman comes too?” squeaked Winky, and to

Harry’s great surprise (and Ron’s and Hermione’s too,

by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again.

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“Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!”

“Bagman — bad?” said Harry.

“Oh yes,” Winky said, nodding her head furiously.

“My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky

is not saying … Winky — Winky keeps her master’s

secrets. …”

She dissolved yet again in tears; they could hear her

sobbing into her skirt, “Poor master, poor master, no

Winky to help him no more!”

They couldn’t get another sensible word out of Winky.

They left her to her crying and finished their tea,

while Dobby chatted happily about his life as a free elf

and his plans for his wages.

“Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!”

he said happily, pointing at his bare chest.

“Tell you what, Dobby,” said Ron, who seemed to have

taken a great liking to the elf, “I’ll give you the one my

mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from

her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?”

Dobby was delighted.

“We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,” Ron told

him, “but it’ll go well with your tea cozy.”

As they prepared to take their leave, many of the

surrounding elves pressed in upon them, offering

snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refused, with

a pained look at the way the elves kept bowing and

curtsying, but Harry and Ron loaded their pockets

with cream cakes and pies.

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“Thanks a lot!” Harry said to the elves, who had all clustered around the door to say good night. “See

you, Dobby!”

“Harry Potter … can Dobby come and see you

sometimes, sir?” Dobby asked tentatively.

“ ’Course you can,” said Harry, and Dobby beamed.

“You know what?” said Ron, once he, Hermione, and

Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing

the steps into the entrance hall again. “All these years

I’ve been really impressed with Fred and George,

nicking food from the kitchens — well, it’s not exactly

difficult, is it? They can’t wait to give it away!”

“I think this is the best thing that could have

happened to those elves, you know,” said Hermione,

leading the way back up the marble staircase. “Dobby

coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see

how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on

them that they want that too!”

“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,” said

Harry.

“Oh she’ll cheer up,” said Hermione, though she

sounded a bit doubtful. “Once the shock’s worn off,

and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much

better off she is without that Crouch man.”

“She seems to love him,” said Ron thickly (he had just

started on a cream cake).

“Doesn’t think much of Bagman, though, does she?”

said Harry. “Wonder what Crouch says at home about

him?”

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“Probably says he’s not a very good Head of

Department,” said Hermione, “and let’s face it … he’s

got a point, hasn’t he?”

“I’d still rather work for him than old Crouch,” said

Ron. “At least Bagman’s got a sense of humor.”

“Don’t let Percy hear you saying that,” Hermione said,

smiling slightly.

“Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone

with a sense of humor, would he?” said Ron, now

starting on a chocolate eclair. “Percy wouldn’t

recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him

wearing Dobby’s tea cozy.”

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THE UNEXPECTED TASK

“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?”

Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a

whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday,

and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up.

It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their

work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into

guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on

Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had

feathers); they had copied down their homework from

the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in

which Transforming Spells must be adapted when

performing Cross-Species Switches”). The bell was due

to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had

been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and

George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked

up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber

haddock.

“Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough

to act their age,” said Professor McGonagall, with an

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angry look at the pair of them as the head of Harry’s haddock drooped and fell silently to the floor — Ron’s

parrot’s beak had severed it moments before — “I

have something to say to you all.

“The Yule Ball is approaching — a traditional part of

the Tri-wizard Tournament and an opportunity for us

to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will

be open only to fourth years and above — although

you may invite a younger student if you wish —”

Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil

nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working

furiously as she too fought not to giggle. They both

looked around at Harry. Professor McGonagall

ignored them, which Harry thought was distinctly

unfair, as she had just told off him and Ron.

“Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall

continued, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on

Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great

Hall. Now then —”

Professor McGonagall stared deliberately around the

class.

“The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to — er

— let our hair down,” she said, in a disapproving

voice.

Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand

pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound.

Harry could see what was funny this time: Professor

McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as

though she had never let her hair down in any sense.

“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall

went on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of

behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be

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most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student

embarrasses the school in any way.”

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of

activity as everyone packed their bags and swung

them onto their shoulders.

Professor McGonagall called above the noise, “Potter

— a word, if you please.”

Assuming this had something to do with his headless

rubber haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the

teacher’s desk. Professor McGonagall waited until the

rest of the class had gone, and then said, “Potter, the

champions and their partners —”

“What partners?” said Harry.

Professor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as

though she thought he was trying to be funny.

“Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter,” she said

coldly. “Your dance partners. ”

Harry’s insides seemed to curl up and shrivel.

“Dance partners?” He felt himself going red. “I don’t

dance,” he said quickly.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Professor McGonagall irritably.

“That’s what I’m telling you. Traditionally, the

champions and their partners open the ball.”

Harry had a sudden mental image of himself in a top

hat and tails, accompanied by a girl in the sort of

frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle

Vernon’s work parties.

“I’m not dancing,” he said.

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“It is traditional,” said Professor McGonagall firmly.

“You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what

is expected of you as a representative of the school.

So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter.”

“But — I don’t —”

“You heard me, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall in

a very final sort of way.

A week ago, Harry would have said finding a partner

for a dance would be a cinch compared to taking on a

Hungarian Horntail. But now that he had done the

latter, and was facing the prospect of asking a girl to

the ball, he thought he’d rather have another round

with the dragon.

Harry had never known so many people to put their

names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he

always did, of course, because the alternative was

usually going back to Privet Drive, but he had always

been very much in the minority before now. This year,

however, everyone in the fourth year and above

seemed to be staying, and they all seemed to Harry to

be obsessed with the coming ball — or at least all the

girls were, and it was amazing how many girls

Hogwarts suddenly seemed to hold; he had never

quite noticed that before. Girls giggling and

whispering in the corridors, girls shrieking with

laughter as boys passed them, girls excitedly

comparing notes on what they were going to wear on

Christmas night. …

“Why do they have to move in packs?” Harry asked

Ron as a dozen or so girls walked past them,

sniggering and staring at Harry. “How’re you

supposed to get one on their own to ask them?”

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“Lasso one?” Ron suggested. “Got any idea who you’re going to try?”

Harry didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well whom

he’d like to ask, but working up the nerve was

something else. … Cho was a year older than he was;

she was very pretty; she was a very good Quidditch

player, and she was also very popular.

Ron seemed to know what was going on inside

Harry’s head.

“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a

champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I

bet they’ll be queuing up to go with you.”

In tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron

had kept the bitterness in his voice to a bare

minimum. Moreover, to Harry’s amazement, he

turned out to be quite right.

A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom

Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to

the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so

taken aback he said no before he’d even stopped to

consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather

hurt, and Harry had to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and

Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic.

The following day, two more girls asked him, a second

year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looked as

though she might knock him out if he refused.

“She was quite good-looking,” said Ron fairly, after

he’d stopped laughing.

“She was a foot taller than me,” said Harry, still

unnerved. “Imagine what I’d look like trying to dance

with her.”

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Hermione’s words about Krum kept coming back to

him. “They only like him because he’s famous!” Harry

doubted very much if any of the girls who had asked

to be his partner so far would have wanted to go to

the ball with him if he hadn’t been a school

champion. Then he wondered if this would bother

him if Cho asked him.

On the whole, Harry had to admit that even with the

embarrassing prospect of opening the ball before him,

life had definitely improved since he had got through

the first task. He wasn’t attracting nearly as much

unpleasantness in the corridors anymore, which he

suspected had a lot to do with Cedric — he had an

idea Cedric might have told the Hufflepuffs to leave

Harry alone, in gratitude for Harry’s tip-off about the

dragons. There seemed to be fewer Support Cedric

Diggory! badges around too. Draco Malfoy, of course,

was still quoting Rita Skeeter’s article to him at every

possible opportunity, but he was getting fewer and

fewer laughs out of it — and just to heighten Harry’s

feeling of well-being, no story about Hagrid had

appeared in the Daily Prophet.

“She didn’ seem very int’rested in magical creatures,

ter tell yeh the truth,” Hagrid said, when Harry, Ron,

and Hermione asked him how his interview with Rita

Skeeter had gone during the last Care of Magical

Creatures lesson of the term. To their very great relief,

Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the

skrewts now, and they were merely sheltering behind

his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and

preparing a fresh selection of food with which to

tempt the skrewts.

“She jus’ wanted me ter talk about you, Harry,”

Hagrid continued in a low voice. “Well, I told her we’d

been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the

Dursleys. ‘Never had to tell him off in four years?’ she

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said. ‘Never played you up in lessons, has he?’ I told her no, an’ she didn’ seem happy at all. Yeh’d think

she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry.”

“ ’Course she did,” said Harry, throwing lumps of

dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up

his knife to cut some more. “She can’t keep writing

about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.”

“She wants a new angle, Hagrid,” said Ron wisely as

he shelled salamander eggs. “You were supposed to

say Harry’s a mad delinquent!”

“But he’s not!” said Hagrid, looking genuinely

shocked.

“She should’ve interviewed Snape,” said Harry grimly.

“He’d give her the goods on me any day. ‘ Potter has

been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this

school. …’ ”

“Said that, did he?” said Hagrid, while Ron and

Hermione laughed. “Well, yeh might’ve bent a few

rules, Harry, bu’ yeh’re all righ’ really, aren’ you?”

“Cheers, Hagrid,” said Harry, grinning.

“You coming to this ball thing on Christmas Day,

Hagrid?” said Ron.

“Though’ I might look in on it, yeah,” said Hagrid

gruffly. “Should be a good do, I reckon. You’ll be

openin’ the dancin’, won’ yeh, Harry? Who’re you

takin’?”

“No one, yet,” said Harry, feeling himself going red

again. Hagrid didn’t pursue the subject.

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The last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were

flying everywhere, though Harry didn’t believe half of

them — for instance, that Dumbledore had bought

eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam

Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had

booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the

Weird Sisters were Harry didn’t know, never having

had access to a wizard’s wireless, but he deduced

from the wild excitement of those who had grown up

listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network)

that they were a very famous musical group.

Some of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick,

gave up trying to teach them much when their minds

were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play

games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of

it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning

Charm Harry had used during the first task of the

Triwizard Tournament. Other teachers were not so

generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns,

for example, from plowing on through his notes on

goblin rebellions — as Binns hadn’t let his own death

stand in the way of continuing to teach, they

supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to

put him off. It was amazing how he could make even

bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as

Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors

McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the

very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of

course, would no sooner let them play games in class

than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all,

he informed them that he would be testing them on

poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.

“Evil, he is,” Ron said bitterly that night in the

Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on

the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole

load of studying.”

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“Mmm … you’re not exactly straining yourself,

though, are you?” said Hermione, looking at him over

the top of her Potions notes. Ron was busy building a

card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack — a much

more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards,

because of the chance that the whole thing would

blow up at any second.

“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” said Harry lazily; he was

rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time

in an armchair near the fire.

Hermione looked severely over at him too. “I’d have

thought you’d be doing something constructive,

Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!”

“Like what?” Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins

of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle

Bats Chaser.

“That egg!” Hermione hissed.

“Come on, Hermione, I’ve got till February the twenty-

fourth,” Harry said.

He had put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and

hadn’t opened it since the celebration party after the

first task. There were still two and a half months to go

until he needed to know what all the screechy wailing

meant, after all.

“But it might take weeks to work it out!” said

Hermione. “You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone

else knows what the next task is and you don’t!”

“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a

break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on

top of the castle and the whole lot blew up, singeing

his eyebrows.

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“Nice look, Ron … go well with your dress robes, that will.”

It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table

with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much

damage had been done.

“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked.

“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?”

“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said

Fred sarcastically.

“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great

prat,” said George.

“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” said Ron.

“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” said

Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So … you lot

got dates for the ball yet?”

“Nope,” said Ron.

“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good

ones will be gone,” said Fred.

“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron.

“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of

embarrassment.

“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked

her?”

“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and

called across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!”

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Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him.

“What?” she called back.

“Want to come to the ball with me?”

Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look.

“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to

Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on

her face.

“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of

cake.”

He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use

a school owl then, George, come on. …”

They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and

looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle

at Harry.

“We should get a move on, you know … ask someone.

He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of

trolls.”

Hermione let out a sputter of indignation.

“A pair of … what, excuse me?”

“Well — you know,” said Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather

go alone than with — with Eloise Midgen, say.”

“Her acne’s loads better lately — and she’s really

nice!”

“Her nose is off-center,” said Ron.

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“Oh I see,” Hermione said, bristling. “So basically, you’re going to take the best-looking girl who’ll have

you, even if she’s completely horrible?”

“Er — yeah, that sounds about right,” said Ron.

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione snapped, and she swept

off toward the girls’ staircase without another word.

The Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire

to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and

Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at

its best this Christmas. When the decorations went

up, Harry noticed that they were the most stunning

he had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles

had been attached to the banisters of the marble

staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the

Great Hall were bedecked with everything from

luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls,

and the suits of armor had all been bewitched to sing

carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite

something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by

an empty helmet that only knew half the words.

Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract

Peeves from inside the armor, where he had taken to

hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of

his own invention, all of which were very rude.

And still, Harry hadn’t asked Cho to the ball. He and

Ron were getting very nervous now, though as Harry

pointed out, Ron would look much less stupid than

he would without a partner; Harry was supposed to

be starting the dancing with the other champions.

“I suppose there’s always Moaning Myrtle,” he said

gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunted the girls’

toilets on the second floor.

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“Harry — we’ve just got to grit our teeth and do it,”

said Ron on Friday morning, in a tone that suggested

they were planning the storming of an impregnable

fortress. “When we get back to the common room

tonight, we’ll both have partners — agreed?”

“Er … okay,” said Harry.

But every time he glimpsed Cho that day — during

break, and then lunchtime, and once on the way to

History of Magic — she was surrounded by friends.

Didn’t she ever go anywhere alone? Could he perhaps

ambush her as she was going into a bathroom? But

no — she even seemed to go there with an escort of

four or five girls. Yet if he didn’t do it soon, she was

bound to have been asked by somebody else.

He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions

test, and consequently forgot to add the key

ingredient — a bezoar — meaning that he received

bottom marks. He didn’t care, though; he was too

busy screwing up his courage for what he was about

to do. When the bell rang, he grabbed his bag, and

hurried to the dungeon door.

“I’ll meet you at dinner,” he said to Ron and

Hermione, and he dashed off upstairs.

He’d just have to ask Cho for a private word, that was

all. … He hurried off through the packed corridors

looking for her, and (rather sooner than he had

expected) he found her, emerging from a Defense

Against the Dark Arts lesson.

“Er — Cho? Could I have a word with you?”

Giggling should be made illegal, Harry thought

furiously, as all the girls around Cho started doing it.

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She didn’t, though. She said, “Okay,” and followed him out of earshot of her classmates.

Harry turned to look at her and his stomach gave a

weird lurch as though he had missed a step going

downstairs.

“Er,” he said.

He couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t. But he had to. Cho

stood there looking puzzled, watching him.

The words came out before Harry had quite got his

tongue around them.

“Wangoballwime?”

“Sorry?” said Cho.

“D’you — d’you want to go to the ball with me?” said

Harry. Why did he have to go red now? Why?

“Oh!” said Cho, and she went red too. “Oh Harry, I’m

really sorry,” and she truly looked it. “I’ve already said

I’ll go with someone else.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

It was odd; a moment before his insides had been

writhing like snakes, but suddenly he didn’t seem to

have any insides at all.

“Oh okay,” he said, “no problem.”

“I’m really sorry,” she said again.

“That’s okay,” said Harry.

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They stood there looking at each other, and then Cho said, “Well —”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Well, ’bye,” said Cho, still very red. She walked away.

Harry called after her, before he could stop himself.

“Who’re you going with?”

“Oh — Cedric,” she said. “Cedric Diggory.”

“Oh right,” said Harry.

His insides had come back again. It felt as though

they had been filled with lead in their absence.

Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly

back up to Gryffindor Tower, Cho’s voice echoing in

his ears with every step he took. “Cedric — Cedric

Diggory. ” He had been starting to quite like Cedric —

prepared to overlook the fact that he had once beaten

him at Quidditch, and was handsome, and popular,

and nearly everyone’s favorite champion. Now he

suddenly realized that Cedric was in fact a useless

pretty boy who didn’t have enough brains to fill an

eggcup.

“Fairy lights,” he said dully to the Fat Lady — the

password had been changed the previous day.

“Yes, indeed, dear!” she trilled, straightening her new

tinsel hair band as she swung forward to admit him.

Entering the common room, Harry looked around,

and to his surprise he saw Ron sitting ashen-faced in

a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him, talking

to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice.

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“What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them.

Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his

face.

“Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what

made me do it!”

“What?” said Harry.

“He — er — just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the

ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she

was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s

arm sympathetically.

“You what?” said Harry.

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again.

“What was I playing at? There were people — all

around — I’ve gone mad — everyone watching! I was

just walking past her in the entrance hall — she was

standing there talking to Diggory — and it sort of

came over me — and I asked her!”

Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept

talking, though the words were barely

distinguishable.

“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something.

Didn’t even answer. And then — I dunno — I just sort

of came to my senses and ran for it.”

“She’s part veela,” said Harry. “You were right — her

grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you

just walked past when she was turning on the old

charm for Diggory and got a blast of it — but she was

wasting her time. He’s going with Cho Chang.”

Ron looked up.

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“I asked her to go with me just now,” Harry said dully,

“and she told me.”

Ginny had suddenly stopped smiling.

“This is mad,” said Ron. “We’re the only ones left who

haven’t got anyone — well, except Neville. Hey —

guess who he asked? Hermione!”

“What?” said Harry, completely distracted by this

startling news.

“Yeah, I know!” said Ron, some of the color coming

back into his face as he started to laugh. “He told me

after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice,

helping him out with work and stuff — but she told

him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if!

She just didn’t want to go with Neville … I mean, who

would?”

“Don’t!” said Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh —”

Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait

hole.

“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she said, coming

over to join them.

“Because — oh shut up laughing, you two — because

they’ve both just been turned down by girls they

asked to the ball!” said Ginny.

That shut Harry and Ron up.

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly.

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” said

Hermione loftily. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite

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pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.”

But Ron was staring at Hermione as though suddenly

seeing her in a whole new light.

“Hermione, Neville’s right — you are a girl. …”

“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly.

“Well — you can come with one of us!”

“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Oh come on,” he said impatiently, “we need partners,

we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any,

everyone else has …”

“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing,

“because I’m already going with someone.”

“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get

rid of Neville!”

“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed

dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years

to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted

I’m a girl!”

Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That

do? Will you come now?”

“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily.

“I’m going with someone else!”

And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories

again.

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“She’s lying,” said Ron flatly, watching her go.

“She’s not,” said Ginny quietly.

“Who is it then?” said Ron sharply.

“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” said Ginny.

“Right,” said Ron, who looked extremely put out, “this

is getting stupid. Ginny, you can go with Harry, and

I’ll just —”

“I can’t,” said Ginny, and she went scarlet too. “I’m

going with — with Neville. He asked me when

Hermione said no, and I thought … well … I’m not

going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth

year.” She looked extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go

and have dinner,” she said, and she got up and

walked off to the portrait hole, her head bowed.

Ron goggled at Harry.

“What’s got into them?” he demanded.

But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come

in through the portrait hole. The time had come for

drastic action.

“Wait here,” he said to Ron, and he stood up, walked

straight up to Parvati, and said, “Parvati? Will you go

to the ball with me?”

Parvati went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited for

them to subside, his fingers crossed in the pocket of

his robes.

“Yes, all right then,” she said finally, blushing

furiously.

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“Thanks,” said Harry, in relief. “Lavender — will you go with Ron?”

“She’s going with Seamus,” said Parvati, and the pair

of them giggled harder than ever.

Harry sighed.

“Can’t you think of anyone who’d go with Ron?” he

said, lowering his voice so that Ron wouldn’t hear.

“What about Hermione Granger?” said Parvati.

“She’s going with someone else.”

Parvati looked astonished.

“Ooooh — who?” she said keenly.

Harry shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “So what about

Ron?”

“Well …” said Parvati slowly, “I suppose my sister

might … Padma, you know … in Ravenclaw. I’ll ask

her if you like.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” said Harry. “Let me

know, will you?”

And he went back over to Ron, feeling that this ball

was a lot more trouble than it was worth, and hoping

very much that Padma Patil’s nose was dead center.

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THE YULE BALL

Despite the very heavy load of homework that the

fourth years had been given for the holidays, Harry

was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent

the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as

fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor

Tower was hardly less crowded now than during

term-time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as

its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than

usual. Fred and George had had a great success with

their Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days

of the holidays, people kept bursting into feather all

over the place. Before long, however, all the

Gryffindors had learned to treat food anybody else

offered them with extreme caution, in case it had a

Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George

confided to Harry that he and Fred were now working

on developing something else. Harry made a mental

note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred

and George in future. He still hadn’t forgotten Dudley

and the Ton-Tongue Toffee.

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Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its

grounds now. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage

looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the

iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid’s cabin, while

the Durmstrang ship’s portholes were glazed with ice,

the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in

the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of

rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only

Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to

complain about.

“It is too ’eavy, all zis ’Ogwarts food,” they heard her

saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her

one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to

be spotted by Fleur). “I will not fit into my dress

robes!”

“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snapped as Fleur

went out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a

lot of herself, that one, doesn’t she?”

“Hermione — who are you going to the ball with?”

said Ron.

He kept springing this question on her, hoping to

startle her into a response by asking it when she least

expected it. However, Hermione merely frowned and

said, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.”

“You’re joking, Weasley!” said Malfoy, behind them.

“You’re not telling me someone’s asked that to the

ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?”

Harry and Ron both whipped around, but Hermione

said loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoy’s

shoulder, “Hello, Professor Moody!”

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Malfoy went pale and jumped backward, looking

wildly around for Moody, but he was still up at the

staff table, finishing his stew.

“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” said

Hermione scathingly, and she, Harry, and Ron went

up the marble staircase laughing heartily.

“Hermione,” said Ron, looking sideways at her,

suddenly frowning, “your teeth …”

“What about them?” she said.

“Well, they’re different … I’ve just noticed. …”

“Of course they are — did you expect me to keep

those fangs Malfoy gave me?”

“No, I mean, they’re different to how they were before

he put that hex on you. … They’re all … straight and

— and normal-sized.”

Hermione suddenly smiled very mischievously, and

Harry noticed it too: It was a very different smile from

the one he remembered.

“Well … when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get

them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to

stop her when they were back to how they normally

were,” she said. “And I just … let her carry on a bit.”

She smiled even more widely. “Mum and Dad won’t be

too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let

me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry

on with my braces. You know, they’re dentists, they

just don’t think teeth and magic should — look!

Pigwidgeon’s back!”

Ron’s tiny owl was twittering madly on the top of the

icicle-laden banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to

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his leg. People passing him were pointing and

laughing, and a group of third-year girls paused and

said, “Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn’t he cute?”

“Stupid little feathery git!” Ron hissed, hurrying up

the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. “You bring

letters to the addressee! You don’t hang around

showing off!”

Pigwidgeon hooted happily, his head protruding over

Ron’s fist. The third-year girls all looked very

shocked.

“Clear off!” Ron snapped at them, waving the fist

holding Pigwidgeon, who hooted more happily than

ever as he soared through the air. “Here — take it,

Harry,” Ron added in an undertone as the third-year

girls scuttled away looking scandalized. He pulled

Sirius’s reply off Pigwidgeon’s leg, Harry pocketed it,

and they hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to read it.

Everyone in the common room was much too busy in

letting off more holiday steam to observe what anyone

else was up to. Ron, Harry, and Hermione sat apart

from everyone else by a dark window that was

gradually filling up with snow, and Harry read out:

Dear Harry,

Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever

put your name in that goblet shouldn’t be feeling too

happy right now! I was going to suggest a

Conjunctivitis Curse, as a dragon’s eyes are its

weakest point — “That’s what Krum did!” Hermione

whispered — but your way was better, I’m impressed.

Don’t get complacent, though, Harry. You’ve only done

one task; whoever put you in for the tournament’s got

plenty more opportunity if they’re trying to hurt you.

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Keep your eyes open — particularly when the person we discussed is around — and concentrate on keeping

yourself out of trouble.

Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything

unusual.

Sirius

“He sounds exactly like Moody,” said Harry quietly,

tucking the letter away again inside his robes. “

‘Constant vigilance!’ You’d think I walk around with

my eyes shut, banging off the walls. …”

“But he’s right, Harry,” said Hermione, “you have still

got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at

that egg, you know, and start working out what it

means. …”

“Hermione, he’s got ages!” snapped Ron. “Want a

game of chess, Harry?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry. Then, spotting the look on

Hermione’s face, he said, “Come on, how’m I

supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on?

I won’t even be able to hear the egg over this lot.”

“Oh I suppose not,” she sighed, and she sat down to

watch their chess match, which culminated in an

exciting checkmate of Ron’s, involving a couple of

recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop.

Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day.

Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to

consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw

something with very large, round, green eyes staring

back at him in the darkness, so close they were

almost nose to nose.

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“Dobby!” Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. “Don’t do that!”

“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously,

jumping backward with his long fingers over his

mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter

‘Merry Christmas’ and bring him a present, sir! Harry

Potter did say Dobby could come and see him

sometimes, sir!”

“It’s okay,” said Harry, still breathing rather faster

than usual, while his heart rate returned to normal.

“Just — just prod me or something in future, all right,

don’t bend over me like that. …”

Harry pulled back the curtains around his four-

poster, took his glasses from his bedside table, and

put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus,

Dean, and Neville. All of them were peering through

the gaps in their own hangings, heavy-eyed and

tousle-haired.

“Someone attacking you, Harry?” Seamus asked

sleepily.

“No, it’s just Dobby,” Harry muttered. “Go back to

sleep.”

“Nah … presents!” said Seamus, spotting the large

pile at the foot of his bed. Ron, Dean, and Neville

decided that now they were awake they might as well

get down to some present-opening too. Harry turned

back to Dobby, who was now standing nervously next

to Harry’s bed, still looking worried that he had upset

Harry. There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop

on top of his tea cozy.

“Can Dobby give Harry Potter his present?” he

squeaked tentatively.

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“ ’Course you can,” said Harry. “Er … I’ve got

something for you too.”

It was a lie; he hadn’t bought anything for Dobby at

all, but he quickly opened his trunk and pulled out a

particularly knobbly rolled-up pair of socks. They

were his oldest and foulest, mustard yellow, and had

once belonged to Uncle Vernon. The reason they were

extra-knobbly was that Harry had been using them to

cushion his Sneakoscope for over a year now. He

pulled out the Sneakoscope and handed the socks to

Dobby, saying, “Sorry, I forgot to wrap them. …”

But Dobby was utterly delighted.

“Socks are Dobby’s favorite, favorite clothes, sir!” he

said, ripping off his odd ones and pulling on Uncle

Vernon’s. “I has seven now, sir. … But sir …” he said,

his eyes widening, having pulled both socks up to

their highest extent, so that they reached to the

bottom of his shorts, “they has made a mistake in the

shop, Harry Potter, they is giving you two the same!”

“Ah, no, Harry, how come you didn’t spot that?” said

Ron, grinning over from his own bed, which was now

strewn with wrapping paper. “Tell you what, Dobby —

here you go — take these two, and you can mix them

up properly. And here’s your sweater.”

He threw Dobby a pair of violet socks he had just

unwrapped, and the hand-knitted sweater Mrs.

Weasley had sent. Dobby looked quite overwhelmed.

“Sir is very kind!” he squeaked, his eyes brimming

with tears again, bowing deeply to Ron. “Dobby knew

sir must be a great wizard, for he is Harry Potter’s

greatest friend, but Dobby did not know that he was

also as generous of spirit, as noble, as selfless —”

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“They’re only socks,” said Ron, who had gone slightly pink around the ears, though he looked rather

pleased all the same. “Wow, Harry —” He had just

opened Harry’s present, a Chudley Cannon hat.

“Cool!” He jammed it onto his head, where it clashed

horribly with his hair.

Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which

turned out to be — socks.

“Dobby is making them himself, sir!” the elf said

happily. “He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!”

The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of

broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green with a

pattern of Snitches.

“They’re … they’re really … well, thanks, Dobby,” said

Harry, and he pulled them on, causing Dobby’s eyes

to leak with happiness again.

“Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making

Christmas dinner in the kitchens!” said Dobby, and

he hurried out of the dormitory, waving good-bye to

Ron and the others as he passed.

Harry’s other presents were much more satisfactory

than Dobby’s odd socks — with the obvious exception

of the Dursleys’, which consisted of a single tissue, an

all-time low — Harry supposed they too were

remembering the Ton-Tongue Toffee. Hermione had

given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain

and Ireland; Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs;

Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to unlock

any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box

of sweets including all Harry’s favorites: Bertie Bott’s

Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Drooble’s Best

Blowing Gum, and Fizzing Whizbees. There was also,

of course, Mrs. Weasley’s usual package, including a

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new sweater (green, with a picture of a dragon on it —

Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the

Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince

pies.

Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the common

room, and they went down to breakfast together. They

spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where

everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned

to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which

included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas

puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding

Crackers.

They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the

snow was untouched except for the deep channels

made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students

on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to

watch Harry and the Weasleys’ snowball fight rather

than join in, and at five o’clock said she was going

back upstairs to get ready for the ball.

“What, you need three hours?” said Ron, looking at

her incredulously and paying for his lapse in

concentration when a large snowball, thrown by

George, hit him hard on the side of the head. “Who’re

you going with?” he yelled after Hermione, but she

just waved and disappeared up the stone steps into

the castle.

There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball

included a feast, so at seven o’clock, when it had

become hard to aim properly, the others abandoned

their snowball fight and trooped back to the common

room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her

friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely

tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the

bottom of her picture.

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“Lairy fights, that’s the one!” she giggled when they gave the password, and she swung forward to let

them inside.

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into

their dress robes up in their dormitory, all of them

looking very self-conscious, but none as much as

Ron, who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the

corner with an appalled look on his face. There was

just no getting around the fact that his robes looked

more like a dress than anything else. In a desperate

attempt to make them look more manly, he used a

Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly

well; at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn’t

done a very neat job, and the edges still looked

depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.

“I still can’t work out how you two got the best-

looking girls in the year,” muttered Dean.

“Animal magnetism,” said Ron gloomily, pulling stray

threads out of his cuffs.

The common room looked strange, full of people

wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of

black. Parvati was waiting for Harry at the foot of the

stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of

shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with

gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists.

Harry was relieved to see that she wasn’t giggling.

“You — er — look nice,” he said awkwardly.

“Thanks,” she said. “Padma’s going to meet you in the

entrance hall,” she added to Ron.

“Right,” said Ron, looking around. “Where’s

Hermione?”

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Parvati shrugged. “Shall we go down then, Harry?”

“Okay,” said Harry, wishing he could just stay in the

common room. Fred winked at Harry as he passed

him on the way out of the portrait hole.

The entrance hall was packed with students too, all

milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the

doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those

people who were meeting partners from different

Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find

one another. Parvati found her sister, Padma, and led

her over to Harry and Ron.

“Hi,” said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as

Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look

too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner,

though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and

sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and

down.

“Hi,” said Ron, not looking at her, but staring around

at the crowd. “Oh no …”

He bent his knees slightly to hide behind Harry,

because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking

stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and

accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain,

Roger Davies. When they had disappeared, Ron stood

straight again and stared over the heads of the crowd.

“Where is Hermione?” he said again.

A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their

dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front; he was

wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar,

which in Harry’s opinion made him look like a vicar.

Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was

clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both

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wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had

managed to find a partner.

The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to

look as the Durmstrang students entered with

Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the

party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes

Harry didn’t know. Over their heads he saw that an

area of lawn right in front of the castle had been

transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights —

meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting

in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and

fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be

Father Christmas and his reindeer.

Then Professor McGonagall’s voice called,

“Champions over here, please!”

Parvati readjusted her bangles, beaming; she and

Harry said “See you in a minute” to Ron and Padma

and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to

let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was

wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a

rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her

hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while

everyone else went inside; they were to enter the

Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students

had sat down. Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies

stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked

so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a

partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her.

Cedric and Cho were close to Harry too; he looked

away from them so he wouldn’t have to talk to them.

His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw

dropped.

It was Hermione.

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But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but

sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot

at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made

of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was

holding herself differently, somehow — or maybe it

was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she

usually had slung over her back. She was also

smiling — rather nervously, it was true — but the

reduction in the size of her front teeth was more

noticeable than ever; Harry couldn’t understand how

he hadn’t spotted it before.

“Hi, Harry!” she said. “Hi, Parvati!”

Parvati was gazing at Hermione in unflattering

disbelief. She wasn’t the only one either; when the

doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum’s fan club from

the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of

deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as

she walked by with Malfoy, and even he didn’t seem

to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Ron,

however, walked right past Hermione without looking

at her.

Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor

McGonagall told the champions and their partners to

get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and

everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered

and started walking up toward a large round table at

the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting.

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling

silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe

and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House

tables had vanished; instead, there were about a

hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about

a dozen people.

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Harry concentrated on not tripping over his feet.

Parvati seemed to be enjoying herself; she was

beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so

forcefully that he felt as though he were a show dog

she was putting through its paces. He caught sight of

Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was

watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma

was looking sulky.

Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions

approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an

expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watched

Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman,

tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow

stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the

students; and Madame Maxime, who had changed

her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of

lavender silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr.

Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. The

fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley.

When the champions and their partners reached the

table, Percy drew out the empty chair beside him,

staring pointedly at Harry. Harry took the hint and

sat down next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new,

navy-blue dress robes and an expression of such

smugness that Harry thought it ought to be fined.

“I’ve been promoted,” Percy said before Harry could

even ask, and from his tone, he might have been

announcing his election as supreme ruler of the

universe. “I’m now Mr. Crouch’s personal assistant,

and I’m here representing him.”

“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asked. He wasn’t looking

forward to being lectured on cauldron bottoms all

through dinner.

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“I’m afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn’t well, not well at all.

Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly

surprising — overwork. He’s not as young as he was

— though still quite brilliant, of course, the mind

remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup

was a fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr.

Crouch suffered a huge personal shock with the

misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or

whatever she was called. Naturally, he dismissed her

immediately afterward, but — well, as I say, he’s

getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he’s

found a definite drop in his home comforts since she

left. And then we had the tournament to arrange, and

the aftermath of the Cup to deal with — that revolting

Skeeter woman buzzing around — no, poor man, he’s

having a well earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad

he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take

his place.”

Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch

had stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but

resisted the temptation.

There was no food as yet on the glittering golden

plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of

them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked

around — there were no waiters. Dumbledore,

however, looked carefully down at his own menu,

then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!”

And pork chops appeared. Getting the idea, the rest of

the table placed their orders with their plates too.

Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt

about this new and more complicated method of

dining — surely it meant plenty of extra work for the

house-elves? — but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to

be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with

Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to notice what she

was eating.

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It now occurred to Harry that he had never actually heard Krum speak before, but he was certainly

talking now, and very enthusiastically at that.

“Vell, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as

comfortable, I am thinking,” he was telling Hermione.

“Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for

magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even

than these — though in vinter, ve have very little

daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer

ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the

mountains —”

“Now, now, Viktor!” said Karkaroff with a laugh that

didn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away

anything else, now, or your charming friend will know

exactly where to find us!”

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this

secrecy … one would almost think you didn’t want

visitors.”

“Well, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, displaying his

yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, “we are all

protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we

not jealously guard the halls of learning that have

been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud

that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to

protect them?”

“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all

Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” said Dumbledore amicably.

“Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong

turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself

in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen

before, containing a really rather magnificent

collection of chamber pots. When I went back to

investigate more closely, I discovered that the room

had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it.

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Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon

— or when the seeker has an exceptionally full

bladder.”

Harry snorted into his plate of goulash. Percy

frowned, but Harry could have sworn Dumbledore

had given him a very small wink.

Meanwhile Fleur Delacour was criticizing the

Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies.

“Zis is nothing,” she said dismissively, looking around

at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At ze Palace

of Beauxbatons, we ’ave ice sculptures all around ze

dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of

course … zey are like ’uge statues of diamond,

glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply

superb. And we ’ave choirs of wood nymphs, ’oo

serenade us as we eat. We ’ave none of zis ugly armor

in ze ’alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into

Beauxbatons, ’e would be expelled like zat. ” She

slapped her hand onto the table impatiently.

Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed

look on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with

his fork. Harry had the impression that Davies was

too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was

saying.

“Absolutely right,” he said quickly, slapping his own

hand down on the table in imitation of Fleur. “Like

that. Yeah.”

Harry looked around the Hall. Hagrid was sitting at

one of the other staff tables; he was back in his

horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top

table. Harry saw him give a small wave, and looking

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around, saw Madame Maxime return it, her opals

glittering in the candlelight.

Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name

properly; he kept calling her “Hermy-own.”

“Her-my-oh-nee,” she said slowly and clearly.

“Herm-own-ninny.”

“Close enough,” she said, catching Harry’s eye and

grinning.

When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore

stood up and asked the students to do the same.

Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed

back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then

he conjured a raised platform into existence along the

right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a

cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it.

The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to

wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely

hairy and dressed in black robes that had been

artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their

instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested

in watching them that he had almost forgotten what

was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all

the other tables had gone out, and that the other

champions and their partners were standing up.

“Come on!” Parvati hissed. “We’re supposed to dance!”

Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood up.

The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune;

Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor,

carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see

Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering), and

next moment, Parvati had seized his hands, placed

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one around her waist, and was holding the other

tightly in hers.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, Harry thought,

revolving slowly on the spot (Parvati was steering). He

kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching

people, and very soon many of them too had come

onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no

longer the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were

dancing nearby — he could see Ginny wincing

frequently as Neville trod on her feet — and

Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He

was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat

barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very

gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was

doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor

Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg.

“Nice socks, Potter,” Moody growled as he passed, his

magical eye staring through Harry’s robes.

“Oh — yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for

me,” said Harry, grinning.

“He is so creepy!” Parvati whispered as Moody

clunked away. “I don’t think that eye should be

allowed!”

Harry heard the final, quavering note from the

bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing,

applause filled the hall once more, and Harry let go of

Parvati at once.

“Let’s sit down, shall we?”

“Oh — but — this is a really good one!” Parvati said

as the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, which was

much faster.

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“No, I don’t like it,” Harry lied, and he led her away from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina, who

were dancing so exhuberantly that people around

them were backing away in fear of injury, and over to

the table where Ron and Padma were sitting.

“How’s it going?” Harry asked Ron, sitting down and

opening a bottle of butterbeer.

Ron didn’t answer. He was glaring at Hermione and

Krum, who were dancing nearby. Padma was sitting

with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in

time to the music. Every now and then she threw a

disgruntled look at Ron, who was completely ignoring

her. Parvati sat down on Harry’s other side, crossed

her arms and legs too, and within minutes was asked

to dance by a boy from Beauxbatons.

“You don’t mind, do you, Harry?” Parvati said.

“What?” said Harry, who was now watching Cho and

Cedric.

“Oh never mind,” snapped Parvati, and she went off

with the boy from Beauxbatons. When the song

ended, she did not return.

Hermione came over and sat down in Parvati’s empty

chair. She was a bit pink in the face from dancing.

“Hi,” said Harry. Ron didn’t say anything.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with

her hand. “Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.”

Ron gave her a withering look. “Viktor?” he said.

“Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?”

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Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What’s up with you?” she said.

“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not

going to tell you.”

Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who

shrugged.

“Ron, what — ?”

“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing

against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You — you’re —”

Ron was obviously casting around for words strong

enough to describe Hermione’s crime, “fraternizing

with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!”

Hermione’s mouth fell open.

“Don’t be so stupid!” she said after a moment. “The

enemy! Honestly — who was the one who was all

excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one

who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him

up in their dormitory?”

Ron chose to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to

come with him while you were both in the library?”

“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, the pink patches on her

cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?”

“What happened — trying to get him to join spew,

were you?”

“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he — he said

he’d been coming up to the library every day to try

and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up

the courage!”

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Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so

deeply that she was the same color as Parvati’s robes.

“Yeah, well — that’s his story,” said Ron nastily.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he?

He knows who you hang around with. … He’s just

trying to get closer to Harry — get inside information

on him — or get near enough to jinx him —”

Hermione looked as though Ron had slapped her.

When she spoke, her voice quivered.

“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single

thing about Harry, not one —”

Ron changed tack at the speed of light.

“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his

egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads

together during those cozy little library sessions —”

“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione,

looking outraged. “Never. How could you say

something like that — I want Harry to win the

tournament, Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron.

“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about

getting to know foreign wizards and making friends

with them!” said Hermione hotly.

“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!”

People were starting to stare at them.

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“Ron,” said Harry quietly, “I haven’t got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum —”

But Ron ignored Harry too.

“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering

where you are,” said Ron.

“Don’t call him Vicky!”

Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across

the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron

watched her go with a mixture of anger and

satisfaction on his face.

“Are you going to ask me to dance at all?” Padma

asked him.

“No,” said Ron, still glaring after Hermione.

“Fine,” snapped Padma, and she got up and went to

join Parvati and the Beauxbatons boy, who conjured

up one of his friends to join them so fast that Harry

could have sworn he had zoomed him there by a

Summoning Charm.

“Vare is Herm-own-ninny?” said a voice.

Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two

butterbeers.

“No idea,” said Ron mulishly, looking up at him. “Lost

her, have you?”

Krum was looking surly again.

“Veil, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks,” he said,

and he slouched off.

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“Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Ron?”

Percy had bustled over, rubbing his hands together

and looking extremely pompous. “Excellent! That’s

the whole point, you know — international magical

cooperation!”

To Harry’s displeasure, Percy now took Padma’s

vacated seat. The top table was now empty; Professor

Dumbledore was dancing with Professor Sprout, Ludo

Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime

and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the

dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and

Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next

song ended, everybody applauded once more, and

Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor McGonagall’s

hand and make his way back through the crowds, at

which point Fred and George accosted him.

“What do they think they’re doing, annoying senior

Ministry members?” Percy hissed, watching Fred and

George suspiciously. “No respect …”

Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly

quickly, however, and, spotting Harry, waved and

came over to their table.

“I hope my brothers weren’t bothering you, Mr.

Bagman?” said Percy at once.

“What? Oh not at all, not at all!” said Bagman. “No,

they were just telling me a bit more about those fake

wands of theirs. Wondering if I could advise them on

the marketing. I’ve promised to put them in touch

with a couple of contacts of mine at Zonko’s Joke

Shop. …”

Percy didn’t look happy about this at all, and Harry

was prepared to bet he would be rushing to tell Mrs.

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Weasley about this the moment he got home.

Apparently Fred and George’s plans had grown even

more ambitious lately, if they were hoping to sell to

the public. Bagman opened his mouth to ask Harry

something, but Percy diverted him.

“How do you feel the tournament’s going, Mr.

Bagman? Our department’s quite satisfied — the

hitch with the Goblet of Fire” — he glanced at Harry

— “was a little unfortunate, of course, but it seems to

have gone very smoothly since, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” Bagman said cheerfully, “it’s all been

enormous fun. How’s old Barty doing? Shame he

couldn’t come.”

“Oh I’m sure Mr. Crouch will be up and about in no

time,” said Percy importantly, “but in the meantime,

I’m more than willing to take up the slack. Of course,

it’s not all attending balls” — he laughed airily — “oh

no, I’ve had to deal with all sorts of things that have

cropped up in his absence — you heard Ali Bashir

was caught smuggling a consignment of flying carpets

into the country? And then we’ve been trying to

persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International

Ban on Dueling. I’ve got a meeting with their Head of

Magical Cooperation in the new year —”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Ron muttered to Harry, “get

away from Percy. …”

Pretending they wanted more drinks, Harry and Ron

left the table, edged around the dance floor, and

slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors

stood open, and the fluttering fairy lights in the rose

garden winked and twinkled as they went down the

front steps, where they found themselves surrounded

by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large

stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water,

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which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on carved benches. He and Ron set off

along one of the winding paths through the

rosebushes, but they had gone only a short way when

they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice.

“… don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!”

Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as

though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting

clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming

seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —”

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will

make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at

Hogwarts.”

Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape

had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart,

his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from

many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from

them.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled

as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff

too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. “And

what are you two doing?” he added, catching sight of

Harry and Ron on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry

saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them

standing there. His hand went nervously to his

goatee, and he began winding it around his finger.

“We’re walking,” Ron told Snape shortly. “Not against

the law, is it?”

“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled, and he brushed

past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind

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him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. Harry and Ron continued down the path.

“What’s got Karkaroff all worried?” Ron muttered.

“And since when have he and Snape been on first-

name terms?” said Harry slowly.

They had reached a large stone reindeer now, over

which they could see the sparkling jets of a tall

fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous

people were visible on a stone bench, watching the

water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid

speak.

“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying, in an

oddly husky voice.

Harry and Ron froze. This didn’t sound like the sort of

scene they ought to walk in on, somehow. … Harry

looked around, back up the path, and saw Fleur

Delacour and Roger Davies standing half-concealed in

a rosebush nearby. He tapped Ron on the shoulder

and jerked his head toward them, meaning that they

could easily sneak off that way without being noticed

(Fleur and Davies looked very busy to Harry), but

Ron, eyes widening in horror at the sight of Fleur,

shook his head vigorously, and pulled Harry deeper

into the shadows behind the reindeer.

“What did you know, ’Agrid?” said Madame Maxime, a

purr in her low voice.

Harry definitely didn’t want to listen to this; he knew

Hagrid would hate to be overheard in a situation like

this (he certainly would have) — if it had been

possible he would have put his fingers in his ears and

hummed loudly, but that wasn’t really an option.

Instead he tried to interest himself in a beetle

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crawling along the stone reindeer’s back, but the

beetle just wasn’t interesting enough to block out

Hagrid’s next words.

“I jus’ knew … knew you were like me. … Was it yer

mother or yer father?”

“I — I don’t know what you mean, ’Agrid. …”

“It was my mother,” said Hagrid quietly. “She was one

o’ the las’ ones in Britain. ’Course, I can’ remember

her too well … she left, see. When I was abou’ three.

She wasn’ really the maternal sort. Well … it’s not in

their natures, is it? Dunno what happened to her …

might be dead fer all I know. …”

Madame Maxime didn’t say anything. And Harry, in

spite of himself, took his eyes off the beetle and

looked over the top of the reindeer’s antlers, listening.

… He had never heard Hagrid talk about his

childhood before.

“Me dad was broken-hearted when she wen’. Tiny

little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six I could

lift him up an’ put him on top o’ the dresser if he

annoyed me. Used ter make him laugh. …” Hagrid’s

deep voice broke. Madame Maxime was listening,

motionless, apparently staring at the silvery fountain.

“Dad raised me … but he died, o’ course, jus’ after I

started school. Sorta had ter make me own way after

that. Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter

me, he was. …”

Hagrid pulled out a large spotted silk handkerchief

and blew his nose heavily.

“So … anyway … enough abou’ me. What about you?

Which side you got it on?”

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But Madame Maxime had suddenly got to her feet.

“It is chilly,” she said — but whatever the weather

was doing, it was nowhere near as cold as her voice.

“I think I will go in now.”

“Eh?” said Hagrid blankly. “No, don’ go! I’ve — I’ve

never met another one before!”

“Anuzzer what, precisely?” said Madame Maxime, her

tone icy.

Harry could have told Hagrid it was best not to

answer; he stood there in the shadows gritting his

teeth, hoping against hope he wouldn’t — but it was

no good.

“Another half-giant, o’ course!” said Hagrid.

“ ’Ow dare you!” shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice

exploded through the peaceful night air like a

foghorn; behind him, Harry heard Fleur and Roger fall

out of their rosebush. “I ’ave nevair been more

insulted in my life! ’Alf-giant? Moi? I ’ave — I ’ave big

bones!”

She stormed away; great multicolored swarms of

fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily pushing

aside bushes. Hagrid was still sitting on the bench,

staring after her. It was much too dark to make out

his expression. Then, after about a minute, he stood

up and strode away, not back to the castle, but off

out into the dark grounds in the direction of his

cabin.

“C’mon,” Harry said, very quietly to Ron. “Let’s go. …”

But Ron didn’t move.

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“What’s up?” said Harry, looking at him.

Ron looked around at Harry, his expression very

serious indeed.

“Did you know?” he whispered. “About Hagrid being

half-giant?”

“No,” Harry said, shrugging. “So what?”

He knew immediately, from the look Ron was giving

him, that he was once again revealing his ignorance

of the wizarding world. Brought up by the Dursleys,

there were many things that wizards took for granted

that were revelations to Harry, but these surprises

had become fewer with each successive year. Now,

however, he could tell that most wizards would not

have said “So what?” upon finding out that one of

their friends had a giantess for a mother.

“I’ll explain inside,” said Ron quietly, “c’mon. …”

Fleur and Roger Davies had disappeared, probably

into a more private clump of bushes. Harry and Ron

returned to the Great Hall. Parvati and Padma were

now sitting at a distant table with a whole crowd of

Beauxbatons boys, and Hermione was once more

dancing with Krum. Harry and Ron sat down at a

table far removed from the dance floor.

“So?” Harry prompted Ron. “What’s the problem with

giants?”

“Well, they’re … they’re …” Ron struggled for words.

“… not very nice,” he finished lamely.

“Who cares?” Harry said. “There’s nothing wrong with

Hagrid!”

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“I know there isn’t, but … blimey, no wonder he keeps it quiet,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I always

thought he’d got in the way of a bad Engorgement

Charm when he was a kid or something. Didn’t like to

mention it. …”

“But what’s it matter if his mother was a giantess?”

said Harry.

“Well … no one who knows him will care, ’cos they’ll

know he’s not dangerous,” said Ron slowly. “But …

Harry, they’re just vicious, giants. It’s like Hagrid

said, it’s in their natures, they’re like trolls … they

just like killing, everyone knows that. There aren’t

any left in Britain now, though.”

“What happened to them?”

“Well, they were dying out anyway, and then loads got

themselves killed by Aurors. There’re supposed to be

giants abroad, though. … They hide out in mountains

mostly. …”

“I don’t know who Maxime thinks she’s kidding,”

Harry said, watching Madame Maxime sitting alone at

the judges’ table, looking very somber. “If Hagrid’s

half-giant, she definitely is. Big bones … the only

thing that’s got bigger bones than her is a dinosaur.”

Harry and Ron spent the rest of the ball discussing

giants in their corner, neither of them having any

inclination to dance. Harry tried not to watch Cho

and Cedric too much; it gave him a strong desire to

kick something.

When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight,

everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause

and started to wend their way into the entrance hall.

Many people were expressing the wish that the ball

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could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly happy to be going to bed; as far as he was concerned,

the evening hadn’t been much fun.

Out in the entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw

Hermione saying good night to Krum before he went

back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very

cold look and swept past him up the marble staircase

without speaking. Harry and Ron followed her, but

halfway up the staircase Harry heard someone calling

him.

“Hey — Harry!”

It was Cedric Diggory. Harry could see Cho waiting for

him in the entrance hall below.

“Yeah?” said Harry coldly as Cedric ran up the stairs

toward him.

Cedric looked as though he didn’t want to say

whatever it was in front of Ron, who shrugged,

looking bad-tempered, and continued to climb the

stairs.

“Listen …” Cedric lowered his voice as Ron

disappeared. “I owe you one for telling me about the

dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail

when you open it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Well … take a bath, okay?”

“What?”

“Take a bath, and — er — take the egg with you, and

— er — just mull things over in the hot water. It’ll

help you think. … Trust me.”

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Harry stared at him.

“Tell you what,” Cedric said, “use the prefects’

bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of

Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s

‘pine fresh.’ Gotta go … want to say good night —”

He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the

stairs to Cho.

Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. That

had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath

help him to work out what the wailing egg meant?

Was Cedric pulling his leg? Was he trying to make

Harry look like a fool, so Cho would like him even

more by comparison?

The Fat Lady and her friend Vi were snoozing in the

picture over the portrait hole. Harry had to yell “Fairy

lights!” before he woke them up, and when he did,

they were extremely irritated. He climbed into the

common room and found Ron and Hermione having a

blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they were

bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution

is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming

down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was

screwed up in anger.

“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?”

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else

does, and not as a last resort!”

Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water

as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the

girls’ staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry.

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“Well,” he sputtered, looking thunderstruck, “well —

that just proves — completely missed the point —”

Harry didn’t say anything. He liked being back on

speaking terms with Ron too much to speak his mind

right now — but he somehow thought that Hermione

had gotten the point much better than Ron had.

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RITA SKEETER’S SCOOP

Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor

common room was much quieter than it had been

lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy

conversations. Hermione’s hair was bushy again; she

confessed to Harry that she had used liberal amounts

of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, “but it’s

way too much bother to do every day,” she said

matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks

behind the ears.

Ron and Hermione seemed to have reached an

unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument.

They were being quite friendly to each other, though

oddly formal. Ron and Harry wasted no time in telling

Hermione about the conversation they had overheard

between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione

didn’t seem to find the news that Hagrid was a half-

giant nearly as shocking as Ron did.

“Well, I thought he must be,” she said, shrugging. “I

knew he couldn’t be pure giant because they’re about

twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about

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giants. They can’t all be horrible. … It’s the same sort of prejudice that people have toward werewolves. …

It’s just bigotry, isn’t it?”

Ron looked as though he would have liked to reply

scathingly, but perhaps he didn’t want another row,

because he contented himself with shaking his head

disbelievingly while Hermione wasn’t looking.

It was time now to think of the homework they had

neglected during the first week of the holidays.

Everybody seemed to be feeling rather flat now that

Christmas was over — everybody except Harry, that

is, who was starting (once again) to feel slightly

nervous.

The trouble was that February the twenty-fourth

looked a lot closer from this side of Christmas, and he

still hadn’t done anything about working out the clue

inside the golden egg. He therefore started taking the

egg out of his trunk every time he went up to the

dormitory, opening it, and listening intently, hoping

that this time it would make some sense. He strained

to think what the sound reminded him of, apart from

thirty musical saws, but he had never heard anything

else like it. He closed the egg, shook it vigorously, and

opened it again to see if the sound had changed, but

it hadn’t. He tried asking the egg questions, shouting

over all the wailing, but nothing happened. He even

threw the egg across the room — though he hadn’t

really expected that to help.

Harry had not forgotten the hint that Cedric had

given him, but his less-than-friendly feelings toward

Cedric just now meant that he was keen not to take

his help if he could avoid it. In any case, it seemed to

him that if Cedric had really wanted to give Harry a

hand, he would have been a lot more explicit. He,

Harry, had told Cedric exactly what was coming in

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the first task — and Cedric’s idea of a fair exchange had been to tell Harry to take a bath. Well, he didn’t

need that sort of rubbishy help — not from someone

who kept walking down corridors hand in hand with

Cho, anyway. And so the first day of the new term

arrived, and Harry set off to lessons, weighed down

with books, parchment, and quills as usual, but also

with the lurking worry of the egg heavy in his

stomach, as though he were carrying that around

with him too.

Snow was still thick upon the grounds, and the

greenhouse windows were covered in condensation so

thick that they couldn’t see out of them in Herbology.

Nobody was looking forward to Care of Magical

Creatures much in this weather, though as Ron said,

the skrewts would probably warm them up nicely,

either by chasing them, or blasting off so forcefully

that Hagrid’s cabin would catch fire.

When they arrived at Hagrid’s cabin, however, they

found an elderly witch with closely cropped gray hair

and a very prominent chin standing before his front

door.

“Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago,” she

barked at them as they struggled toward her through

the snow.

“Who’re you?” said Ron, staring at her. “Where’s

Hagrid?”

“My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank,” she said

briskly. “I am your temporary Care of Magical

Creatures teacher.”

“Where’s Hagrid?” Harry repeated loudly.

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“He is indisposed,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank

shortly.

Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harry’s ears.

He turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the

Slytherins were joining the class. All of them looked

gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see

Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“This way, please,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and

she strode off around the paddock where the

Beauxbatons horses were shivering. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione followed her, looking back over their

shoulders at Hagrid’s cabin. All the curtains were

closed. Was Hagrid in there, alone and ill?

“What’s wrong with Hagrid?” Harry said, hurrying to

catch up with Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Never you mind,” she said as though she thought he

was being nosy.

“I do mind, though,” said Harry hotly. “What’s up with

him?”

Professor Grubbly-Plank acted as though she couldn’t

hear him. She led them past the paddock where the

huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled

against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the

forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was

tethered.

Many of the girls “ooooohed!” at the sight of the

unicorn.

“Oh it’s so beautiful!” whispered Lavender Brown.

“How did she get it? They’re supposed to be really

hard to catch!”

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The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow all around look gray. It was pawing the ground

nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back

its horned head.

“Boys keep back!” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank,

throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the

chest. “They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns.

Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on,

easy does it. …”

She and the girls walked slowly forward toward the

unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock

fence, watching. The moment Professor Grubbly-

Plank was out of earshot, Harry turned to Ron.

“What d’you reckon’s wrong with him? You don’t

think a skrewt — ?”

“Oh he hasn’t been attacked, Potter, if that’s what

you’re thinking,” said Malfoy softly. “No, he’s just too

ashamed to show his big, ugly face.”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry sharply.

Malfoy put his hand inside the pocket of his robes

and pulled out a folded page of newsprint.

“There you go,” he said. “Hate to break it to you,

Potter. …”

He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded it,

and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville

looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped

with a picture of Hagrid looking extremely shifty.

DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE

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Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been

afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes

Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of

this year, he hired Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the

notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense

Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many

raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given

Moody’s well-known habit of attacking anybody who

makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye

Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when

set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to

teach Care of Magical Creatures.

Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from

Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of

gamekeeper at the school ever since, a job secured for

him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used

his mysterious influence over the headmaster to

secure the additional post of Care of Magical

Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-

qualified candidates.

An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man,

Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to

terrify the students in his care with a succession of

horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind

eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series

of lessons that many admit to being “very

frightening.”

“I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent

Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm,” says Draco

Malfoy, a fourth-year student. “We all hate Hagrid,

but we’re just too scared to say anything.”

Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of

intimidation, however. In conversation with a Daily

Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding

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creatures he has dubbed “Blast-Ended Skrewts,”

highly dangerous crosses between manticores and fire-

crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical creature

is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by

the Department for the Regulation and Control of

Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however, considers himself

to be above such petty restrictions.

“I was just having some fun,” he says, before hastily

changing the subject.

As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now

unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not — as he has

always pretended — a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in

fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively

reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa,

whose whereabouts are currently unknown.

Bloodthirsty and brutal, the giants brought

themselves to the point of extinction by warring

amongst themselves during the last century. The

handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some

of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of

terror.

While many of the giants who served He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against

the Dark Side, Fridwulfa was not among them. It is

possible she escaped to one of the giant communities

still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics

during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any

guide, however, Fridwulfa’s son appears to have

inherited her brutal nature.

In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed

a close friendship with the boy who brought around

You-Know-Who’s fall from power — thereby driving

Hagrid’s own mother, like the rest of You-Know-Who’s

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supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is

unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large

friend — but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to

ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow

students, is warned about the dangers of associating

with part-giants.

Harry finished reading and looked up at Ron, whose

mouth was hanging open.

“How did she find out?” he whispered.

But that wasn’t what was bothering Harry.

“What d’you mean, ‘we all hate Hagrid’?” Harry spat

at Malfoy. “What’s this rubbish about him” — he

pointed at Crabbe — “getting a bad bite off a

flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!”

Crabbe was sniggering, apparently very pleased with

himself.

“Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s

teaching career,” said Malfoy, his eyes glinting. “Half-

giant … and there was me thinking he’d just

swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young.

… None of the mummies and daddies are going to like

this at all. … They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha,

ha. …”

“You —”

“Are you paying attention over there?”

Professor Grubbly-Plank’s voice carried over to the

boys; the girls were all clustered around the unicorn

now, stroking it. Harry was so angry that the Daily

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Prophet article shook in his hands as he turned to stare unseeingly at the unicorn, whose many magical

properties Professor Grubbly-Plank was now

enumerating in a loud voice, so that the boys could

hear too.

“I hope she stays, that woman!” said Parvati Patil

when the lesson had ended and they were all heading

back to the castle for lunch. “That’s more what I

thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like …

proper creatures like unicorns, not monsters. …”

“What about Hagrid?” Harry said angrily as they went

up the steps.

“What about him?” said Parvati in a hard voice. “He

can still be gamekeeper, can’t he?”

Parvati had been very cool toward Harry since the

ball. He supposed that he ought to have paid her a bit

more attention, but she seemed to have had a good

time all the same. She was certainly telling anybody

who would listen that she had made arrangements to

meet the boy from Beauxbatons in Hogsmeade on the

next weekend trip.

“That was a really good lesson,” said Hermione as

they entered the Great Hall. “I didn’t know half the

things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni —”

“Look at this!” Harry snarled, and he shoved the Daily

Prophet article under Hermione’s nose.

Hermione’s mouth fell open as she read. Her reaction

was exactly the same as Ron’s.

“How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You

don’t think Hagrid told her?”

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“No,” said Harry, leading the way over to the

Gryffindor table and throwing himself into a chair,

furious. “He never even told us, did he? I reckon she

was so mad he wouldn’t give her loads of horrible

stuff about me, she went ferreting around to get him

back.”

“Maybe she heard him telling Madame Maxime at the

ball,” said Hermione quietly.

“We’d have seen her in the garden!” said Ron.

“Anyway, she’s not supposed to come into school

anymore, Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her. …”

“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry,

ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing

it everywhere in his anger. “Sort of thing she’d do,

isn’t it, hide in bushes listening to people.”

“Like you and Ron did, you mean,” said Hermione.

“We weren’t trying to hear him!” said Ron indignantly.

“We didn’t have any choice! The stupid prat, talking

about his giantess mother where anyone could have

heard him!”

“We’ve got to go and see him,” said Harry. “This

evening, after Divination. Tell him we want him back

… you do want him back?” he shot at Hermione.

“I — well, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t make a

nice change, having a proper Care of Magical

Creatures lesson for once — but I do want Hagrid

back, of course I do!” Hermione added hastily,

quailing under Harry’s furious stare.

So that evening after dinner, the three of them left the

castle once more and went down through the frozen

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grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. They knocked, and Fang’s booming barks answered.

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry shouted, pounding on the

door. “Open up!

Hagrid didn’t answer. They could hear Fang

scratching at the door, whining, but it didn’t open.

They hammered on it for ten more minutes; Ron even

went and banged on one of the windows, but there

was no response.

“What’s he avoiding us for?” Hermione said when they

had finally given up and were walking back to the

school. “He surely doesn’t think we’d care about him

being half-giant?”

But it seemed that Hagrid did care. They didn’t see a

sign of him all week. He didn’t appear at the staff

table at mealtimes, they didn’t see him going about

his gamekeeper duties on the grounds, and Professor

Grubbly-Plank continued to take the Care of Magical

Creatures classes. Malfoy was gloating at every

possible opportunity.

“Missing your half-breed pal?” he kept whispering to

Harry whenever there was a teacher around, so that

he was safe from Harry’s retaliation. “Missing the

elephant-man?”

There was a Hogsmeade visit halfway through

January. Hermione was very surprised that Harry

was going to go.

“I just thought you’d want to take advantage of the

common room being quiet,” she said. “Really get to

work on that egg.”

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“Oh I — I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s about now,” Harry lied.

“Have you really?” said Hermione, looking impressed.

“Well done!”

Harry’s insides gave a guilty squirm, but he ignored

them. He still had five weeks to work out that egg

clue, after all, and that was ages … whereas if he

went into Hogsmeade, he might run into Hagrid, and

get a chance to persuade him to come back.

He, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together on

Saturday and set off through the cold, wet grounds

toward the gates. As they passed the Durmstrang

ship moored in the lake, they saw Viktor Krum

emerge onto the deck, dressed in nothing but

swimming trunks. He was very skinny indeed, but

apparently a lot tougher than he looked, because he

climbed up onto the side of the ship, stretched out his

arms, and dived, right into the lake.

“He’s mad!” said Harry, staring at Krum’s dark head

as it bobbed out into the middle of the lake. “It must

be freezing, it’s January!”

“It’s a lot colder where he comes from,” said

Hermione. “I suppose it feels quite warm to him.”

“Yeah, but there’s still the giant squid,” said Ron. He

didn’t sound anxious — if anything, he sounded

hopeful. Hermione noticed his tone of voice and

frowned.

“He’s really nice, you know,” she said. “He’s not at all

like you’d think, coming from Durmstrang. He likes it

much better here, he told me.”

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Ron said nothing. He hadn’t mentioned Viktor Krum

since the ball, but Harry had found a miniature arm

under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very

much as though it had been snapped off a small

model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes.

Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all

the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a

visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had

ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops.

The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look

around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t

there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron

and Hermione, ordered three butter-beers from

Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he

might just as well have stayed behind and listened to

the egg wailing after all.

“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione

whispered suddenly. “Look!”

She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry

saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a

shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was

talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of

whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather

menacing.

It was indeed odd, Harry thought, that Bagman was

here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when

there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no

judging to be done. He watched Bagman in the

mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as

strained as he had that night in the forest before the

Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman

glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up.

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“In a moment, in a moment!” Harry heard him say

brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried

through the pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back

in place.

“Harry!” he said. “How are you? Been hoping to run

into you! Everything going all right?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry.

“Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?”

said Bagman eagerly. “You couldn’t give us a

moment, you two, could you?”

“Er — okay,” said Ron, and he and Hermione went off

to find a table.

Bagman led Harry along the bar to the end furthest

from Madam Rosmerta.

“Well, I just thought I’d congratulate you again on

your splendid performance against that Horntail,

Harry,” said Bagman. “Really superb.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, but he knew this couldn’t be all

that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have

congratulated Harry in front of Ron and Hermione.

Bagman didn’t seem in any particular rush to spill

the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the

mirror over the bar at the goblins, who were all

watching him and Harry in silence through their

dark, slanting eyes.

“Absolute nightmare,” said Bagman to Harry in an

undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too.

“Their English isn’t too good … it’s like being back

with all the Bulgarians at the Quidditch World Cup …

but at least they used sign language another human

could recognize. This lot keep gabbling in

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Gobbledegook … and I only know one word of

Gobbledegook. Bladvak. It means ‘pickax.’ I don’t like

to use it in case they think I’m threatening them.”

He gave a short, booming laugh.

“What do they want?” Harry said, noticing how the

goblins were still watching Bagman very closely.

“Er — well …” said Bagman, looking suddenly

nervous. “They … er … they’re looking for Barry

Crouch.”

“Why are they looking for him here?” said Harry. “He’s

at the Ministry in London, isn’t he?”

“Er … as a matter of fact, I’ve no idea where he is,”

said Bagman. “He’s sort of … stopped coming to work.

Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy,

his assistant, says he’s ill. Apparently he’s just been

sending instructions in by owl. But would you mind

not mentioning that to anyone, Harry? Because Rita

Skeeter’s still poking around everywhere she can, and

I’m willing to bet she’d work up Barty’s illness into

something sinister. Probably say he’s gone missing

like Bertha Jorkins.”

“Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?”

Harry asked.

“No,” said Bagman, looking strained again. “I’ve got

people looking, of course …” ( About time, thought

Harry) “and it’s all very strange. She definitely arrived

in Albania, because she met her second cousin there.

And then she left the cousin’s house to go south and

see an aunt … and she seems to have vanished

without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where

she’s got to … she doesn’t seem the type to elope, for

instance … but still. … What are we doing, talking

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about goblins and Bertha Jorkins? I really wanted to ask you” — he lowered his voice — “how are you

getting on with your golden egg?”

“Er … not bad,” Harry said untruthfully.

Bagman seemed to know he wasn’t being honest.

“Listen, Harry,” he said (still in a very low voice), “I

feel very bad about all this … you were thrown into

this tournament, you didn’t volunteer for it… and if

…” (his voice was so quiet now, Harry had to lean

closer to listen) “if I can help at all … a prod in the

right direction … I’ve taken a liking to you … the way

you got past that dragon! … well, just say the word.”

Harry stared up into Bagman’s round, rosy face and

his wide, baby-blue eyes.

“We’re supposed to work out the clues alone, aren’t

we?” he said, careful to keep his voice casual and not

sound as though he was accusing the head of the

Department of Magical Games and Sports of breaking

the rules.

“Well … well, yes,” said Bagman impatiently, “but —

come on, Harry — we all want a Hogwarts victory,

don’t we?”

“Have you offered Cedric help?” Harry said.

The smallest of frowns creased Bagman’s smooth

face. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I — well, like I say, I’ve

taken a liking to you. Just thought I’d offer …”

“Well, thanks,” said Harry, “but I think I’m nearly

there with the egg … couple more days should crack

it.”

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He wasn’t entirely sure why he was refusing

Bagman’s help, except that Bagman was almost a

stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would

feel somehow much more like cheating than asking

advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius.

Bagman looked almost affronted, but couldn’t say

much more as Fred and George turned up at that

point.

“Hello, Mr. Bagman,” said Fred brightly. “Can we buy

you a drink?”

“Er … no,” said Bagman, with a last disappointed

glance at Harry, “no, thank you, boys …”

Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as

Bagman, who was surveying Harry as though he had

let him down badly.

“Well, I must dash,” he said. “Nice seeing you all.

Good luck, Harry.”

He hurried out of the pub. The goblins all slid off their

chairs and exited after him. Harry went to rejoin Ron

and Hermione.

“What did he want?” Ron said, the moment Harry had

sat down.

“He offered to help me with the golden egg,” said

Harry.

“He shouldn’t be doing that!” said Hermione, looking

very shocked. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway,

you’ve already worked it out — haven’t you?”

“Er … nearly,” said Harry.

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“Well, I don’t think Dumbledore would like it if he knew Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!”

said Hermione, still looking deeply disapproving. “I

hope he’s trying to help Cedric as much!”

“He’s not, I asked,” said Harry.

“Who cares if Diggory’s getting help?” said Ron. Harry

privately agreed.

“Those goblins didn’t look very friendly,” said

Hermione, sipping her butterbeer. “What were they

doing here?”

“Looking for Crouch, according to Bagman,” said

Harry. “He’s still ill. Hasn’t been into work.”

“Maybe Percy’s poisoning him,” said Ron. “Probably

thinks if Crouch snuffs it he’ll be made head of the

Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

Hermione gave Ron a don’t-joke-about-things-like-

that look, and said, “Funny, goblins looking for Mr.

Crouch. … They’d normally deal with the Department

for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Crouch can speak loads of different languages,

though,” said Harry. “Maybe they need an

interpreter.”

“Worrying about poor ’ickle goblins, now, are you?”

Ron asked Hermione. “Thinking of starting up

S.P.U.G. or something? Society for the Protection of

Ugly Goblins?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Goblins

don’t need protection. Haven’t you been listening to

what Professor Binns has been telling us about goblin

rebellions?”

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“No,” said Harry and Ron together.

“Well, they’re quite capable of dealing with wizards,”

said Hermione, taking another sip of butterbeer.

“They’re very clever. They’re not like house-elves, who

never stick up for themselves.”

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, staring at the door.

Rita Skeeter had just entered. She was wearing

banana-yellow robes today; her long nails were

painted shocking pink, and she was accompanied by

her paunchy photographer. She bought drinks, and

she and the photographer made their way through

the crowds to a table nearby, Harry, Ron, and

Hermione glaring at her as she approached. She was

talking fast and looking very satisfied about

something.

“… didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo?

Now, why would that be, do you think? And what’s he

doing with a pack of goblins in tow anyway? Showing

them the sights … what nonsense … he was always a

bad liar. Reckon something’s up? Think we should do

a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical

Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman …’ Snappy start to

a sentence, Bozo — we just need to find a story to fit

it —”

“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” said Harry loudly.

A few people looked around. Rita Skeeter’s eyes

widened behind her jeweled spectacles as she saw

who had spoken.

“Harry!” she said, beaming. “How lovely! Why don’t

you come and join — ?”

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“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot

broomstick,” said Harry furiously. “What did you do

that to Hagrid for, eh?”

Rita Skeeter raised her heavily penciled eyebrows.

“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am

merely doing my —”

“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry shouted. “There’s

nothing wrong with him!”

The whole pub had gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta

was staring over from behind the bar, apparently

oblivious to the fact that the flagon she was filling

with mead was overflowing.

Rita Skeeter’s smile flickered very slightly, but she

hitched it back almost at once; she snapped open her

crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes

Quill, and said, “How about giving me an interview

about the Hagrid you know, Harry? The man behind

the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the

reasons behind it. Would you call him a father

substitute?”

Hermione stood up very abruptly, her butterbeer

clutched in her hand as though it were a grenade.

“You horrible woman,” she said, through gritted teeth,

“you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and

anyone will do, won’t they? Even Ludo Bagman —”

“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about

things you don’t understand,” said Rita Skeeter

coldly, her eyes hardening as they fell on Hermione. “I

know things about Ludo Bagman that would make

your hair curl … not that it needs it —” she added,

eyeing Hermione’s bushy hair.

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“Let’s go,” said Hermione, “c’mon, Harry — Ron …”

They left; many people were staring at them as they

went. Harry glanced back as they reached the door.

Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill was out; it was

zooming backward and forward over a piece of

parchment on the table.

“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” said Ron in a low

and worried voice as they walked quickly back up the

street.

“Let her try!” said Hermione defiantly; she was

shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I?

Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid

…”

“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” said

Ron nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up

something on you —”

“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet. She can’t

scare me into hiding!” said Hermione, now striding

along so fast that it was all Harry and Ron could do to

keep up with her. The last time Harry had seen

Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy

around the face. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore!

He should never have let that excuse for a human

being upset him! Come on!”

Breaking into a run, she led them all the way back up

the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars,

and up through the grounds to Hagrid’s cabin.

The curtains were still drawn, and they could hear

Fang barking as they approached.

“Hagrid!” Hermione shouted, pounding on his front

door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there!

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Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid!

You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you!

Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being —”

The door opened. Hermione said, “About t — !” and

then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found

herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus

Dumbledore.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, smiling down at

them.

“We — er — we wanted to see Hagrid,” said Hermione

in a rather small voice.

“Yes, I surmised as much,” said Dumbledore, his eyes

twinkling. “Why don’t you come in?”

“Oh … um … okay,” said Hermione.

She, Ron, and Harry went into the cabin; Fang

launched himself upon Harry the moment he entered,

barking madly and trying to lick his ears. Harry

fended off Fang and looked around.

Hagrid was sitting at his table, where there were two

large mugs of tea. He looked a real mess. His face was

blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the

other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from

trying to make it behave, it now looked like a wig of

tangled wire.

“Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry.

Hagrid looked up.

“ ’Lo,” he said in a very hoarse voice.

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“More tea, I think,” said Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his

wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared

in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore

magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat

down. There was a slight pause, and then

Dumbledore said, “Did you by any chance hear what

Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?”

Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled

at her and continued, “Hermione, Harry, and Ron still

seem to want to know you, judging by the way they

were attempting to break down the door.”

“Of course we still want to know you!” Harry said,

staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that

Skeeter cow — sorry, Professor,” he added quickly,

looking at Dumbledore.

“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea

what you said, Harry,” said Dumbledore, twiddling

his thumbs and staring at the ceiling.

“Er — right,” said Harry sheepishly. “I just meant —

Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that —

woman — wrote about you?”

Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes

and fell slowly into his tangled beard.

“Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,”

said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the

ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the

countless parents who remember you from their own

days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I

sacked you, they would have something to say about

it —”

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“Not all of ’em,” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ’em wan’ me ter stay.”

“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal

popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a

very long time,” said Dumbledore, now peering sternly

over his half-moon spectacles. “Not a week has

passed since I became headmaster of this school

when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining

about the way I run it. But what should I do?

Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to

anybody?”

“Yeh — yeh’re not half-giant!” said Hagrid croakily.

“Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry said

furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!”

“An excellent point,” said Professor Dumbledore. “My

own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing

inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the

papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He

held his head high and went about his business as

usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so

that may not have been bravery. …”

“Come back and teach, Hagrid,” said Hermione

quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.”

Hagrid gulped. More tears leaked out down his cheeks

and into his tangled beard.

Dumbledore stood up. “I refuse to accept your

resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on

Monday,” he said. “You will join me for breakfast at

eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good

afternoon to you all.”

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Dumbledore left the cabin, pausing only to scratch Fang’s ears. When the door had shut behind him,

Hagrid began to sob into his dustbin-lid-sized hands.

Hermione kept patting his arm, and at last, Hagrid

looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, “Great

man, Dumbledore … great man …”

“Yeah, he is,” said Ron. “Can I have one of these

cakes, Hagrid?”

“Help yerself,” said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the

back of his hand. “Ar, he’s righ’, o’ course — yeh’re all

righ’ … I bin stupid … my ol’ dad woulda bin

ashamed o’ the way I’ve bin behavin’. …” More tears

leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully,

and said, “Never shown you a picture of my old dad,

have I? Here …”

Hagrid got up, went over to his dresser, opened a

drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard

with Hagrid’s crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat

on top of Hagrid’s shoulder. Hagrid was a good seven

or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside him,

but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth

— he looked hardly older than eleven.

“Tha’ was taken jus’ after I got inter Hogwarts,”

Hagrid croaked. “Dad was dead chuffed … thought I

migh’ not be a wizard, see, ’cos me mum … well,

anyway. ’Course, I never was great shakes at magic,

really … but at least he never saw me expelled. Died,

see, in me second year. …

“Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after

Dad went. Got me the gamekeeper job … trusts

people, he does. Gives ’em second chances … tha’s

what sets him apar’ from other heads, see. He’ll

accept anyone at Hogwarts, s’long as they’ve got the

talent. Knows people can turn out okay even if their

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families weren’ … well … all tha’ respectable. But some don’ understand that. There’s some who’d

always hold it against yeh … there’s some who’d even

pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up

an’ say — I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed.

‘Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s

some who’ll hold it against you, but they’re not worth

botherin’ with.’ An’ he was right. I’ve bin an idiot. I’m

not botherin’ with her no more, I promise yeh that.

Big bones … I’ll give her big bones.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another

nervously; Harry would rather have taken fifty Blast-

Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that

he had overheard him talking to Madame Maxime,

but Hagrid was still talking, apparently unaware that

he had said anything odd.

“Yeh know wha’, Harry?” he said, looking up from the

photograph of his father, his eyes very bright, “when I

firs’ met you, you reminded me o’ me a bit. Mum an’

Dad gone, an’ you was feelin’ like yeh wouldn’ fit in at

Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were really up to

it … an’ now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!”

He looked at Harry for a moment and then said, very

seriously, “Yeh know what I’d love, Harry? I’d love yeh

ter win, I really would. It’d show ’em all … yeh don’

have ter be pureblood ter do it. Yeh don’ have ter be

ashamed of what yeh are. It’d show ’em Dumbledore’s

the one who’s got it righ’, lettin’ anyone in as long as

they can do magic. How you doin’ with that egg,

Harry?”

“Great,” said Harry. “Really great.”

Hagrid’s miserable face broke into a wide, watery

smile.

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“Tha’s my boy … you show ’em, Harry, you show ’em.

Beat ’em all.”

Lying to Hagrid wasn’t quite like lying to anyone else.

Harry went back to the castle later that afternoon

with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image

of the happy expression on Hagrid’s whiskery face as

he had imagined Harry winning the tournament. The

incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever

on Harry’s conscience that evening, and by the time

he had got into bed, he had made up his mind — it

was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric’s hint

was worth anything.

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THE EGG AND THE EYE

As Harry had no idea how long a bath he would need

to work out the secret of the golden egg, he decided to

do it at night, when he would be able to take as much

time as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept

more favours from Cedric, he also decided to use the

prefects’ bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in

there, so it was much less likely that he would be

disturbed.

Harry planned his excursion carefully, because he

had been caught out of bed and out-of-bounds by

Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once

before, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

The Invisibility Cloak would, of course, be essential,

and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would

take the Marauder’s Map, which, next to the cloak,

was the most useful aid to rule-breaking Harry

owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts,

including its many shortcuts and secret passageways

and, most important of all, it revealed the people

inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving

around the corridors, so that Harry would be

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forewarned if somebody was approaching the

bathroom.

On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on

the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had

done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the

dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This

time it was Ron who waited outside to give the Fat

Lady the password (“banana fritters”). “Good luck,”

Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept

out past him.

It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight,

because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and

the map held in front of his nose with the other.

However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent,

and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry

was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone

he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of

Boris the Bewildered, a lost-looking wizard with his

gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door,

leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine

fresh,” just as Cedric had told him.

The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted

the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility

Cloak, looking around.

His immediate reaction was that it would be worth

becoming a prefect just to be able to use this

bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled

chandelier, and everything was made of white marble,

including what looked like an empty, rectangular

swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor.

About a hundred golden taps stood all around the

pool’s edges, each with a differently colored jewel set

into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long

white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile

of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a

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single golden-framed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her

long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she

snored.

Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps

echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the

bathroom was — and quite keen though he was to try

out a few of those taps — now he was here he

couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might

have been having him on. How on earth was this

supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg?

Nevertheless, he put one of the fluffy towels, the

cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the

swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and

turned on a few of the taps.

He could tell at once that they carried different sorts

of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn’t

bubble bath as Harry had ever experienced it. One

tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of

footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that

Harry thought it would have supported his weight if

he’d cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed

purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water.

Harry amused himself for a while turning the taps on

and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose

jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs.

Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam,

and bubbles, which took a very short time

considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps,

pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown,

and slid into the water.

It was so deep that his feet barely touched the

bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before

swimming back to the side and treading water,

staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to

swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different-

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colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of

understanding.

Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet

hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound

filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the

marble walls, but it sounded just as

incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the

echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the

sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that

hadn’t been Cedric’s plan — and then, making him

jump so badly that he dropped the egg, which

clattered away across the bathroom floor, someone

spoke.

“I’d try putting it in the water, if I were you.”

Harry had swallowed a considerable amount of

bubbles in shock. He stood up, sputtering, and saw

the ghost of a very glum-looking girl sitting cross-

legged on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning

Myrtle, who was usually to be heard sobbing in the S-

bend of a toilet three floors below.

“Myrtle!” Harry said in outrage, “I’m — I’m not

wearing anything!”

The foam was so dense that this hardly mattered, but

he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on

him from out of one of the taps ever since he had

arrived.

“I closed my eyes when you got in,” she said, blinking

at him through her thick spectacles. “You haven’t

been to see me for ages. ”

“Yeah … well …” said Harry, bending his knees

slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn’t

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see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.”

“You didn’t used to care,” said Myrtle miserably. “You

used to be in there all the time.”

This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and

Hermione had found Myrtle’s out-of-order toilets a

convenient place to brew Polyjuice Potion in secret —

a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron into

living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so

that they could sneak into the Slytherin common

room.

“I got told off for going in there,” said Harry, which

was half-true; Percy had once caught him coming out

of Myrtle’s bathroom. “I thought I’d better not come

back after that.”

“Oh … I see …” said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her

chin in a morose sort of way. “Well… anyway … I’d try

the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.”

“Have you been spying on him too?” said Harry

indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the

evenings to watch the prefects take baths?”

“Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never

come out to speak to anyone before.”

“I’m honored,” said Harry darkly. “You keep your eyes

shut!”

He made sure Myrtle had her glasses well covered

before hoisting himself out of the bath, wrapping the

towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve

the egg. Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered

through her fingers and said, “Go on, then … open it

under the water!”

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Harry lowered the egg beneath the foamy surface and opened it … and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling

song was coming out of it, a song whose words he

couldn’t distinguish through the water.

“You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle,

who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him

around. “Go on!”

Harry took a great breath and slid under the surface

— and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the

bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices

singing to him from the open egg in his hands:

“Come seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground,

And while you’re searching ponder this:

We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,

An hour long you’ll have to look,

And to recover what we took,

But past an hour — the prospect’s black,

Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”

Harry let himself float back upward and broke the

bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

“Hear it?” said Myrtle.

“Yeah … ‘Come seek us where our voices sound …’

and if I need persuading … hang on, I need to listen

again. …”

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He sank back beneath the water. It took three more underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry

had it memorized; then he trod water for a while,

thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him.

“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their

voices above the ground. …” he said slowly. “Er …

who could that be?”

“Slow, aren’t you?”

He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart

from the day when a dose of Polyjuice Potion had

given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry

stared around the bathroom, thinking … if the voices

could only be heard underwater, then it made sense

for them to belong to underwater creatures. He ran

this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him.

“Well, that’s what Diggory thought,” she said. “He lay

there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and

ages … nearly all the bubbles had gone. …”

“Underwater …” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle … what

lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?”

“Oh all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there

… sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone

flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it. …”

Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming

down a pipe to the lake with the contents of a toilet,

Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a

human voice? Hang on —”

Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing

mermaid on the wall.

“Myrtle, there aren’t merpeople in there, are there?”

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“Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses

twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that!

And that was with her awake too” — Myrtle jerked her

head toward the mermaid with an expression of great

dislike on her glum face — “giggling and showing off

and flashing her fins. …”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second

task’s to go and find the merpeople in the lake and …

and …”

But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he

felt the excitement drain out of him as though

someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He

wasn’t a very good swimmer; he’d never had much

practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt hoping

that Harry would drown one day, hadn’t bothered to

give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all

very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep

… and merpeople would surely live right at the

bottom. …

“Myrtle,” Harry said slowly, “how am I supposed to

breathe?”

At this, Myrtle’s eyes filled with sudden tears again.

“Tactless!” she muttered, groping in her robes for a

handkerchief.

“What’s tactless?” said Harry, bewildered.

“Talking about breathing in front of me!” she said

shrilly, and her voice echoed loudly around the

bathroom. “When I can’t … when I haven’t … not for

ages …”

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She buried her face in her handkerchief and sniffed loudly. Harry remembered how touchy Myrtle had

always been about being dead, but none of the other

ghosts he knew made such a fuss about it.

“Sorry,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t mean — I just

forgot …”

“Oh yes, very easy to forget Myrtle’s dead,” said

Myrtle, gulping, looking at him out of swollen eyes.

“Nobody missed me even when I was alive. Took them

hours and hours to find my body — I know, I was

sitting there waiting for them. Olive Hornby came into

the bathroom — ‘Are you in here again, sulking,

Myrtle?’ she said, ‘because Professor Dippet asked me

to look for you —’ And then she saw my body …

ooooh, she didn’t forget it until her dying day, I made

sure of that … followed her around and reminded her,

I did. I remember at her brother’s wedding —”

But Harry wasn’t listening; he was thinking about the

merpeople’s song again. “We’ve taken what you’ll

sorely miss. ” That sounded as though they were going

to steal something of his, something he had to get

back. What were they going to take?

“— and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of

Magic to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back

here and live in my toilet.”

“Good,” said Harry vaguely. “Well, I’m a lot further on

than I was. … Shut your eyes again, will you? I’m

getting out.”

He retrieved the egg from the bottom of the bath,

climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pajamas

and dressing gown again.

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“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again

sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as

Harry picked up the Invisibility Cloak.

“Er … I’ll try,” Harry said, though privately thinking

the only way he’d be visiting Myrtle’s bathroom again

was if every other toilet in the castle got blocked. “See

you, Myrtle … thanks for your help.”

“ ’Bye, ’bye,” she said gloomily, and as Harry put on

the Invisibility Cloak he saw her zoom back up the

tap.

Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the

Marauder’s Map to check that the coast was still

clear. Yes, the dots belonging to Filch and his cat,

Mrs. Norris, were safely in their office … nothing else

seemed to be moving apart from Peeves, though he

was bouncing around the trophy room on the floor

above. … Harry had taken his first step back toward

Gryffindor Tower when something else on the map

caught his eye … something distinctly odd.

Peeves was not the only thing that was moving. A

single dot was flitting around a room in the bottom

left-hand corner — Snape’s office. But the dot wasn’t

labeled “Severus Snape” … it was Bartemius Crouch.

Harry stared at the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to

be too ill to go to work or to come to the Yule Ball —

so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one

o’clock in the morning? Harry watched closely as the

dot moved around and around the room, pausing

here and there. …

Harry hesitated, thinking … and then his curiosity got

the better of him. He turned and set off in the

opposite direction toward the nearest staircase. He

was going to see what Crouch was up to.

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Harry walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, though the faces in some of the portraits still turned

curiously at the squeak of a floorboard, the rustle of

his pajamas. He crept along the corridor below,

pushed aside a tapestry about halfway along, and

proceeded down a narrower staircase, a shortcut that

would take him down two floors. He kept glancing

down at the map, wondering … It just didn’t seem in

character, somehow, for correct, law-abiding Mr.

Crouch to be sneaking around somebody else’s office

this late at night. …

And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking

about what he was doing, not concentrating on

anything but the peculiar behavior of Mr. Crouch,

Harry’s leg suddenly sank right through the trick step

Neville always forgot to jump. He gave an ungainly

wobble, and the golden egg, still damp from the bath,

slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try

and catch it, but too late; the egg fell down the long

staircase with a bang as loud as a bass drum on

every step — the Invisibility Cloak slipped — Harry

snatched at it, and the Marauder’s Map fluttered out

of his hand and slid down six stairs, where, sunk in

the step to above his knee, he couldn’t reach it.

The golden egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom

of the staircase, burst open, and began wailing loudly

in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and

struggled to touch the Marauder’s Map, to wipe it

blank, but it was too far away to reach —

Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry

straightened up, listening hard with his eyes screwed

up with fear … and, almost immediately —

“PEEVES!”

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It was the unmistakable hunting cry of Filch the

caretaker. Harry could hear his rapid, shuffling

footsteps coming nearer and nearer, his wheezy voice

raised in fury.

“What’s this racket? Wake up the whole castle, will

you? I’ll have you, Peeves, I’ll have you, you’ll … and

what is this?”

Filch’s footsteps halted; there was a clink of metal on

metal and the wailing stopped — Filch had picked up

the egg and closed it. Harry stood very still, one leg

still jammed tightly in the magical step, listening. Any

moment now, Filch was going to pull aside the

tapestry, expecting to see Peeves … and there would

be no Peeves … but if he came up the stairs, he would

spot the Marauder’s Map … and Invisibility Cloak or

not, the map would show “Harry Potter” standing

exactly where he was.

“Egg?” Filch said quietly at the foot of the stairs. “My

sweet!” — Mrs. Norris was obviously with him — “This

is a Triwizard clue! This belongs to a school

champion!”

Harry felt sick; his heart was hammering very fast —

“PEEVES!” Filch roared gleefully. “You’ve been

stealing!”

He ripped back the tapestry below, and Harry saw his

horrible, pouchy face and bulging, pale eyes staring

up the dark and (to Filch) deserted staircase.

“Hiding, are you?” he said softly. “I’m coming to get

you, Peeves. … You’ve gone and stolen a Triwizard

clue, Peeves. … Dumbledore’ll have you out of here

for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist. …”

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Filch started to climb the stairs, his scrawny, dust-colored cat at his heels. Mrs. Norris’s lamp-like eyes,

so very like her master’s, were fixed directly upon

Harry. He had had occasion before now to wonder

whether the Invisibility Cloak worked on cats. … Sick

with apprehension, he watched Filch drawing nearer

and nearer in his old flannel dressing gown — he

tried desperately to pull his trapped leg free, but it

merely sank a few more inches — any second now,

Filch was going to spot the map or walk right into him

—

“Filch? What’s going on?”

Filch stopped a few steps below Harry and turned. At

the foot of the stairs stood the only person who could

make Harry’s situation worse: Snape. He was wearing

a long gray nightshirt and he looked livid.

“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently.

“He threw this egg down the stairs.”

Snape climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped

beside Filch. Harry gritted his teeth, convinced his

loudly thumping heart would give him away at any

second. …

“Peeves?” said Snape softly, staring at the egg in

Filch’s hands. “But Peeves couldn’t get into my office.

…”

“This egg was in your office, Professor?”

“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “I heard banging and

wailing —”

“Yes, Professor, that was the egg —”

“— I was coming to investigate —”

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“— Peeves threw it, Professor —”

“— and when I passed my office, I saw that the

torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar!

Somebody has been searching it!”

“But Peeves couldn’t —”

“I know he couldn’t, Filch!” Snape snapped again. “I

seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could

break!” Snape looked up the stairs, straight through

Harry, and then down into the corridor below. “I want

you to come and help me search for the intruder,

Filch.”

“I — yes, Professor — but —”

Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, right through

Harry, who could see that he was very reluctant to

forgo the chance of cornering Peeves. Go, Harry

pleaded with him silently, go with Snape … go … Mrs.

Norris was peering around Filch’s legs. … Harry had

the distinct impression that she could smell him. …

Why had he filled that bath with so much perfumed

foam?

“The thing is, Professor,” said Filch plaintively, “the

headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves

has been stealing from a student, it might be my

chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and

for all —”

“Filch, I don’t give a damn about that wretched

poltergeist; it’s my office that’s —”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Snape stopped talking very abruptly. He and Filch

both looked down at the foot of the stairs. Harry saw

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Mad-Eye Moody limp into sight through the narrow

gap between their heads. Moody was wearing his old

traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his

staff as usual.

“Pajama party, is it?” he growled up the stairs.

“Professor Snape and I heard noises, Professor,” said

Filch at once. “Peeves the Poltergeist, throwing things

around as usual — and then Professor Snape

discovered that someone had broken into his off —”

“Shut up!” Snape hissed to Filch.

Moody took a step closer to the foot of the stairs.

Harry saw Moody’s magical eye travel over Snape, and

then, unmistakably, onto himself.

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. Moody could see

through Invisibility Cloaks … he alone could see the

full strangeness of the scene: Snape in his nightshirt,

Filch clutching the egg, and he, Harry, trapped in the

stairs behind them. Moody’s lopsided gash of a mouth

opened in surprise. For a few seconds, he and Harry

stared straight into each other’s eyes. Then Moody

closed his mouth and turned his blue eye upon Snape

again.

“Did I hear that correctly, Snape?” he asked slowly.

“Someone broke into your office?”

“It is unimportant,” said Snape coldly.

“On the contrary,” growled Moody, “it is very

important. Who’d want to break into your office?”

“A student, I daresay,” said Snape. Harry could see a

vein flickering horribly on Snape’s greasy temple. “It

has happened before. Potion ingredients have gone

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missing from my private store cupboard … students

attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt. …”

“Reckon they were after potion ingredients, eh?” said

Moody. “Not hiding anything else in your office, are

you?”

Harry saw the edge of Snape’s sallow face turn a

nasty brick color, the vein in his temple pulsing more

rapidly.

“You know I’m hiding nothing, Moody,” he said in a

soft and dangerous voice, “as you’ve searched my

office pretty thoroughly yourself.”

Moody’s face twisted into a smile. “Auror’s privilege,

Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye —”

“Dumbledore happens to trust me,” said Snape

through clenched teeth. “I refuse to believe that he

gave you orders to search my office!”

“ ’Course Dumbledore trusts you,” growled Moody.

“He’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second

chances. But me — I say there are spots that don’t

come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d’you

know what I mean?”

Snape suddenly did something very strange. He

seized his left forearm convulsively with his right

hand, as though something on it had hurt him.

Moody laughed. “Get back to bed, Snape.”

“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!”

Snape hissed, letting go of his arm as though angry

with himself. “I have as much right to prowl this

school after dark as you do!”

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“Prowl away,” said Moody, but his voice was full of menace. “I look forward to meeting you in a dark

corridor some time. … You’ve dropped something, by

the way. …”

With a stab of horror, Harry saw Moody point at the

Marauder’s Map, still lying on the staircase six steps

below him. As Snape and Filch both turned to look at

it, Harry threw caution to the winds; he raised his

arms under the cloak and waved furiously at Moody

to attract his attention, mouthing “It’s mine! Mine!”

Snape had reached out for it, a horrible expression of

dawning comprehension on his face —

“Accio Parchment!”

The map flew up into the air, slipped through Snape’s

outstretched fingers, and soared down the stairs into

Moody’s hand.

“My mistake,” Moody said calmly. “It’s mine —

must’ve dropped it earlier —”

But Snape’s black eyes were darting from the egg in

Filch’s arms to the map in Moody’s hand, and Harry

could tell he was putting two and two together, as

only Snape could. …

“Potter,” he said quietly.

“What’s that?” said Moody calmly, folding up the map

and pocketing it.

“Potter!” Snape snarled, and he actually turned his

head and stared right at the place where Harry was,

as though he could suddenly see him. “That egg is

Potter’s egg. That piece of parchment belongs to

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Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!”

Snape stretched out his hands like a blind man and

began to move up the stairs; Harry could have sworn

his over-large nostrils were dilating, trying to sniff

Harry out — trapped, Harry leaned backward, trying

to avoid Snape’s fingertips, but any moment now —

“There’s nothing there, Snape!” barked Moody, “but

I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly your

mind jumped to Harry Potter!”

“Meaning what?” Snape turned again to look at

Moody, his hands still outstretched, inches from

Harry’s chest.

“Meaning that Dumbledore’s very interested to know

who’s got it in for that boy!” said Moody, limping

nearer still to the foot of the stairs. “And so am I,

Snape … very interested. …” The torchlight flickered

across his mangled face, so that the scars, and the

chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and

darker than ever.

Snape was looking down at Moody, and Harry

couldn’t see the expression on his face. For a

moment, nobody moved or said anything. Then Snape

slowly lowered his hands.

“I merely thought,” said Snape, in a voice of forced

calm, “that if Potter was wandering around after

hours again … it’s an unfortunate habit of his … he

should be stopped. For — for his own safety.”

“Ah, I see,” said Moody softly. “Got Potter’s best

interests at heart, have you?”

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There was a pause. Snape and Moody were still

staring at each other. Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow,

still peering around Filch’s legs, looking for the source

of Harry’s bubble-bath smell.

“I think I will go back to bed,” Snape said curtly.

“Best idea you’ve had all night,” said Moody. “Now,

Filch, if you’ll just give me that egg —”

“No!” said Filch, clutching the egg as though it were

his firstborn son. “Professor Moody, this is evidence of

Peeves’ treachery!”

“It’s the property of the champion he stole it from,”

said Moody. “Hand it over, now.”

Snape swept downstairs and passed Moody without

another word. Filch made a chirruping noise to Mrs.

Norris, who stared blankly at Harry for a few more

seconds before turning and following her master. Still

breathing very fast, Harry heard Snape walking away

down the corridor; Filch handed Moody the egg and

disappeared from view too, muttering to Mrs. Norris.

“Never mind, my sweet … we’ll see Dumbledore in the

morning … tell him what Peeves was up to. …”

A door slammed. Harry was left staring down at

Moody, who placed his staff on the bottommost stair

and started to climb laboriously toward him, a dull

clunk on every other step.

“Close shave, Potter,” he muttered.

“Yeah … I — er … thanks,” said Harry weakly.

“What is this thing?” said Moody, drawing the

Marauders Map out of his pocket and unfolding it.

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“Map of Hogwarts,” said Harry, hoping Moody was

going to pull him out of the staircase soon; his leg

was really hurting him.

“Merlin’s beard,” Moody whispered, staring at the

map, his magical eye going haywire. “This … this is

some map, Potter!”

“Yeah, it’s … quite useful,” Harry said. His eyes were

starting to water from the pain. “Er — Professor

Moody, d’you think you could help me — ?”

“What? Oh! Yes … yes, of course …”

Moody took hold of Harry’s arms and pulled; Harry’s

leg came free of the trick step, and he climbed onto

the one above it. Moody was still gazing at the map.

“Potter …” he said slowly, “you didn’t happen, by any

chance, to see who broke into Snape’s office, did you?

On this map, I mean?”

“Er … yeah, I did …” Harry admitted. “It was Mr.

Crouch.”

Moody’s magical eye whizzed over the entire surface of

the map. He looked suddenly alarmed.

“Crouch?” he said. “You’re — you’re sure, Potter?”

“Positive,” said Harry.

“Well, he’s not here anymore,” said Moody, his eye

still whizzing over the map. “Crouch … that’s very —

very interesting. …”

He said nothing for almost a minute, still staring at

the map. Harry could tell that this news meant

something to Moody and very much wanted to know

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what it was. He wondered whether he dared ask.

Moody scared him slightly … yet Moody had just

helped him avoid an awful lot of trouble. …

“Er … Professor Moody … why d’you reckon Mr.

Crouch wanted to look around Snape’s office?”

Moody’s magical eye left the map and fixed, quivering,

upon Harry. It was a penetrating glare, and Harry had

the impression that Moody was sizing him up,

wondering whether to answer or not, or how much to

tell him.

“Put it this way, Potter,” Moody muttered finally, “they

say old Mad-Eye’s obsessed with catching Dark

wizards … but I’m nothing — nothing — compared to

Barty Crouch.”

He continued to stare at the map. Harry was burning

to know more.

“Professor Moody?” he said again. “D’you think …

could this have anything to do with … maybe Mr.

Crouch thinks there’s something going on. …”

“Like what?” said Moody sharply.

Harry wondered how much he dare say. He didn’t

want Moody to guess that he had a source of

information outside Hogwarts; that might lead to

tricky questions about Sirius.

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, “odd stuff’s been

happening lately, hasn’t it? It’s been in the Daily

Prophet … the Dark Mark at the World Cup, and the

Death Eaters and everything. …”

Both of Moody’s mismatched eyes widened.

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“You’re a sharp boy, Potter,” he said. His magical eye roved back to the Marauder’s Map. “Crouch could be

thinking along those lines,” he said slowly. “Very

possible … there have been some funny rumors flying

around lately — helped along by Rita Skeeter, of

course. It’s making a lot of people nervous, I reckon.”

A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. “Oh if

there’s one thing I hate,” he muttered, more to himself

than to Harry, and his magical eye was fixed on the

left-hand corner of the map, “it’s a Death Eater who

walked free. …”

Harry stared at him. Could Moody possibly mean

what Harry thought he meant?

“And now I want to ask you a question, Potter,” said

Moody in a more businesslike tone.

Harry’s heart sank; he had thought this was coming.

Moody was going to ask where he had got this map,

which was a very dubious magical object — and the

story of how it had fallen into his hands incriminated

not only him, but his own father, Fred and George

Weasley, and Professor Lupin, their last Defense

Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody waved the map

in front of Harry, who braced himself —

“Can I borrow this?”

“Oh!” said Harry.

He was very fond of his map, but on the other hand,

he was extremely relieved that Moody wasn’t asking

where he’d got it, and there was no doubt that he

owed Moody a favor.

“Yeah, okay.”

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“Good boy,” growled Moody. “I can make good use of this … this might be exactly what I’ve been looking

for. … Right, bed, Potter, come on, now. …”

They climbed to the top of the stairs together, Moody

still examining the map as though it was a treasure

the like of which he had never seen before. They

walked in silence to the door of Moody’s office, where

he stopped and looked up at Harry.

“You ever thought of a career as an Auror, Potter?”

“No,” said Harry, taken aback.

“You want to consider it,” said Moody, nodding and

looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed … and

incidentally … I’m guessing you weren’t just taking

that egg for a walk tonight?”

“Er — no,” said Harry, grinning. “I’ve been working

out the clue.”

Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire

again.

“Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas,

Potter. … See you in the morning. …”

He went back into his office, staring down at the

Marauder’s Map again, and closed the door behind

him.

Harry walked slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, lost in

thought about Snape, and Crouch, and what it all

meant. … Why was Crouch pretending to be ill, if he

could manage to get to Hogwarts when he wanted to?

What did he think Snape was concealing in his office?

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And Moody thought he, Harry, ought to be an Auror!

Interesting idea … but somehow, Harry thought, as

he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later,

the egg and the cloak now safely back in his trunk, he

thought he’d like to check how scarred the rest of

them were before he chose it as a career.

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THE SECOND TASK

“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!”

said Hermione indignantly.

“Keep your voice down!” said Harry crossly. “I just

need to — sort of fine-tune it, all right?”

He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting at the very back

of the Charms class with a table to themselves. They

were supposed to be practicing the opposite of the

Summoning Charm today — the Banishing Charm.

Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when

objects kept flying across the room, Professor Flitwick

had given each student a stack of cushions on which

to practice, the theory being that these wouldn’t hurt

anyone if they went off target. It was a good theory,

but it wasn’t working very well. Neville’s aim was so

poor that he kept accidentally sending much heavier

things flying across the room — Professor Flitwick, for

instance.

“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry

hissed as Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly

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past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. “I’m trying to tell you about Snape and Moody. …”

This class was an ideal cover for a private

conversation, as everyone was having far too much

fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been

recounting his adventures of the previous night in

whispered installments for the last half hour.

“Snape said Moody’s searched his office as well?” Ron

whispered, his eyes alight with interest as he

Banished a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it

soared into the air and knocked Parvati’s hat off).

“What … d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on

Snape as well as Karkaroff?”

“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him

to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” said Harry, waving

his wand without paying much attention, so that his

cushion did an odd sort of belly flop off the desk.

“Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here

because he’s giving him a second chance or

something. …”

“What?” said Ron, his eyes widening, his next cushion

spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the

chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick’s desk.

“Harry … maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name

in the Goblet of Fire!”

“Oh Ron,” said Hermione, shaking her head

sceptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill

Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s

life, remember?”

She Banished a cushion and it flew across the room

and landed in the box they were all supposed to be

aiming at. Harry looked at Hermione, thinking … it

was true that Snape had saved his life once, but the

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odd thing was, Snape definitely loathed him, just as he’d loathed Harry’s father when they had been at

school together. Snape loved taking points from

Harry, and had certainly never missed an opportunity

to give him punishments, or even to suggest that he

should be suspended from the school.

“I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione went on.

“Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust

Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of

people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why

shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a

bit —”

“— evil,” said Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione,

why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his

office, then?”

“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?” said

Hermione, ignoring Ron. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it, that

he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can

get up here in the middle of the night when he wants

to?”

“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf,

Winky,” said Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the

window.

“You just want to think Snape’s up to something,”

said Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly

into the box.

“I just want to know what Snape did with his first

chance, if he’s on his second one,” said Harry grimly,

and his cushion, to his very great surprise, flew

straight across the room and landed neatly on top of

Hermione’s.

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Obedient to Sirius’s wish of hearing about anything odd at Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown

owl that night, explaining all about Mr. Crouch

breaking into Snape’s office, and Moody and Snape’s

conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in

earnest to the most urgent problem facing him: how

to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty-

fourth of February.

Ron quite liked the idea of using the Summoning

Charm again — Harry had explained about Aqua-

Lungs, and Ron couldn’t see why Harry shouldn’t

Summon one from the nearest Muggle town.

Hermione squashed this plan by pointing out that, in

the unlikely event that Harry managed to learn how

to operate an Aqua-Lung within the set limit of an

hour, he was sure to be disqualified for breaking the

International Code of Wizarding Secrecy — it was too

much to hope that no Muggles would spot an Aqua-

Lung zooming across the countryside to Hogwarts.

“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to

Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,”

Hermione said. “If only we’d done human

Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start

that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you

don’t know what you’re doing. …”

“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope

sticking out of my head,” said Harry. “I s’pose I could

always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do

it for me. …”

“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to

be turned into, though,” said Hermione seriously.

“No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.”

So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had

enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried

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himself once more among the dusty volumes, looking for any spell that might enable a human to survive

without oxygen. However, though he, Ron, and

Hermione searched through their lunchtimes,

evenings, and whole weekends — though Harry asked

Professor McGonagall for a note of permission to use

the Restricted Section, and even asked the irritable,

vulture-like librarian, Madam Pince, for help — they

found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to

spend an hour underwater and live to tell the tale.

Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to disturb

Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to

concentrate in class again. The lake, which Harry had

always taken for granted as just another feature of

the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a

classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly

water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to

seem as distant as the moon.

Just as it had before he faced the Horntail, time was

slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the

clocks to go extra-fast. There was a week to go before

February the twenty-fourth (there was still time) …

there were five days to go (he was bound to find

something soon) … three days to go ( please let me find

something … please) …

With two days left, Harry started to go off food again.

The only good thing about breakfast on Monday was

the return of the brown owl he had sent to Sirius. He

pulled off the parchment, unrolled it, and saw the

shortest letter Sirius had ever written to him.

Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by return owl.

Harry turned the parchment over and looked at the

back, hoping to see something else, but it was blank.

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“Weekend after next,” whispered Hermione, who had

read the note over Harry’s shoulder. “Here — take my

quill and send this owl back straight away.”

Harry scribbled the dates down on the back of

Sirius’s letter, tied it onto the brown owl’s leg, and

watched it take flight again. What had he expected?

Advice on how to survive underwater? He had been so

intent on telling Sirius all about Snape and Moody he

had completely forgotten to mention the egg’s clue.

“What’s he want to know about the next Hogsmeade

weekend for?” said Ron.

“Dunno,” said Harry dully. The momentary happiness

that had flared inside him at the sight of the owl had

died. “Come on … Care of Magical Creatures.”

Whether Hagrid was trying to make up for the Blast-

Ended Skrewts, or because there were now only two

skrewts left, or because he was trying to prove he

could do anything that Professor Grubbly-Plank

could, Harry didn’t know, but Hagrid had been

continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he’d

returned to work. It turned out that Hagrid knew

quite as much about unicorns as he did about

monsters, though it was clear that he found their lack

of poisonous fangs disappointing.

Today he had managed to capture two unicorn foals.

Unlike full-grown unicorns, they were pure gold.

Parvati and Lavender went into transports of delight

at the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson had

to work hard to conceal how much she liked them.

“Easier ter spot than the adults,” Hagrid told the

class. “They turn silver when they’re abou’ two years

old, an’ they grow horns at aroun’ four. Don’ go pure

white till they’re full grown, ’round about seven.

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They’re a bit more trustin’ when they’re babies … don’

mind boys so much. … C’mon, move in a bit, yeh can

pat ’em if yeh want … give ’em a few o’ these sugar

lumps. …

“You okay, Harry?” Hagrid muttered, moving aside

slightly, while most of the others swarmed around the

baby unicorns.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Jus’ nervous, eh?” said Hagrid.

“Bit,” said Harry.

“Harry,” said Hagrid, clapping a massive hand on his

shoulder, so that Harry’s knees buckled under its

weight, “I’d’ve bin worried before I saw yeh take on

tha’ Horntail, but I know now yeh can do anythin’ yeh

set yer mind ter. I’m not worried at all. Yeh’re goin’ ter

be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven’ yeh?”

Harry nodded, but even as he did so, an insane urge

to confess that he didn’t have any idea how to survive

at the bottom of the lake for an hour came over him.

He looked up at Hagrid — perhaps he had to go into

the lake sometimes, to deal with the creatures in it?

He looked after everything else on the grounds, after

all —

“Yeh’re goin’ ter win,” Hagrid growled, patting Harry’s

shoulder again, so that Harry actually felt himself

sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. “I know

it. I can feel it. Yeh’re goin’ ter win, Harry. ”

Harry just couldn’t bring himself to wipe the happy,

confident smile off Hagrid’s face. Pretending he was

interested in the young unicorns, he forced a smile in

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return, and moved forward to pat them with the

others.

By the evening before the second task, Harry felt as

though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully

aware that even if, by some miracle, he managed to

find a suitable spell, he’d have a real job mastering it

overnight. How could he have let this happen? Why

hadn’t he got to work on the egg’s clue sooner? Why

had he ever let his mind wander in class — what if a

teacher had once mentioned how to breathe

underwater?

He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the

sun set outside, tearing feverishly through page after

page of spells, hidden from one another by the

massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of

them. Harry’s heart gave a huge leap every time he

saw the word “water” on a page, but more often than

not it was merely “Take two pints of water, half a

pound of shredded mandrake leaves, and a newt …”

“I don’t reckon it can be done,” said Ron’s voice flatly

from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing.

Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and

ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere

near powerful enough to drain the lake.”

“There must be something,” Hermione muttered,

moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes were so tired

she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and

Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose

about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a

task that was undoable.”

“They have,” said Ron. “Harry, just go down to the

lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the

merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and

see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.”

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“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione said crossly.

“There just has to be!”

She seemed to be taking the library’s lack of useful

information on the subject as a personal insult; it had

never failed her before.

“I know what I should have done,” said Harry, resting,

facedown, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I

should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.”

An Animagus was a wizard who could transform into

an animal.

“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time

you wanted!” said Ron.

“Or a frog,” yawned Harry. He was exhausted.

“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you

have to register yourself and everything,” said

Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of

Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions.

“Professor McGonagall told us, remember … you’ve

got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic

Office … what animal you become, and your

markings, so you can’t abuse it. …”

“Hermione, I was joking,” said Harry wearily. “I know I

haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by

tomorrow morning. …”

“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut

Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. “Who on earth wants to

make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasley’s voice. “Be a

talking point, wouldn’t it?”

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Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up. Fred and

George had just emerged from behind some

bookshelves.

“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked.

“Looking for you,” said George. “McGonagall wants

you, Ron. And you, Hermione.”

“Why?” said Hermione, looking surprised.

“Dunno … she was looking a bit grim, though,” said

Fred.

“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” said

George.

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, who felt his

stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to tell

Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she’d noticed how

much they were helping him, when he ought to be

working out how to do the task alone?

“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione

told Harry as she got up to go with Ron — both of

them looked very anxious. “Bring as many of these

books as you can, okay?”

“Right,” said Harry uneasily.

By eight o’clock, Madam Pince had extinguished all

the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library.

Staggering under the weight of as many books as he

could carry, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common

room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to

search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for

Wacky Warlocks … nothing in A Guide to Medieval

Sorcery … not one mention of underwater exploits in

An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in

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Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, or Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You’ve

Wised Up.

Crookshanks crawled into Harry’s lap and curled up,

purring deeply. The common room emptied slowly

around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the

next morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid’s,

all of them apparently convinced that he was about to

pull off another stunning performance like the one he

had managed in the first task. Harry couldn’t answer

them, he just nodded, feeling as though there were a

golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to midnight, he

was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had

searched all the remaining books, and Ron and

Hermione had not come back.

It’s over, he told himself. You can’t do it. You’ll just

have to go down to the lake in the morning and tell

the judges. …

He imagined himself explaining that he couldn’t do

the task. He pictured Bagman’s look of round-eyed

surprise, Karkaroff’s satisfied, yellow-toothed smile.

He could almost hear Fleur Delacour saying “I knew it

… ’ e is too young, ’e is only a little boy. ” He saw Malfoy flashing his POTTER STINKS badge at the front of the

crowd, saw Hagrid’s crestfallen, disbelieving face. …

Forgetting that Crookshanks was on his lap, Harry

stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily

as he landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted

look, and stalked away with his bottlebrush tail in the

air, but Harry was already hurrying up the spiral

staircase to his dormitory. … He would grab the

Invisibility Cloak and go back to the library, he’d stay

there all night if he had to. …

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“Lumos, ” Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he opened the library door.

Wand tip alight, he crept along the bookshelves,

pulling down more books — books of hexes and

charms, books on merpeople and water monsters,

books on famous witches and wizards, on magical

inventions, on anything at all that might include one

passing reference to underwater survival. He carried

them over to a table, then set to work, searching them

by the narrow beam of his wand, occasionally

checking his watch. …

One in the morning … two in the morning … the only

way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and

over again, next book … in the next one … the next one

…

The mermaid in the painting in the prefects’

bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like a

cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held

his Firebolt over his head.

“Come and get it!” she giggled maliciously. “Come on,

jump!”

“I can’t,” Harry panted, snatching at the Firebolt, and

struggling not to sink. “Give it to me!”

But she just poked him painfully in the side with the

end of the broomstick, laughing at him.

“That hurts — get off — ouch —”

“Harry Potter must wake up, sir!”

“Stop poking me —”

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“Dobby must poke Harry Potter, sir, he must wake

up!”

Harry opened his eyes. He was still in the library; the

Invisibility Cloak had slipped off his head as he’d

slept, and the side of his face was stuck to the pages

of Where There’s a Wand, There’s a Way. He sat up,

straightening his glasses, blinking in the bright

daylight.

“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaked Dobby. “The

second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter

—”

“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked. “Ten — ten minutes?”

He looked down at his watch. Dobby was right. It was

twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seemed to fall

through Harry’s chest into his stomach.

“Hurry, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, plucking at

Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the

lake with the other champions, sir!”

“It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry said hopelessly. “I’m not

doing the task, I don’t know how —”

“Harry Potter will do the task!” squeaked the elf.

“Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so

Dobby did it for him!”

“What?” said Harry. “But you don’t know what the

second task is —”

“Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the

lake and find his Wheezy —”

“Find my what?”

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“— and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!”

“What’s a Wheezy?”

“Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy — Wheezy who is

giving Dobby his sweater!”

Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he

was now wearing over his shorts.

“What?” Harry gasped. “They’ve got … they’ve got

Ron?”

“The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!” squeaked

Dobby. “ ‘ But past an hour —’ ”

“— ‘ the prospect’s black, ’ ” Harry recited, staring,

horror-struck, at the elf. “ ‘ Too late, it’s gone, it won’t

come back.’ Dobby — what’ve I got to do?”

“You has to eat this, sir!” squeaked the elf, and he put

his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a

ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails.

“Right before you go into the lake, sir — gillyweed!”

“What’s it do?” said Harry, staring at the gillyweed.

“It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!”

“Dobby,” said Harry frantically, “listen — are you sure

about this?”

He couldn’t quite forget that the last time Dobby had

tried to “help” him, he had ended up with no bones in

his right arm.

“Dobby is quite sure, sir!” said the elf earnestly.

“Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all

over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the

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floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and

Professor Moody in the staffroom, talking about the

next task. … Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his

Wheezy!”

Harry’s doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he

pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag,

grabbed the gillyweed, and put it into his pocket, then

tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels.

“Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!” Dobby

squealed as they burst into the corridor. “Dobby will

be missed — good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!”

“See you later, Dobby!” Harry shouted, and he

sprinted along the corridor and down the stairs, three

at a time.

The entrance hall contained a few last-minute

stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast

and heading through the double oak doors to watch

the second task. They stared as Harry flashed past,

sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt

down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly

grounds.

As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats

that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in

November were now ranged along the opposite bank,

rising in stands that were packed to the bursting

point and reflected in the lake below. The excited

babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water

as Harry ran flat-out around the other side of the lake

toward the judges, who were sitting at another gold-

draped table at the water’s edge. Cedric, Fleur, and

Krum were beside the judges’ table, watching Harry

sprint toward them.

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“I’m … here …” Harry panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering Fleur’s robes.

“Where have you been?” said a bossy, disapproving

voice. “The task’s about to start!”

Harry looked around. Percy Weasley was sitting at the

judges’ table — Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up

again.

“Now, now, Percy!” said Ludo Bagman, who was

looking intensely relieved to see Harry. “Let him catch

his breath!”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and

Madame Maxime didn’t look at all pleased to see him.

… It was obvious from the looks on their faces that

they had thought he wasn’t going to turn up.

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for

breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though

he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no

time to get rid of it; Ludo Bagman was now moving

among the champions, spacing them along the bank

at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of

the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming

trunks and was holding his wand ready.

“All right, Harry?” Bagman whispered as he moved

Harry a few feet farther away from Krum. “Know what

you’re going to do?”

“Yeah,” Harry panted, massaging his ribs.

Bagman gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and

returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at

his throat as he had done at the World Cup, said,

“Sonorus!” and his voice boomed out across the dark

water toward the stands.

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“Well, all our champions are ready for the second

task, which will start on my whistle. They have

precisely an hour to recover what has been taken

from them. On the count of three, then. One … two …

three!”

The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the

stands erupted with cheers and applause; without

looking to see what the other champions were doing,

Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, pulled the

handful of gillyweed out of his pocket, stuffed it into

his mouth, and waded out into the lake.

It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as

though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes

weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the

water was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing

feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. He

was chewing the gillyweed as hard and fast as he

could; it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like

octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in the freezing water he

stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to

happen.

He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he

must look stupid, walking into the lake without

showing any sign of magical power. The part of him

that was still dry was covered in goose pimples; half

immersed in the icy water, a cruel breeze lifting his

hair, Harry started to shiver violently. He avoided

looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming

louder, and there were catcalls and jeering from the

Slytherins. …

Then, quite suddenly, Harry felt as though an

invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and

nose. He tried to draw breath, but it made his head

spin; his lungs were empty, and he suddenly felt a

piercing pain on either side of his neck —

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Harry clapped his hands around his throat and felt two large slits just below his ears, flapping in the cold

air. … He had gills. Without pausing to think, he did

the only thing that made sense — he flung himself

forward into the water.

The first gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of

life. His head had stopped spinning; he took another

great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly through

his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He

stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at

them. They looked green and ghostly under the water,

and they had become webbed. He twisted around and

looked at his bare feet — they had become elongated

and the toes were webbed too: It looked as though he

had sprouted flippers.

The water didn’t feel icy anymore either … on the

contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light. …

Harry struck out once more, marveling at how far and

fast his flipper-like feet propelled him through the

water, and noticing how clearly he could see, and how

he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon

swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see

the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths.

Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a

strange, dark, foggy landscape. He could only see ten

feet around him, so that as he sped through the water

new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the

oncoming darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black

weed, wide plains of mud littered with dull,

glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out

toward the middle of the lake, his eyes wide, staring

through the eerily gray-lit water around him to the

shadows beyond, where the water became opaque.

Small fish flickered past him like silver darts. Once or

twice he thought he saw something larger moving

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ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered it to be nothing but a large, blackened log, or a dense

clump of weed. There was no sign of any of the other

champions, merpeople, Ron — nor, thankfully, the

giant squid.

Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he

could see, two feet deep, like a meadow of very

overgrown grass. Harry was staring unblinkingly

ahead of him, trying to discern shapes through the

gloom … and then, without warning, something

grabbed hold of his ankle.

Harry twisted his body around and saw a grindylow, a

small, horned water demon, poking out of the weed,

its long fingers clutched tightly around Harry’s leg, its

pointed fangs bared — Harry stuck his webbed hand

quickly inside his robes and fumbled for his wand. By

the time he had grasped it, two more grindylows had

risen out of the weed, had seized handfuls of Harry’s

robes, and were attempting to drag him down.

“Relashio!” Harry shouted, except that no sound came

out. … A large bubble issued from his mouth, and his

wand, instead of sending sparks at the grindylows,

pelted them with what seemed to be a jet of boiling

water, for where it struck them, angry red patches

appeared on their green skin. Harry pulled his ankle

out of the grindylows grip and swam, as fast as he

could, occasionally sending more jets of hot water

over his shoulder at random; every now and then he

felt one of the grindylows snatch at his foot again,

and he kicked out, hard; finally, he felt his foot

connect with a horned skull, and looking back, saw

the dazed grindylow floating away, cross-eyed, while

its fellows shook their fists at Harry and sank back

into the weed.

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Harry slowed down a little, slipped his wand back

inside his robes, and looked around, listening again.

He turned full circle in the water, the silence pressing

harder than ever against his eardrums. He knew he

must be even deeper in the lake now, but nothing was

moving but the rippling weed.

“How are you getting on?”

Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He

whipped around and saw Moaning Myrtle floating

hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her

thick, pearly glasses.

“Myrtle!” Harry tried to shout — but once again,

nothing came out of his mouth but a very large

bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually giggled.

“You want to try over there!” she said, pointing. “I

won’t come with you. … I don’t like them much, they

always chase me when I get too close. …”

Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks

and set off once more, careful to swim a bit higher

over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that

might be lurking there.

He swam on for what felt like at least twenty minutes.

He was passing over vast expanses of black mud now,

which swirled murkily as he disturbed the water.

Then, at long last, he heard a snatch of haunting

mersong.

“An hour long you’ll have to look,

And to recover what we took …”

Harry swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge

out of the muddy water ahead. It had paintings of

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merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and

chasing what looked like the giant squid. Harry swam

on past the rock, following the mersong.

“… your time’s half gone, so tarry not

Lest what you seek stays here to rot. …”

A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained with algae

loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here

and there at the dark windows, Harry saw faces …

faces that bore no resemblance at all to the painting

of the mermaid in the prefects’ bathroom. …

The merpeople had grayish skin and long, wild, dark

green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as were their

broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles

around their necks. They leered at Harry as he swam

past; one or two of them emerged from their caves to

watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails

beating the water, spears clutched in their hands.

Harry sped on, staring around, and soon the

dwellings became more numerous; there were

gardens of weed around some of them, and he even

saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door.

Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching

him eagerly, pointing at his webbed hands and gills,

talking behind their hands to one another. Harry sped

around a corner and a very strange sight met his

eyes.

A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of

the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version

of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing

in the middle, calling the champions toward them,

and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a

gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people

were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson.

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Ron was tied between Hermione and Cho Chang.

There was also a girl who looked no older than eight,

whose clouds of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that

she was Fleur Delacour’s sister. All four of them

appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were

lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of

bubbles kept issuing from their mouths.

Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the

merpeople to lower their spears and charge at him,

but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying the

hostages to the statue were thick, slimy, and very

strong. For a fleeting second he thought of the knife

Sirius had bought him for Christmas — locked in his

trunk in the castle a quarter of a mile away, no use to

him whatsoever.

He looked around. Many of the merpeople

surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam

swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long

green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to

mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman

laughed and shook his head.

“We do not help,” he said in a harsh, croaky voice.

“Come ON!” Harry said fiercely (but only bubbles

issued from his mouth), and he tried to pull the spear

away from the merman, but the merman yanked it

back, still shaking his head and laughing.

Harry swirled around, staring about. Something

sharp … anything …

There were rocks littering the lake bottom. He dived

and snatched up a particularly jagged one and

returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes

binding Ron, and after several minutes’ hard work,

they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few

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inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the ebb of the water.

Harry looked around. There was no sign of any of the

other champions. What were they playing at? Why

didn’t they hurry up? He turned back to Hermione,

raised the jagged rock, and began to hack at her

bindings too —

At once, several pairs of strong gray hands seized

him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away

from Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads,

and laughing.

“You take your own hostage,” one of them said to

him. “Leave the others …”

“No way!” said Harry furiously — but only two large

bubbles came out.

“Your task is to retrieve your own friend … leave the

others …”

“She’s my friend too!” Harry yelled, gesturing toward

Hermione, an enormous silver bubble emerging

soundlessly from his lips. “And I don’t want them to

die either!”

Cho’s head was on Hermione’s shoulder; the small

silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry

struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed

harder than ever, holding him back. Harry looked

wildly around. Where were the other champions?

Would he have time to take Ron to the surface and

come back down for Hermione and the others? Would

he be able to find them again? He looked down at his

watch to see how much time was left — it had

stopped working.

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But then the merpeople around him pointed excitedly over his head. Harry looked up and saw Cedric

swimming toward them. There was an enormous

bubble around his head, which made his features

look oddly wide and stretched.

“Got lost!” he mouthed, looking panic-stricken. “Fleur

and Krum’re coming now!”

Feeling enormously relieved, Harry watched Cedric

pull a knife out of his pocket and cut Cho free. He

pulled her upward and out of sight.

Harry looked around, waiting. Where were Fleur and

Krum? Time was getting short, and according to the

song, the hostages would be lost after an hour. …

The merpeople started screeching animatedly. Those

holding Harry loosened their grip, staring behind

them. Harry turned and saw something monstrous

cutting through the water toward them: a human

body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark. …

It was Krum. He appeared to have transfigured

himself — but badly.

The shark-man swam straight to Hermione and began

snapping and biting at her ropes; the trouble was that

Krum’s new teeth were positioned very awkwardly for

biting anything smaller than a dolphin, and Harry

was quite sure that if Krum wasn’t careful, he was

going to rip Hermione in half. Darting forward, Harry

hit Krum hard on the shoulder and held up the

jagged stone. Krum seized it and began to cut

Hermione free. Within seconds, he had done it; he

grabbed Hermione around the waist, and without a

backward glance, began to rise rapidly with her

toward the surface.

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Now what? Harry thought desperately. If he could be sure that Fleur was coming. … But still no sign.

There was nothing to be done except …

He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped,

but the mermen now closed in around Ron and the

little girl, shaking their heads at him. Harry pulled

out his wand.

“Get out of the way!”

Only bubbles flew out of his mouth, but he had the

distinct impression that the mermen had understood

him, because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their

yellowish eyes were fixed upon Harry’s wand, and

they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them

than there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the

looks on their faces, that they knew no more magic

than the giant squid did.

“You’ve got until three!” Harry shouted; a great

stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up

three fingers to make sure they got the message. “One

…” (he put down a finger) “two …” (he put down a

second one) —

They scattered. Harry darted forward and began to

hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue,

and at last she was free. He seized the little girl

around the waist, grabbed the neck of Ron’s robes,

and kicked off from the bottom.

It was very slow work. He could no longer use his

webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked

his flippers furiously, but Ron and Fleur’s sister were

like potato-filled sacks dragging him back down. …

He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must

still be very deep, the water above him was so dark.

…

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Merpeople were rising with him. He could see them

swirling around him with ease, watching him struggle

through the water. … Would they pull him back down

to the depths when the time was up? Did they

perhaps eat humans? Harry’s legs were seizing up

with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were

aching horribly with the effort of dragging Ron and

the girl. …

He was drawing breath with extreme difficulty. He

could feel pain on the sides of his neck again … he

was becoming very aware of how wet the water was in

his mouth … yet the darkness was definitely thinning

now … he could see daylight above him. …

He kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that

they were nothing more than feet … water was

flooding through his mouth into his lungs … he was

starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were

only ten feet above him … he had to get there … he

had to …

Harry kicked his legs so hard and fast it felt as

though his muscles were screaming in protest; his

very brain felt waterlogged, he couldn’t breathe, he

needed oxygen, he had to keep going, he could not

stop —

And then he felt his head break the surface of the

lake; wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet

face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he

had never breathed properly before, and, panting,

pulled Ron and the little girl up with him. All around

him, wild, green-haired heads were emerging out of

the water with him, but they were smiling at him.

The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of

noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be

on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought

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that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they were wrong … both of them had opened their eyes;

the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron merely

expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright

light, turned to Harry, and said, “Wet, this, isn’t it?”

Then he spotted Fleur’s sister. “What did you bring

her for?”

“Fleur didn’t turn up, I couldn’t leave her,” Harry

panted.

“Harry, you prat,” said Ron, “you didn’t take that song

thing seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn’t have

let any of us drown!”

“The song said —”

“It was only to make sure you got back inside the time

limit!” said Ron. “I hope you didn’t waste time down

there acting the hero!”

Harry felt both stupid and annoyed. It was all very

well for Ron; he’d been asleep, he hadn’t felt how

eerie it was down in the lake, surrounded by spear-

carrying merpeople who’d looked more than capable

of murder.

“C’mon,” Harry said shortly, “help me with her, I don’t

think she can swim very well.”

They pulled Fleur’s sister through the water, back

toward the bank where the judges stood watching,

twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of

honor, singing their horrible screechy songs.

Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over

Hermione, Krum, Cedric, and Cho, all of whom were

wrapped in thick blankets. Dumbledore and Ludo

Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the

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bank as they swam nearer, but Percy, who looked

very white and somehow much younger than usual,

came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile

Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur

Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and

nail to return to the water.

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she ’urt?”

“She’s fine!” Harry tried to tell her, but he was so

exhausted he could hardly talk, let alone shout.

Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to the

bank (“Gerroff, Percy, I’m all right!”); Dumbledore and

Bagman were pulling Harry upright; Fleur had broken

free of Madame Maxime and was hugging her sister.

“It was ze grindylows … zey attacked me … oh

Gabrielle, I thought … I thought …”

“Come here, you,” said Madam Pomfrey. She seized

Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the

others, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he

felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a

measure of very hot potion down his throat. Steam

gushed out of his ears.

“Harry, well done!” Hermione cried. “You did it, you

found out how all by yourself!”

“Well —” said Harry. He would have told her about

Dobby, but he had just noticed Karkaroff watching

him. He was the only judge who had not left the table;

the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and

relief that Harry, Ron, and Fleur’s sister had got back

safely. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, raising his

voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him.

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“You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own-

ninny,” said Krum. Harry had the impression that

Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself;

perhaps to remind her that he had just rescued her

from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle

impatiently and said, “You’re well outside the time

limit, though, Harry. … Did it take you ages to find

us?”

“No … I found you okay. …”

Harry’s feeling of stupidity was growing. Now he was

out of the water, it seemed perfectly clear that

Dumbledore’s safety precautions wouldn’t have

permitted the death of a hostage just because their

champion hadn’t turned up. Why hadn’t he just

grabbed Ron and gone? He would have been first

back. … Cedric and Krum hadn’t wasted time

worrying about anyone else; they hadn’t taken the

mersong seriously. …

Dumbledore was crouching at the water’s edge, deep

in conversation with what seemed to be the chief

merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking

female. He was making the same sort of screechy

noises that the merpeople made when they were

above water; clearly, Dumbledore could speak

Mermish. Finally he straightened up, turned to his

fellow judges, and said, “A conference before we give

the marks, I think.”

The judges went into a huddle. Madam Pomfrey had

gone to rescue Ron from Percy’s clutches; she led him

over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and

some Pepperup Potion, then went to fetch Fleur and

her sister. Fleur had many cuts on her face and arms

and her robes were torn, but she didn’t seem to care,

nor would she allow Madam Pomfrey to clean them.

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“Look after Gabrielle,” she told her, and then she turned to Harry. “You saved ’er,” she said

breathlessly. “Even though she was not your ’ostage.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, who was now heartily wishing

he’d left all three girls tied to the statue.

Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice on each cheek

(he felt his face burn and wouldn’t have been

surprised if steam was coming out of his ears again),

then said to Ron, “And you too — you ’elped —”

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking extremely hopeful, “yeah, a

bit —”

Fleur swooped down on him too and kissed him.

Hermione looked simply furious, but just then, Ludo

Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out

beside them, making them all jump, and causing the

crowd in the stands to go very quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision.

Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what

happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have

therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each

of the champions, as follows. …

“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent

use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by

grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to

retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five

points.”

Applause from the stands.

“I deserved zero,” said Fleur throatily, shaking her

magnificent head.

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“Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head

Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though

he returned one minute outside the time limit of an

hour.” Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the

crowd; Harry saw Cho give Cedric a glowing look. “We

therefore award him forty-seven points.”

Harry’s heart sank. If Cedric had been outside the

time limit, he most certainly had been.

“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of

Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and

was second to return with his hostage. We award him

forty points.”

Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very

superior.

“Harry Potter used gillyweed to great effect,” Bagman

continued. “He returned last, and well outside the

time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess

informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the

hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to

his determination to return all hostages to safety, not

merely his own.”

Ron and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated,

half-commiserating looks.

“Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gave

Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows

moral fiber and merits full marks. However … Mr.

Potter’s score is forty-five points.”

Harry’s stomach leapt — he was now tying for first

place with Cedric. Ron and Hermione, caught by

surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started

applauding hard with the rest of the crowd.

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“There you go, Harry!” Ron shouted over the noise.

“You weren’t being thick after all — you were showing

moral fiber!”

Fleur was clapping very hard too, but Krum didn’t

look happy at all. He attempted to engage Hermione

in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering

Harry to listen.

“The third and final task will take place at dusk on

the twenty-fourth of June,” continued Bagman. “The

champions will be notified of what is coming precisely

one month beforehand. Thank you all for your

support of the champions.”

It was over, Harry thought dazedly, as Madam

Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages

back to the castle to get into dry clothes … it was

over, he had got through … he didn’t have to worry

about anything now until June the twenty-fourth. …

Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry decided as he

walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he

was going to buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day

of the year.

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PADFOOT RETURNS

One of the best things about the aftermath of the

second task was that everybody was very keen to hear

details of what had happened down in the lake, which

meant that Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight

for once. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events

changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave

what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with

Hermione’s story, anyway — Dumbledore had put all

the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor

McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they

would be quite safe, and would awake when they were

back above the water. One week later, however, Ron

was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he

struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed

merpeople who had to beat him into submission

before tying him up.

“But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,” he assured

Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron

now that he was getting so much attention and was

making a point of talking to him every time they

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passed in the corridors. “I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.”

“What were you going to do, snore at them?” said

Hermione waspishly. People had been teasing her so

much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would

most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood.

Ron’s ears went red, and thereafter, he reverted to the

bewitched sleep version of events.

As they entered March the weather became drier, but

cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time

they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in

the post because the owls kept being blown off

course. The brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius

with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turned up

at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers

sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn

off Sirius’s reply than it took flight, clearly afraid it

was going to be sent outside again.

Sirius’s letter was almost as short as the previous

one.

Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past

Dervish and Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday

afternoon. Bring as much food as you can.

“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” said Ron

incredulously.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” said Hermione.

“I can’t believe him,” said Harry tensely, “if he’s

caught …”

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“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” said Ron. “And it’s not like the place is swarming with dementors

anymore.”

Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest

with himself, he really wanted to see Sirius again. He

therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon

— double Potions — feeling considerably more

cheerful than he usually did when descending the

steps to the dungeons.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle

outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s

gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at

something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily.

Pansy’s pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle’s

broad back as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached.

“There they are, there they are!” she giggled, and the

knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy

had a magazine in her hands — Witch Weekly. The

moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired

witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large

sponge cake with her wand.

“You might find something to interest you in there,

Granger!” Pansy said loudly, and she threw the

magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking

startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened,

and Snape beckoned them all inside.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron headed for a table at the

back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had

turned his back on them to write up the ingredients

of today’s potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily

rifled through the magazine under the desk. At last,

in the center pages, Hermione found what they were

looking for. Harry and Ron leaned in closer. A color

photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled:

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Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache

A boy like no other, perhaps — yet a boy suffering all

the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter.

Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents,

fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found

solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-

born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he

would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow

in a life already littered with personal loss.

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to

have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone

cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor

Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World

Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with

both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten

with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited

her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays,

and insists that he has “never felt this way about any

other girl.”

However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful

natural charms that have captured these unfortunate

boys’ interest.

“She’s really ugly,” says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty

and vivacious fourth-year student, “but she’d be well

up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I

think that’s how she’s doing it.”

Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and

no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate

these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-

wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his

heart on a worthier candidate.

“I told you!” Ron hissed at Hermione as she stared

down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita

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Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of — of scarlet woman!”

Hermione stopped looking astonished and snorted

with laughter. “Scarlet woman?” she repeated,

shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked

around at Ron.

“It’s what my mum calls them,” Ron muttered, his

ears going red.

“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,”

said Hermione, still giggling, as she threw Witch

Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. “What a pile

of old rubbish.”

She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all

watching her and Harry closely across the room to see

if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave

them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry,

and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they

would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

“There’s something funny, though,” said Hermione

ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over

a bowl of scarab beetles. “How could Rita Skeeter

have known … ?”

“Known what?” said Ron quickly. “You haven’t been

mixing up Love Potions, have you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snapped, starting to

pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just … how did

she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the

summer?”

Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this and

determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes.

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“What?” said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud

clunk.

“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the

lake,” Hermione muttered. “After he’d got rid of his

shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets

and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges

so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing

anything over the summer, would I like to —”

“And what did you say?” said Ron, who had picked up

his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six

inches from his bowl, because he was looking at

Hermione.

“And he did say he’d never felt the same way about

anyone else,” Hermione went on, going so red now

that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from

her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him?

She wasn’t there … or was she? Maybe she has got an

Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the

grounds to watch the second task. …”

“And what did you say?” Ron repeated, pounding his

pestle down so hard that it dented the desk.

“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry

were okay to —”

“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is,

Miss Granger,” said an icy voice right behind them,

and all three of them jumped, “I must ask you not to

discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Snape had glided over to their desk while they were

talking. The whole class was now looking around at

them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER

STINKS across the dungeon at Harry.

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“Ah … reading magazines under the table as well?”

Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly.

“A further ten points from Gryffindor … oh but of

course …” Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on

Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his

press cuttings. …”

The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and

an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To

Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.

“ ‘ Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache … dear, dear,

Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘ A boy like no other,

perhaps …’ ”

Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing

at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a

hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse

when read by Snape. Even Hermione was blushing

scarlet now.

“ ‘… Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next

time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate. ’

How very touching,” sneered Snape, rolling up the

magazine to continued gales of laughter from the

Slytherins. “Well, I think I had better separate the

three of you, so you can keep your minds on your

potions rather than on your tangled love lives.

Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there,

beside Miss Parkinson. Potter — that table in front of

my desk. Move. Now.”

Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into

his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the

dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down

at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron.

Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the

mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to

have Snape’s face.

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“All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head, Potter,” said Snape quietly,

once the rest of the class had settled down again.

Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to

provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he

was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty points

from Gryffindor before the end of the class.

“You might be laboring under the delusion that the

entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape

went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him

(Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even

though he had already reduced them to a very fine

powder), “but I don’t care how many times your

picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are

nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to

be beneath him.”

Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron

and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands

were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his

eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape

was saying to him.

“So I give you fair warning, Potter,” Snape continued

in a softer and more dangerous voice, “pint-sized

celebrity or not — if I catch you breaking into my

office one more time —”

“I haven’t been anywhere near your office!” said Harry

angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness.

“Don’t lie to me,” Snape hissed, his fathomless black

eyes boring into Harry’s. “Boomslang skin. Gillyweed.

Both come from my private stores, and I know who

stole them.”

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Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of

these things from Snape. Hermione had taken the

boomslang skin back in their second year — they had

needed it for the Polyjuice Potion — and while Snape

had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been

able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the

gillyweed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lied

coldly.

“You were out of bed on the night my office was

broken into!” Snape hissed. “I know it, Potter! Now,

Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but

I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime

stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!”

“Right,” said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger

roots. “I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go

in there.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the

inside of his black robes. For one wild moment, Harry

thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and

curse him — then he saw that Snape had drawn out a

small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry

stared at it.

“Do you know what this is, Potter?” Snape said, his

eyes glittering dangerously again.

“No,” said Harry, with complete honesty this time.

“It is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that

three drops would have you spilling your innermost

secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape

viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by

very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch

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your step, you might just find that my hand slips” —

he shook the crystal bottle slightly — “right over your

evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter … then we’ll

find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.”

Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger

roots once more, picked up his knife, and started

slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that

Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past Snape to

slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought

of what might come spilling out of his mouth if Snape

did it … quite apart from landing a whole lot of people

in trouble — Hermione and Dobby for a start — there

were all the other things he was concealing … like the

fact that he was in contact with Sirius … and — his

insides squirmed at the thought — how he felt about

Cho. … He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron

too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out

of Moody’s book and start drinking only from a

private hip flask.

There was a knock on the dungeon door.

“Enter,” said Snape in his usual voice.

The class looked around as the door opened.

Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him

as he walked up toward Snape’s desk. He was

twisting his finger around his goatee and looking

agitated.

“We need to talk,” said Karkaroff abruptly when he

had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that

nobody should hear what he was saying that he was

barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a

rather poor ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his

ginger roots, listening hard.

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“I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff,” Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him.

“I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus.

You’ve been avoiding me.”

“After the lesson,” Snape snapped.

Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to

see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry

sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them.

Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked

angry.

Karkaroff hovered behind Snape’s desk for the rest of

the double period. He seemed intent on preventing

Snape from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to

hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately

knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two

minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse

to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while

the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door.

“What’s so urgent?” he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff.

“This,” said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the

edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left-

hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on

his inner forearm.

“Well?” said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to

move his lips. “Do you see? It’s never been this clear,

never since —”

“Put it away!” snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping

the classroom.

“But you must have noticed —” Karkaroff began in an

agitated voice.

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“We can talk later, Karkaroff!” spat Snape. “Potter!

What are you doing?”

“Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,” said Harry

innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the

sodden rag he was holding.

Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the

dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not

wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry

Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back

into his bag and left at top speed to tell Ron and

Hermione what he had just witnessed.

They left the castle at noon the next day to find a

weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The

weather was milder than it had been all year, and by

the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them

had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their

shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was

in Harry’s bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken

legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice

from the lunch table.

They went into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present

for Dobby, where they had fun selecting the most

lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned

with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that

screamed loudly when they became too smelly. Then,

at half past one, they made their way up the High

Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out toward the

edge of the village.

Harry had never been in this direction before. The

winding lane was leading them out into the wild

countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were

fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were

walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose

shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner

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and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very

large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some

newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. …

“Hello, Sirius,” said Harry when they had reached

him.

The black dog sniffed Harry’s bag eagerly, wagged its

tail once, then turned and began to trot away from

them across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to

meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione climbed over the stile and followed.

Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain,

where the ground was covered with boulders and

rocks. It was easy for him, with his four paws, but

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath.

They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain

itself. For nearly half an hour they climbed a steep,

winding, and stony path, following Sirius’s wagging

tail, sweating in the sun, the shoulder straps of

Harry’s bag cutting into his shoulders.

Then, at last, Sirius slipped out of sight, and when

they reached the place where he had vanished, they

saw a narrow fissure in the rock. They squeezed into

it and found themselves in a cool, dimly lit cave.

Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a

large rock, was Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray

horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak’s fierce orange eye

flashed at the sight of them. All three of them bowed

low to him, and after regarding them imperiously for a

moment, Buckbeak bent his scaly front knees and

allowed Hermione to rush forward and stroke his

feathery neck. Harry, however, was looking at the

black dog, which had just turned into his godfather.

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Sirius was wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he had left Azkaban. His

black hair was longer than it had been when he had

appeared in the fire, and it was untidy and matted

once more. He looked very thin.

“Chicken!” he said hoarsely after removing the old

Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them

down onto the cave floor.

Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the

bundle of chicken legs and bread.

“Thanks,” said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a

drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing

off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off

rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from

Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.”

He grinned up at Harry, but Harry returned the grin

only reluctantly.

“What’re you doing here, Sirius?” he said.

“Fulfilling my duty as godfather,” said Sirius, gnawing

on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. “Don’t

worry about it, I’m pretending to be a lovable stray.”

He was still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in

Harry’s face, said more seriously, “I want to be on the

spot. Your last letter … well, let’s just say things are

getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time

someone throws one out, and by the looks of things,

I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.”

He nodded at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave

floor, and Ron picked them up and unfolded them.

Harry, however, continued to stare at Sirius.

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“What if they catch you? What if you’re seen?”

“You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around

here who know I’m an Animagus,” said Sirius,

shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg.

Ron nudged Harry and passed him the Daily

Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline

Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second,

Ministry Witch Still Missing — Minister of Magic Now

Personally Involved.

Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases

jumped out at him: hasn’t been seen in public since

November … house appears deserted … St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline

comment … Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of

critical illness. …

“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” said Harry

slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get

up here. …”

“My brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant,” Ron

informed Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from

overwork.”

“Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up

close,” said Harry slowly, still reading the story. “The

night my name came out of the goblet. …”

“Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn’t

he?” said Hermione, an edge to her voice. She was

stroking Buckbeak, who was crunching up Sirius’s

chicken bones. “I bet he wishes he hadn’t done it now

— bet he feels the difference now she’s not there to

look after him.”

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“Hermione’s obsessed with house-elfs,” Ron muttered to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius,

however, looked interested.

“Crouch sacked his house-elf?”

“Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Harry, and

he launched into the story of the Dark Mark’s

appearance, and Winky being found with Harry’s

wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch’s fury.

When Harry had finished, Sirius was on his feet again

and had started pacing up and down the cave.

“Let me get this straight,” he said after a while,

brandishing a fresh chicken leg. “You first saw the elf

in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?”

“Right,” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together.

“But Crouch didn’t turn up for the match?”

“No,” said Harry. “I think he said he’d been too busy.”

Sirius paced all around the cave in silence. Then he

said, “Harry, did you check your pockets for your

wand after you’d left the Top Box?”

“Erm …” Harry thought hard. “No,” he said finally. “I

didn’t need to use it before we got in the forest. And

then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in

there were my Omnioculars.” He stared at Sirius. “Are

you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand

in the Top Box?”

“It’s possible,” said Sirius.

“Winky didn’t steal that wand!” Hermione insisted.

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“The elf wasn’t the only one in that box,” said Sirius, his brow furrowed as he continued to pace. “Who else

was sitting behind you?”

“Loads of people,” said Harry. “Some Bulgarian

ministers … Cornelius Fudge … the Malfoys …”

“The Malfoys!” said Ron suddenly, so loudly that his

voice echoed all around the cave, and Buckbeak

tossed his head nervously. “I bet it was Lucius

Malfoy!”

“Anyone else?” said Sirius.

“No one,” said Harry.

“Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman,” Hermione

reminded him.

“Oh yeah …”

“I don’t know anything about Bagman except that he

used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps,” said

Sirius, still pacing. “What’s he like?”

“He’s okay,” said Harry. “He keeps offering to help me

with the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Does he, now?” said Sirius, frowning more deeply. “I

wonder why he’d do that?”

“Says he’s taken a liking to me,” said Harry.

“Hmm,” said Sirius, looking thoughtful.

“We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark

appeared,” Hermione told Sirius. “Remember?” she

said to Harry and Ron.

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“Yeah, but he didn’t stay in the forest, did he?” said Ron. “The moment we told him about the riot, he

went off to the campsite.”

“How d’you know?” Hermione shot back. “How d’you

know where he Disapparated to?”

“Come off it,” said Ron incredulously. “Are you saying

you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?”

“It’s more likely he did it than Winky,” said Hermione

stubbornly.

“Told you,” said Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius,

“told you she’s obsessed with house —”

But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron.

“When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf

had been discovered holding Harry’s wand, what did

Crouch do?”

“Went to look in the bushes,” said Harry, “but there

wasn’t anyone else there.”

“Of course,” Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, “of

course, he’d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf

… and then he sacked her?”

“Yes,” said Hermione in a heated voice, “he sacked

her, just because she hadn’t stayed in her tent and let

herself get trampled —”

“Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!” said

Ron.

Sirius shook his head and said, “She’s got the

measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you

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want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.”

He ran a hand over his unshaven face, evidently

thinking hard.

“All these absences of Barty Crouch’s … he goes to

the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a

seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn’t bother

to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate

the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to

that too. … It’s not like Crouch. If he’s ever taken a

day off work because of illness before this, I’ll eat

Buckbeak.”

“D’you know Crouch, then?” said Harry.

Sirius’s face darkened. He suddenly looked as

menacing as he had the night when Harry first met

him, the night when Harry still believed Sirius to be a

murderer.

“Oh I know Crouch all right,” he said quietly. “He was

the one who gave the order for me to be sent to

Azkaban — without a trial.”

“What?” said Ron and Hermione together.

“You’re kidding!” said Harry.

“No, I’m not,” said Sirius, taking another great bite of

chicken. “Crouch used to be Head of the Department

of Magical Law Enforcement, didn’t you know?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads.

“He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic,” said

Sirius. “He’s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully

magical — and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort

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supporter,” he said, reading the look on Harry’s face.

“No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against

the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were

against the Dark Side … well, you wouldn’t

understand … you’re too young. …”

“That’s what my dad said at the World Cup,” said

Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Try us,

why don’t you?”

A grin flashed across Sirius’s thin face.

“All right, I’ll try you. …” He walked once up the cave,

back again, and then said, “Imagine that Voldemort’s

powerful now. You don’t know who his supporters

are, you don’t know who’s working for him and who

isn’t; you know he can control people so that they do

terrible things without being able to stop themselves.

You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your

friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths,

more disappearances, more torturing … the Ministry

of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do,

they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the

Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too.

Terror everywhere … panic … confusion … that’s how

it used to be.

“Well, times like that bring out the best in some

people and the worst in others. Crouch’s principles

might’ve been good in the beginning — I wouldn’t

know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he

started ordering very harsh measures against

Voldemort’s supporters. The Aurors were given new

powers — powers to kill rather than capture, for

instance. And I wasn’t the only one who was handed

straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought

violence with violence, and authorized the use of the

Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he

became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark

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Side. He had his supporters, mind you — plenty of

people thought he was going about things the right

way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards

clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic.

When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a

matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then

something rather unfortunate happened. …” Sirius

smiled grimly. “Crouch’s own son was caught with a

group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their

way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to

find Voldemort and return him to power.”

“Crouch’s son was caught?” gasped Hermione.

“Yep,” said Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to

Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground

beside the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. “Nasty

little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have

spent a bit more time at home with his family,

shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once

in a while … gotten to know his own son.”

He began to wolf down large pieces of bread.

“Was his son a Death Eater?” said Harry.

“No idea,” said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was

in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is

mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy

was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet

my life were Death Eaters — but he might have been

in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the

house-elf.”

“Did Crouch try and get his son off?” Hermione

whispered.

Sirius let out a laugh that was much more like a

bark.

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“Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the

measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened

to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated

his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw

him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she

associated him with the Dark Mark again — doesn’t

that tell you what he’s like? Crouch’s fatherly

affection stretched just far enough to give his son a

trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than

an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the

boy … then he sent him straight to Azkaban.”

“He gave his own son to the dementors?” asked Harry

quietly.

“That’s right,” said Sirius, and he didn’t look remotely

amused now. “I saw the dementors bringing him in,

watched them through the bars in my cell door. He

can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him

into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his

mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days,

though … they all went quiet in the end … except

when they shrieked in their sleep. …”

For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius’s eyes

became more pronounced than ever, as though

shutters had closed behind them.

“So he’s still in Azkaban?” Harry said.

“No,” said Sirius dully. “No, he’s not in there anymore.

He died about a year after they brought him in.”

“He died?”

“He wasn’t the only one,” said Sirius bitterly. “Most go

mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They

lose the will to live. You could always tell when a

death was coming, because the dementors could

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sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important

Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a

deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty

Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died

herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted

away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his

son’s body. The dementors buried him outside the

fortress; I watched them do it.”

Sirius threw aside the bread he had just lifted to his

mouth and instead picked up the flask of pumpkin

juice and drained it.

“So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he

had it made,” he continued, wiping his mouth with

the back of his hand. “One moment, a hero, poised to

become Minister of Magic … next, his son dead, his

wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I’ve

heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once

the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more

sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a

nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly

astray. The conclusion was that his father never

cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top

job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the

Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

There was a long silence. Harry was thinking of the

way Crouch’s eyes had bulged as he’d looked down at

his disobedient house-elf back in the wood at the

Quidditch World Cup. This, then, must have been

why Crouch had overreacted to Winky being found

beneath the Dark Mark. It had brought back

memories of his son, and the old scandal, and his fall

from grace at the Ministry.

“Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark

wizards,” Harry told Sirius.

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“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s become a bit of a mania with him,” said Sirius, nodding. “If you ask me, he still

thinks he can bring back the old popularity by

catching one more Death Eater.”

“And he sneaked up here to search Snape’s office!”

said Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione.

“Yes, and that doesn’t make sense at all,” said Sirius.

“Yeah, it does!” said Ron excitedly, but Sirius shook

his head.

“Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why

hasn’t he been coming to judge the tournament? It

would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to

Hogwarts and keep an eye on him.”

“So you think Snape could be up to something, then?”

asked Harry, but Hermione broke in.

“Look, I don’t care what you say, Dumbledore trusts

Snape —”

“Oh give it a rest, Hermione,” said Ron impatiently. “I

know Dumbledore’s brilliant and everything, but that

doesn’t mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn’t fool

him —”

“Why did Snape save Harry’s life in the first year,

then? Why didn’t he just let him die?”

“I dunno — maybe he thought Dumbledore would

kick him out —”

“What d’you think, Sirius?” Harry said loudly, and

Ron and Hermione stopped bickering to listen.

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“I think they’ve both got a point,” said Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. “Ever since I

found out Snape was teaching here, I’ve wondered

why Dumbledore hired him. Snape’s always been

fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at

school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was,” Sirius

added, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

“Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school

than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of

a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be

Death Eaters.”

Sirius held up his fingers and began ticking off

names.

“Rosier and Wilkes — they were both killed by Aurors

the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges —

they’re a married couple — they’re in Azkaban. Avery

— from what I’ve heard he wormed his way out of

trouble by saying he’d been acting under the Imperius

Curse — he’s still at large. But as far as I know,

Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater

— not that that means much. Plenty of them were

never caught. And Snape’s certainly clever and

cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble.”

“Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to

keep that quiet,” said Ron.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen Snape’s face when

Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!” said Harry

quickly. “Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says

Snape’s been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really

worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but

I couldn’t see what it was.”

“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said

Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers

distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged

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again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about … but if Karkaroff’s genuinely worried, and he’s going to

Snape for answers …”

Sirius stared at the cave wall, then made a grimace of

frustration.

“There’s still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape,

and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other

people wouldn’t, but I just can’t see him letting Snape

teach at Hogwarts if he’d ever worked for Voldemort.”

“Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into

Snape’s office then?” said Ron stubbornly.

“Well,” said Sirius slowly, “I wouldn’t put it past Mad-

Eye to have searched every single teacher’s office

when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense

Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I’m not sure

he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he’s seen,

it’s not surprising. I’ll say this for Moody, though, he

never killed if he could help it. Always brought people

in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never

descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch,

though … he’s a different matter … is he really ill? If

he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to

Snape’s office? And if he’s not … what’s he up to?

What was he doing at the World Cup that was so

important he didn’t turn up in the Top Box? What’s

he been doing while he should have been judging the

tournament?”

Sirius lapsed into silence, still staring at the cave

wall. Buckbeak was ferreting around on the rocky

floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked.

Finally, Sirius looked up at Ron.

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“You say your brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant?

Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch

lately?”

“I can try,” said Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it

sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy,

though. Percy loves Crouch.”

“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got

any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” said

Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily

Prophet.

“Bagman told me they hadn’t,” said Harry.

“Yes, he’s quoted in the article in there,” said Sirius,

nodding at the paper. “Blustering on about how bad

Bertha’s memory is. Well, maybe she’s changed since

I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn’t forgetful at

all — quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she

had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her

into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her

mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at

the Ministry of Magic … maybe that’s why Bagman

didn’t bother to look for her for so long. …”

Sirius heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed his

shadowed eyes.

“What’s the time?”

Harry checked his watch, then remembered it hadn’t

been working since it had spent over an hour in the

lake.

“It’s half past three,” said Hermione.

“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius said, getting

to his feet. “Now listen …” He looked particularly hard

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at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still

want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go

leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an

ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.”

“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon

and a couple of grindylows,” Harry said, but Sirius

scowled at him.

“I don’t care … I’ll breathe freely again when this

tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And

don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among

yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?”

He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and

went to pat Buckbeak good-bye. “I’ll walk to the edge

of the village with you,” said Sirius, “see if I can

scrounge another paper.”

He transformed into the great black dog before they

left the cave, and they walked back down the

mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn

ground, and back to the stile. Here he allowed each of

them to pat him on the head, before turning and

setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into

Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts.

“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?”

Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle.

“But maybe he doesn’t care … it’d probably just make

him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves

rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break

them for his own son.”

“Percy would never throw any of his family to the

dementors,” said Hermione severely.

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“I don’t know,” said Ron. “If he thought we were

standing in the way of his career … Percy’s really

ambitious, you know. …”

They walked up the stone steps into the entrance

hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted

toward them from the Great Hall.

“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He

must really like you, Harry. … Imagine having to live

off rats.”

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THE MADNESS OF MR. CROUCH

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery

after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy,

asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen

Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it had

been so long since she’d had a job. When they had

watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery

window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give

Dobby his new socks.

The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome,

bowing and curtsying and bustling around making

tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present.

“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaked,

wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes.

“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you

really did,” said Harry.

“No chance of more of those éclairs, is there?” said

Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and

bowing house-elves.

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“You’ve just had breakfast!” said Hermione irritably, but a great silver platter of eclairs was already

zooming toward them, supported by four elves.

“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,”

Harry muttered.

“Good idea,” said Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You

couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he

said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed

delightedly and hurried off to get some more.

“Dobby, where’s Winky?” said Hermione, who was

looking around.

“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” said Dobby

quietly, his ears drooping slightly.

“Oh dear,” said Hermione as she spotted Winky.

Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was

sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had

allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not

immediately distinguishable from the smoke-

blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged

and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of

butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring

into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an

enormous hiccup.

“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,”

Dobby whispered to Harry.

“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry said.

But Dobby shook his head. “ ’Tis strong for a house-

elf, sir,” he said.

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Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the eclairs gave her disapproving looks as they returned

to work.

“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispered

sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks

Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby

says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is

her master now.”

“Hey, Winky,” said Harry, struck by a sudden

inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down,

“you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do

you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the

Triwizard Tournament.”

Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused

on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, “M

— Master is stopped — hic — coming?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the

first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.”

Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry.

“Master — hic — ill?”

Her bottom lip began to tremble.

“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” said Hermione

quickly.

“Master is needing his — hic — Winky!” whimpered

the elf. “Master cannot — hic — manage — hic — all

by himself. …”

“Other people manage to do their own housework,

you know, Winky,” Hermione said severely.

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“Winky — hic — is not only — hic — doing housework for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaked indignantly,

swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer

down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is —

hic — trusting Winky with — hic — the most

important — hic — the most secret —”

“What?” said Harry.

But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more

butterbeer down herself.

“Winky keeps — hic — her master’s secrets,” she said

mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at

Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is — hi c — nosing,

you is.”

“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” said

Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and

Harry Potter is not nosy!”

“He is nosing — hic — into my master’s — hic —

private and secret — hic — Winky is a good house-elf

— hic — Winky keeps her silence — hic — people

trying to — hic — pry and poke — hic —”

Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without

warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring

loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away

across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-

elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One

of them picked up the bottle; the others covered

Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the

ends in neatly, hiding her from view.

“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!”

squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking

very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all

by Winky, sirs and miss!”

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“She’s unhappy!” said Hermione, exasperated. “Why

don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her

up?”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the house-elf,

bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to

be unhappy when there is work to be done and

masters to be served.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Hermione cried. “Listen to me,

all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to

be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and

holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do

everything you’re told — look at Dobby!”

“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby

mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had

vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the

kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as

though she were mad and dangerous.

“We has your extra food!” squeaked an elf at Harry’s

elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and

some fruit into Harry’s arms. “Good-bye!”

The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and

Hermione and began shunting them out of the

kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of

their backs.

“Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!” Dobby called

miserably from the hearth, where he was standing

next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you,

Hermione?” said Ron angrily as the kitchen door

slammed shut behind them. “They won’t want us

visiting them now! We could’ve tried to get more stuff

out of Winky about Crouch!”

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“Oh as if you care about that!” scoffed Hermione. “You only like coming down here for the food!”

It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so

tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over

their homework in the common room that he took

Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his

own.

Pigwidgeon was much too small to carry an entire

ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry enlisted

the help of two school screech owls as well. When

they had set off into the dusk, looking extremely odd

carrying the large package between them, Harry

leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds,

at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest,

and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An

eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from

Hagrid’s chimney; it soared toward the castle, around

the Owlery, and out of sight. Looking down, Harry

saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his cabin.

Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as

though he were making a new vegetable patch. As he

watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the

Beauxbatons carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She

appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation.

Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen

to prolong their talk, because Madame Maxime

returned to the carriage shortly afterward.

Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to

Ron and Hermione snarling at each other, Harry

watched Hagrid digging until the darkness swallowed

him and the owls around Harry began to awake,

swooshing past him into the night.

By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad

moods had burnt out, and to Harry’s relief, Ron’s

dark predictions that the house-elves would send

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substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had insulted them proved false; the bacon,

eggs, and kippers were quite as good as usual.

When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up

eagerly; she seemed to be expecting something.

“Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” said Ron. “We

only sent Hedwig yesterday.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Hermione. “I’ve taken out a

subscription to the Daily Prophet. I’m getting sick of

finding everything out from the Slytherins.”

“Good thinking!” said Harry, also looking up at the

owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck —”

A gray owl was soaring down toward Hermione.

“It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she said, looking

disappointed. “It’s —”

But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in front

of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a

brown owl, and a tawny.

“How many subscriptions did you take out?” said

Harry, seizing Hermione’s goblet before it was

knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were

jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter

first.

“What on earth — ?” Hermione said, taking the letter

from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read.

“Oh really!” she sputtered, going rather red.

“What’s up?” said Ron.

“It’s — oh how ridiculous —”

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She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters

that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.

You are a WickEd giRL. HarRy PotTER desErves

BeTteR. GO back wherE you cAMe from mUGgle.

“They’re all like it!” said Hermione desperately,

opening one letter after another. “ ‘ Harry Potter can do

much better than the likes of you. …’ ‘ You deserve to

be boiled in frog spawn. …’ Ouch!”

She had opened the last envelope, and yellowish-

green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over

her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils.

“Undiluted bubotuber pus!” said Ron, picking up the

envelope gingerly and sniffing it.

“Ow!” said Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she

tried to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but

her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful

sores that it looked as though she were wearing a pair

of thick, knobbly gloves.

“You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” said Harry

as the owls around Hermione took flight. “We’ll tell

Professor Sprout where you’ve gone. …”

“I warned her!” said Ron as Hermione hurried out of

the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not

to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one …” He read

out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “ ‘ I

read in Witch Weekly about how you are playing

Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough

hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next

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post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope. ’

Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.”

Hermione didn’t turn up for Herbology. As Harry and

Ron left the greenhouse for their Care of Magical

Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle

descending the stone steps of the castle. Pansy

Parkinson was whispering and giggling behind them

with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of

Harry, Pansy called, “Potter, have you split up with

your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?”

Harry ignored her; he didn’t want to give her the

satisfaction of knowing how much trouble the Witch

Weekly article had caused.

Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had

finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside

his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his

feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates —

surely not another skrewt hatching? — but when he

got near enough to see inside, he found himself

looking at a number of fluffy black creatures with

long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like

spades, and they were blinking up at the class,

looking politely puzzled at all the attention.

“These’re nifflers,” said Hagrid, when the class had

gathered around. “Yeh find ’em down mines mostly.

They like sparkly stuff. … There yeh go, look.”

One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and

attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her

wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward.

“Useful little treasure detectors,” said Hagrid happily.

“Thought we’d have some fun with ’em today. See over

there?” He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned

earth Harry had watched him digging from the Owlery

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window. “I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’

take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an’ get

ready ter set ’em loose.”

Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing

out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it

into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its

long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically.

It was really quite cuddly.

“Hang on,” said Hagrid, looking down into the crate,

“there’s a spare niffler here … who’s missin’? Where’s

Hermione?”

“She had to go to the hospital wing,” said Ron.

“We’ll explain later,” Harry muttered; Pansy

Parkinson was listening.

It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care

of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of

the patch of earth as though it were water, each

scurrying back to the student who had released it and

spitting gold into their hands. Ron’s was particularly

efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins.

“Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?” he asked

excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil,

splattering his robes.

“Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,” said Hagrid,

grinning. “They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon

they’ve nearly got the lot, now,” he added, pacing

around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued

to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Oh there

y’are, Hermione!”

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Hermione was walking toward them across the lawn.

Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked

miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her

beadily.

“Well, let’s check how yeh’ve done!” said Hagrid.

“Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal

any, Goyle,” he added, his beetle-black eyes

narrowed. “It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few

hours.”

Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It

turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most

successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of

Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang

across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set

off back to the castle, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione

stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in

their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching

them out of her carriage window.

“What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?” said

Hagrid, looking concerned.

Hermione told him about the hate mail she had

received that morning, and the envelope full of

bubotuber pus.

“Aaah, don’ worry,” said Hagrid gently, looking down

at her. “I got some o’ those letters an’ all, after Rita

Skeeter wrote abou’ me mum. ‘ Yeh’re a monster an’

yeh should be put down.’ ‘ Yer mother killed innocent

people an’ if you had any decency you’d jump in a

lake. ’ ”

“No!” said Hermione, looking shocked.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by

his cabin wall. “They’re jus’ nutters, Hermione. Don’

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open ’em if yeh get any more. Chuck ’em straigh’ in the fire.”

“You missed a really good lesson,” Harry told

Hermione as they headed back toward the castle.

“They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?”

Ron, however, was frowning at the chocolate Hagrid

had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about

something.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Wrong flavor?”

“No,” said Ron shortly. “Why didn’t you tell me about

the gold?”

“What gold?” said Harry.

“The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup,”

said Ron. “The leprechaun gold I gave you for my

Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn’t you tell me

it disappeared?”

Harry had to think for a moment before he realized

what Ron was talking about.

“Oh …” he said, the memory coming back to him at

last. “I dunno … I never noticed it had gone. I was

more worried about my wand, wasn’t I?”

They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and

went into the Great Hall for lunch.

“Must be nice,” Ron said abruptly, when they had sat

down and started serving themselves roast beef and

Yorkshire puddings. “To have so much money you

don’t notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing.”

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“Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!” said Harry impatiently. “We all did, remember?”

“I didn’t know leprechaun gold vanishes,” Ron

muttered. “I thought I was paying you back. You

shouldn’t’ve given me that Chudley Cannon hat for

Christmas.”

“Forget it, all right?” said Harry.

Ron speared a roast potato on the end of his fork,

glaring at it. Then he said, “I hate being poor.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Neither of

them really knew what to say.

“It’s rubbish,” said Ron, still glaring down at his

potato. “I don’t blame Fred and George for trying to

make some extra money. Wish I could. Wish I had a

niffler.”

“Well, we know what to get you next Christmas,” said

Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look

gloomy, she said, “Come on, Ron, it could be worse.

At least your fingers aren’t full of pus.” Hermione was

having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork,

her fingers were so stiff and swollen. “I hate that

Skeeter woman!” she burst out savagely. “I’ll get her

back for this if it’s the last thing I do!”

Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the

following week, and although she followed Hagrid’s

advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill-

wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the

Gryffindor table and shrieked insults at her for the

whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read

Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry-

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Krum-Hermione triangle now. Harry was getting sick of telling people that Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend.

“It’ll die down, though,” he told Hermione, “if we just

ignore it. … People got bored with that stuff she wrote

about me last time —”

“I want to know how she’s listening into private

conversations when she’s supposed to be banned

from the grounds!” said Hermione angrily.

Hermione hung back in their next Defense Against

the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody

something. The rest of the class was very eager to

leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of

hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small

injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears,

he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he

walked away from the class.

“Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!”

Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with

Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling

Harry’s hand away from one of his wiggling ears so

that he could hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her

anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or

anywhere near the lake!”

“Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop

this?” said Ron.

“No!” said Hermione stubbornly. “I want to know how

she heard me talking to Viktor! And how she found

out about Hagrid’s mum!”

“Maybe she had you bugged,” said Harry.

“Bugged?” said Ron blankly. “What … put fleas on her

or something?”

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Harry started explaining about hidden microphones

and recording equipment. Ron was fascinated, but

Hermione interrupted them.

“Aren’t you two ever going to read Hogwarts, A

History?”

“What’s the point?” said Ron. “You know it by heart,

we can just ask you.”

“All those substitutes for magic Muggles use —

electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things

— they all go haywire around Hogwarts, there’s too

much magic in the air. No, Rita’s using magic to

eavesdrop, she must be. … If I could just find out

what it is … ooh, if it’s illegal, I’ll have her …”

“Haven’t we got enough to worry about?” Ron asked

her. “Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita

Skeeter as well?”

“I’m not asking you to help!” Hermione snapped. “I’ll

do it on my own!”

She marched back up the marble staircase without a

backward glance. Harry was quite sure she was going

to the library.

“What’s the betting she comes back with a box of I

Hate Rita Skeeter badges?” said Ron.

Hermione, however, did not ask Harry and Ron to

help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for

which they were both grateful, because their workload

was mounting ever higher in the days before the

Easter holidays. Harry frankly marveled at the fact

that Hermione could research magical methods of

eavesdropping as well as everything else they had to

do. He was working flat-out just to get through all

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their homework, though he made a point of sending

regular food packages up to the cave in the mountain

for Sirius; after last summer, Harry had not forgotten

what it felt like to be continually hungry. He enclosed

notes to Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the

ordinary had happened, and that they were still

waiting for an answer from Percy.

Hedwig didn’t return until the end of the Easter

holidays. Percy’s letter was enclosed in a package of

Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harry’s

and Ron’s were the size of dragon eggs and full of

homemade toffee. Hermione’s, however, was smaller

than a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it.

“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any

chance, does she, Ron?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” said Ron, whose mouth was full of toffee.

“Gets it for the recipes.”

Hermione looked sadly at her tiny egg.

“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry

asked her hastily.

Percy’s letter was short and irritated.

As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr.

Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is sending

in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually

seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own

superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at

the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous

rumors. Please don’t bother me again unless it’s

something important. Happy Easter.

The start of the summer term would normally have

meant that Harry was training hard for the last

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Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it was the third and final task in the Triwizard

Tournament for which he needed to prepare, but he

still didn’t know what he would have to do. Finally, in

the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him

back in Transfiguration.

“You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at

nine o’clock, Potter,” she told him. “Mr. Bagman will

be there to tell the champions about the third task.”

So at half past eight that night, Harry left Ron and

Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs.

As he crossed the entrance hall, Cedric came up from

the Hufflepuff common room.

“What d’you reckon it’s going to be?” he asked Harry

as they went together down the stone steps, out into

the cloudy night. “Fleur keeps going on about

underground tunnels; she reckons we’ve got to find

treasure.”

“That wouldn’t be too bad,” said Harry, thinking that

he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the job

for him.

They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch

stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and

walked out onto the field.

“What’ve they done to it?” Cedric said indignantly,

stopping dead.

The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It

looked as though somebody had been building long,

low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in

every direction.

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“They’re hedges!” said Harry, bending to examine the nearest one.

“Hello there!” called a cheery voice.

Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field

with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their

way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur

beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude

toward him had changed completely since he had

saved her sister from the lake.

“Well, what d’you think?” said Bagman happily as

Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge.

“Growing nicely, aren’t they? Give them a month and

Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,” he

added, grinning, spotting the less-than-happy

expressions on Harry’s and Cedric’s faces, “you’ll have

your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is

over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we’re

making here?”

No one spoke for a moment. Then —

“Maze,” grunted Krum.

“That’s right!” said Bagman. “A maze. The third task’s

really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be

placed in the center of the maze. The first champion

to touch it will receive full marks.”

“We seemply ’ave to get through the maze?” said

Fleur.

“There will be obstacles,” said Bagman happily,

bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hagrid is providing

a number of creatures … then there will be spells that

must be broken … all that sort of thing, you know.

Now, the champions who are leading on points will

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get a head start into the maze.” Bagman grinned at Harry and Cedric. “Then Mr. Krum will enter … then

Miss Delacour. But you’ll all be in with a fighting

chance, depending how well you get past the

obstacles. Should be fun, eh?”

Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures

that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this,

thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However,

he nodded politely like the other champions.

“Very well … if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go

back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly. …”

Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to

wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had

the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to

help him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on

the shoulder.

“Could I haff a vord?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, slightly surprised.

“Vill you valk vith me?”

“Okay,” said Harry curiously.

Bagman looked slightly perturbed.

“I’ll wait for you, Harry, shall I?”

“No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing

a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own,

thanks.”

Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum

did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead,

he walked toward the forest.

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“What’re we going this way for?” said Harry as they passed Hagrid’s cabin and the illuminated

Beauxbatons carriage.

“Don’t vant to be overheard,” said Krum shortly.

When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of

ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses’

paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of the trees and

turned to face Harry.

“I vant to know,” he said, glowering, “vot there is

between you and Hermy-own-ninny.”

Harry, who from Krum’s secretive manner had

expected something much more serious than this,

stared up at Krum in amazement.

“Nothing,” he said. But Krum glowered at him, and

Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was,

elaborated. “We’re friends. She’s not my girlfriend and

she never has been. It’s just that Skeeter woman

making things up.”

“Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” said

Krum, looking suspiciously at Harry.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “because we’re friends. ”

He couldn’t quite believe he was having this

conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous

International Quidditch player. It was as though the

eighteen-year-old Krum thought he, Harry, was an

equal — a real rival —

“You haff never … you haff not …”

“No,” said Harry very firmly.

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Krum looked slightly happier. He stared at Harry for a few seconds, then said, “You fly very vell. I vos

votching at the first task.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning broadly and suddenly

feeling much taller himself. “I saw you at the

Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really

—”

But something moved behind Krum in the trees, and

Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing

that lurked in the forest, instinctively grabbed Krum’s

arm and pulled him around.

“Vot is it?”

Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he’d

seen movement. He slipped his hand inside his robes,

reaching for his wand.

Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak.

For a moment, Harry didn’t recognize him … then he

realized it was Mr. Crouch.

He looked as though he had been traveling for days.

The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his

face scratched; he was unshaven and gray with

exhaustion. His neat hair and mustache were both in

need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance,

however, was nothing to the way he was behaving.

Muttering and gesticulating, Mr. Crouch appeared to

be talking to someone that he alone could see. He

reminded Harry vividly of an old tramp he had seen

once when out shopping with the Dursleys. That man

too had been conversing wildly with thin air; Aunt

Petunia had seized Dudley’s hand and pulled him

across the road to avoid him; Uncle Vernon had then

treated the family to a long rant about what he would

like to do with beggars and vagrants.

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“Vosn’t he a judge?” said Krum, staring at Mr.

Crouch. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?”

Harry nodded, hesitated for a moment, then walked

slowly toward Mr. Crouch, who did not look at him,

but continued to talk to a nearby tree.

“… and when you’ve done that, Weatherby, send an

owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of

Durmstrang students who will be attending the

tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will

be twelve. …”

“Mr. Crouch?” said Harry cautiously.

“… and then send another owl to Madame Maxime,

because she might want to up the number of

students she’s bringing, now Karkaroff’s made it a

round dozen … do that, Weatherby, will you? Will

you? Will …”

Mr. Crouch’s eyes were bulging. He stood staring at

the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he

staggered sideways and fell to his knees.

“Mr. Crouch?” Harry said loudly. “Are you all right?”

Crouch’s eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked

around at Krum, who had followed him into the trees,

and was looking down at Crouch in alarm.

“Vot is wrong with him?”

“No idea,” Harry muttered. “Listen, you’d better go

and get someone —”

“Dumbledore!” gasped Mr. Crouch. He reached out

and seized a handful of Harry’s robes, dragging him

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closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry’s

head. “I need … see … Dumbledore. …”

“Okay,” said Harry, “if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can

go up to the —”

“I’ve done … stupid … thing …” Mr. Crouch breathed.

He looked utterly mad. His eyes were rolling and

bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his

chin. Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a

terrible effort. “Must … tell … Dumbledore …”

“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” said Harry loudly and clearly.

“Get up, I’ll take you to Dumbledore!”

Mr. Crouch’s eyes rolled forward onto Harry.

“Who … you?” he whispered.

“I’m a student at the school,” said Harry, looking

around at Krum for some help, but Krum was

hanging back, looking extremely nervous.

“You’re not … his?” whispered Crouch, his mouth

sagging.

“No,” said Harry, without the faintest idea what

Crouch was talking about.

“Dumbledore’s?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

Crouch was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen

Crouch’s grip on his robes, but it was too powerful.

“Warn … Dumbledore …”

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“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,” said Harry.

“Just let go, Mr. Crouch, and I’ll get him. …”

“Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done

that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be

arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight

with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge.”

Crouch was now talking fluently to a tree again, and

seemed completely unaware that Harry was there,

which surprised Harry so much he didn’t notice that

Crouch had released him.

“Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.s,

most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud

indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from

the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have

time to draft a response. …”

“You stay here with him!” Harry said to Krum. “I’ll get

Dumbledore, I’ll be quicker, I know where his office is

—”

“He is mad,” said Krum doubtfully, staring down at

Crouch, who was still gabbling to the tree, apparently

convinced it was Percy.

“Just stay with him,” said Harry, starting to get up,

but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt

change in Mr. Crouch, who seized him hard around

the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground.

“Don’t … leave … me!” he whispered, his eyes bulging

again. “I … escaped … must warn … must tell … see

Dumbledore … my fault … all my fault … Bertha …

dead … all my fault … my son … my fault … tell

Dumbledore … Harry Potter … the Dark Lord …

stronger … Harry Potter …”

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“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!”

said Harry. He looked furiously around at Krum.

“Help me, will you?”

Looking extremely apprehensive, Krum moved

forward and squatted down next to Mr. Crouch.

“Just keep him here,” said Harry, pulling himself free

of Mr. Crouch. “I’ll be back with Dumbledore.”

“Hurry, von’t you?” Krum called after him as Harry

sprinted away from the forest and up through the

dark grounds. They were deserted; Bagman, Cedric,

and Fleur had disappeared. Harry tore up the stone

steps, through the oak front doors, and off up the

marble staircase, toward the second floor.

Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone

gargoyle standing halfway along an empty corridor.

“Sher — sherbet lemon!” he panted at it.

This was the password to the hidden staircase to

Dumbledore’s office — or at least, it had been two

years ago. The password had evidently changed,

however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life

and jump aside, but stood frozen, glaring at Harry

malevolently.

“Move!” Harry shouted at it. “C’mon!”

But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because

he shouted at it; he knew it was no good. He looked

up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps Dumbledore

was in the staffroom? He started running as fast as

he could toward the staircase —

“POTTER!”

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Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape

had just emerged from the hidden staircase behind

the stone gargoyle. The wall was sliding shut behind

him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him.

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

“I need to see Professor Dumbledore!” said Harry,

running back up the corridor and skidding to a

standstill in front of Snape instead. “It’s Mr. Crouch

… he’s just turned up … he’s in the forest … he’s

asking —”

“What is this rubbish?” said Snape, his black eyes

glittering. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Crouch!” Harry shouted. “From the Ministry!

He’s ill or something — he’s in the forest, he wants to

see Dumbledore! Just give me the password up to —”

“The headmaster is busy, Potter,” said Snape, his thin

mouth curling into an unpleasant smile.

“I’ve got to tell Dumbledore!” Harry yelled.

“Didn’t you hear me, Potter?”

Harry could tell Snape was thoroughly enjoying

himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when he

was so panicky.

“Look,” said Harry angrily, “Crouch isn’t right — he’s

— he’s out of his mind — he says he wants to warn —

”

The stone wall behind Snape slid open. Dumbledore

was standing there, wearing long green robes and a

mildly curious expression. “Is there a problem?” he

said, looking between Harry and Snape.

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“Professor!” Harry said, sidestepping Snape before Snape could speak, “Mr. Crouch is here — he’s down

in the forest, he wants to speak to you!”

Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to

his relief, Dumbledore did nothing of the sort.

“Lead the way,” he said promptly, and he swept off

along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape

standing next to the gargoyle and looking twice as

ugly.

“What did Mr. Crouch say, Harry?” said Dumbledore

as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase.

“Said he wants to warn you … said he’s done

something terrible … he mentioned his son … and

Bertha Jorkins … and — and Voldemort … something

about Voldemort getting stronger. …”

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he quickened his

pace as they hurried out into the pitch-darkness.

“He’s not acting normally,” Harry said, hurrying along

beside Dumbledore. “He doesn’t seem to know where

he is. He keeps talking like he thinks Percy Weasley’s

there, and then he changes, and says he needs to see

you. … I left him with Viktor Krum.”

“You did?” said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to

take longer strides still, so that Harry was running to

keep up. “Do you know if anybody else saw Mr.

Crouch?”

“No,” said Harry. “Krum and I were talking, Mr.

Bagman had just finished telling us about the third

task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Mr. Crouch

coming out of the forest —”

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“Where are they?” said Dumbledore as the

Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness.

“Over here,” said Harry, moving in front of

Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He

couldn’t hear Crouch’s voice anymore, but he knew

where he was going; it hadn’t been much past the

Beauxbatons carriage … somewhere around here. …

“Viktor?” Harry shouted.

No one answered.

“They were here,” Harry said to Dumbledore. “They

were definitely somewhere around here. …”

“Lumos, ” Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and

holding it up.

Its narrow beam traveled from black trunk to black

trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell upon

a pair of feet.

Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was

sprawled on the forest floor. He seemed to be

unconscious. There was no sign at all of Mr. Crouch.

Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of

his eyelids.

“Stunned,” he said softly. His half-moon glasses

glittered in the wandlight as he peered around at the

surrounding trees.

“Should I go and get someone?” said Harry. “Madam

Pomfrey?”

“No,” said Dumbledore swiftly. “Stay here.”

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He raised his wand into the air and pointed it in the direction of Hagrid’s cabin. Harry saw something

silvery dart out of it and streak away through the

trees like a ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over

Krum again, pointed his wand at him, and muttered,

“Rennervate. ”

Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw

Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a

hand on his shoulder and made him lie still.

“He attacked me!” Krum muttered, putting a hand up

to his head. “The old madman attacked me! I vos

looking around to see vare Potter had gone and he

attacked from behind!”

“Lie still for a moment,” Dumbledore said.

The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and

Hagrid came panting into sight with Fang at his

heels. He was carrying his crossbow.

“Professor Dumbledore!” he said, his eyes widening.

“Harry — what the — ?”

“Hagrid, I need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff,” said

Dumbledore. “His student has been attacked. When

you’ve done that, kindly alert Professor Moody —”

“No need, Dumbledore,” said a wheezy growl. “I’m

here.”

Moody was limping toward them, leaning on his staff,

his wand lit.

“Damn leg,” he said furiously. “Would’ve been here

quicker … what’s happened? Snape said something

about Crouch —”

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“Crouch?” said Hagrid blankly.

“Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!” said Dumbledore sharply.

“Oh yeah … right y’are, Professor …” said Hagrid, and

he turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang

trotting after him.

“I don’t know where Barty Crouch is,” Dumbledore

told Moody, “but it is essential that we find him.”

“I’m onto it,” growled Moody, and he pulled out his

wand and limped off into the forest.

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until they

heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang

returning. Karkaroff was hurrying along behind them.

He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he looked

pale and agitated.

“What is this?” he cried when he saw Krum on the

ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him.

“What’s going on?”

“I vos attacked!” said Krum, sitting up now and

rubbing his head. “Mr. Crouch or votever his name —

”

“Crouch attacked you? Crouch attacked you? The

Triwizard judge?”

“Igor,” Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn

himself up, clutching his furs around him, looking

livid.

“Treachery!” he bellowed, pointing at Dumbledore. “It

is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have lured

me here under false pretenses, Dumbledore! This is

not an equal competition! First you sneak Potter into

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the tournament, though he is underage! Now one of

your Ministry friends attempts to put my champion

out of action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in

this whole affair, and you, Dumbledore, you, with

your talk of closer international wizarding links, of

rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences —

here’s what I think of you!”

Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore’s feet.

In one swift movement, Hagrid seized the front of

Karkaroff’s furs, lifted him into the air, and slammed

him against a nearby tree.

“Apologize!” Hagrid snarled as Karkaroff gasped for

breath, Hagrid’s massive fist at his throat, his feet

dangling in midair.

“Hagrid, no!” Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing.

Hagrid removed the hand pinning Karkaroff to the

tree, and Karkaroff slid all the way down the trunk

and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and

leaves showered down upon his head.

“Kindly escort Harry back up to the castle, Hagrid,”

said Dumbledore sharply.

Breathing heavily, Hagrid gave Karkaroff a glowering

look.

“Maybe I’d better stay here, Headmaster. …”

“You will take Harry back to school, Hagrid,”

Dumbledore repeated firmly. “Take him right up to

Gryffindor Tower. And Harry — I want you to stay

there. Anything you might want to do — any owls you

might want to send — they can wait until morning, do

you understand me?”

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“Er — yes,” said Harry, staring at him. How had

Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had

been thinking about sending Pigwidgeon straight to

Sirius, to tell him what had happened?

“I’ll leave Fang with yeh, Headmaster,” Hagrid said,

staring menacingly at Karkaroff, who was still

sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and

tree roots. “Stay, Fang. C’mon, Harry.”

They marched in silence past the Beauxbatons

carriage and up toward the castle.

“How dare he,” Hagrid growled as they strode past the

lake. “How dare he accuse Dumbledore. Like

Dumbledore’d do anythin’ like that. Like Dumbledore

wanted you in the tournament in the firs’ place.

Worried! I dunno when I seen Dumbledore more

worried than he’s bin lately. An’ you!” Hagrid

suddenly said angrily to Harry, who looked up at him,

taken aback. “What were yeh doin’, wanderin’ off with

ruddy Krum? He’s from Durmstrang, Harry! Coulda

jinxed yeh right there, couldn’ he? Hasn’ Moody

taught yeh nothin’? ’Magine lettin’ him lure yeh off on

yer own —”

“Krum’s all right!” said Harry as they climbed the

steps into the entrance hall. “He wasn’t trying to jinx

me, he just wanted to talk about Hermione —”

“I’ll be havin’ a few words with her, an’ all,” said

Hagrid grimly, stomping up the stairs. “The less you

lot ’ave ter do with these foreigners, the happier yeh’ll

be. Yeh can’ trust any of ’em.”

“You were getting on all right with Madame Maxime,”

Harry said, annoyed.

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“Don’ you talk ter me abou’ her!” said Hagrid, and he looked quite frightening for a moment. “I’ve got her

number now! Tryin’ ter get back in me good books,

tryin’ ter get me ter tell her what’s comin’ in the third

task. Ha! You can’ trust any of ’em!”

Hagrid was in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad

to say good-bye to him in front of the Fat Lady. He

clambered through the portrait hole into the common

room and hurried straight for the corner where Ron

and Hermione were sitting, to tell them what had

happened.

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THE DREAM

“It comes down to this,” said Hermione, rubbing her

forehead. “Either Mr. Crouch attacked Viktor, or

somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor

wasn’t looking.”

“It must’ve been Crouch,” said Ron at once. “That’s

why he was gone when Harry and Dumbledore got

there. He’d done a runner.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “He

seemed really weak — I don’t reckon he was up to

Disapparating or anything.”

“You can’t Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds,

haven’t I told you enough times?” said Hermione.

“Okay … how’s this for a theory,” said Ron excitedly.

“Krum attacked Crouch — no, wait for it — and then

Stunned himself!”

“And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?” said Hermione

coldly.

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“Oh yeah …”

It was daybreak. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had crept

out of their dormitories very early and hurried up to

the Owlery together to send a note to Sirius. Now they

were standing looking out at the misty grounds. All

three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they

had been talking late into the night about Mr.

Crouch.

“Just go through it again, Harry,” said Hermione.

“What did Mr. Crouch actually say?”

“I’ve told you, he wasn’t making much sense,” said

Harry. “He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about

something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins,

and he seemed to think she was dead. He kept saying

stuff was his fault. … He mentioned his son.”

“Well, that was his fault,” said Hermione testily.

“He was out of his mind,” said Harry. “Half the time

he seemed to think his wife and son were still alive,

and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving

him instructions.”

“And … remind me what he said about You-Know-

Who?” said Ron tentatively.

“I’ve told you,” Harry repeated dully. “He said he’s

getting stronger.”

There was a pause. Then Ron said in a falsely

confident voice, “But he was out of his mind, like you

said, so half of it was probably just raving. …”

“He was sanest when he was trying to talk about

Voldemort,” said Harry, and Ron winced at the sound

of the name. “He was having real trouble stringing

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two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know what he wanted to do.

He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore.”

Harry turned away from the window and stared up

into the rafters. The many perches were half-empty;

every now and then, another owl would swoop in

through one of the windows, returning from its night’s

hunting with a mouse in its beak.

“If Snape hadn’t held me up,” Harry said bitterly, “we

might’ve got there in time. ‘The headmaster is busy,

Potter … what’s this rubbish, Potter?’ Why couldn’t he

have just got out of the way?”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to get there!” said Ron

quickly. “Maybe — hang on — how fast d’you reckon

he could’ve gotten down to the forest? D’you reckon

he could’ve beaten you and Dumbledore there?”

“Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or

something,” said Harry.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Ron muttered.

“We need to see Professor Moody,” said Hermione.

“We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch.”

“If he had the Marauder’s Map on him, it would’ve

been easy,” said Harry.

“Unless Crouch was already outside the grounds,”

said Ron, “because it only shows up to the

boundaries, doesn’t —”

“Shh!” said Hermione suddenly.

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Somebody was climbing the steps up to the Owlery.

Harry could hear two voices arguing, coming closer

and closer.

“— that’s blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of

trouble for that —”

“— we’ve tried being polite; it’s time to play dirty, like

him. He wouldn’t like the Ministry of Magic knowing

what he did —”

“I’m telling you, if you put that in writing, it’s

blackmail!”

“Yeah, and you won’t be complaining if we get a nice

fat payoff, will you?”

The Owlery door banged open. Fred and George came

over the threshold, then froze at the sight of Harry,

Ron, and Hermione.

“What’re you doing here?” Ron and Fred said at the

same time.

“Sending a letter,” said Harry and George in unison.

“What, at this time?” said Hermione and Fred.

Fred grinned.

“Fine — we won’t ask you what you’re doing, if you

don’t ask us,” he said.

He was holding a sealed envelope in his hands. Harry

glanced at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on

purpose, shifted his hand so that the name on it was

covered.

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“Well, don’t let us hold you up,” Fred said, making a mock bow and pointing at the door.

Ron didn’t move. “Who’re you blackmailing?” he said.

The grin vanished from Fred’s face. Harry saw George

half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron.

“Don’t be stupid, I was only joking,” he said easily.

“Didn’t sound like that,” said Ron.

Fred and George looked at each other. Then Fred said

abruptly, “I’ve told you before, Ron, keep your nose

out if you like it the shape it is. Can’t see why you

would, but —”

“It’s my business if you’re blackmailing someone,”

said Ron. “George’s right, you could end up in serious

trouble for that.”

“Told you, I was joking,” said George. He walked over

to Fred, pulled the letter out of his hands, and began

attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl. “You’re

starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother,

you are, Ron. Carry on like this and you’ll be made a

prefect.”

“No, I won’t!” said Ron hotly.

George carried the barn owl over to the window and it

took off. George turned around and grinned at Ron.

“Well, stop telling people what to do then. See you

later.”

He and Fred left the Owlery. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione stared at one another.

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“You don’t think they know something about all this, do you?” Hermione whispered. “About Crouch and

everything?”

“No,” said Harry. “If it was something that serious,

they’d tell someone. They’d tell Dumbledore.”

Ron, however, was looking uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter?” Hermione asked him.

“Well …” said Ron slowly, “I dunno if they would.

They’re … they’re obsessed with making money lately,

I noticed it when I was hanging around with them —

when — you know —”

“We weren’t talking.” Harry finished the sentence for

him. “Yeah, but blackmail …”

“It’s this joke shop idea they’ve got,” said Ron. “I

thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but

they really mean it, they want to start one. They’ve

only got a year left at Hogwarts, they keep going on

about how it’s time to think about their future, and

Dad can’t help them, and they need gold to get

started.”

Hermione was looking uncomfortable now.

“Yes, but … they wouldn’t do anything against the law

to get gold.”

“Wouldn’t they?” said Ron, looking skeptical. “I dunno

… they don’t exactly mind breaking rules, do they?”

“Yes, but this is the law, ” said Hermione, looking

scared. “This isn’t some silly school rule. … They’ll get

a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron … maybe

you’d better tell Percy. …”

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“Are you mad?” said Ron. “Tell Percy? He’d probably do a Crouch and turn them in.” He stared at the

window through which Fred and Georges owl had

departed, then said, “Come on, let’s get some

breakfast.”

“D’you think it’s too early to go and see Professor

Moody?” Hermione said as they went down the spiral

staircase.

“Yes,” said Harry. “He’d probably blast us through the

door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he’ll think

we’re trying to attack him while he’s asleep. Let’s give

it till break.”

History of Magic had rarely gone so slowly. Harry kept

checking Ron’s watch, having finally discarded his

own, but Ron’s was moving so slowly he could have

sworn it had stopped working too. All three of them

were so tired they could happily have put their heads

down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn’t

taking her usual notes, but was sitting with her head

on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes

out of focus.

When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the

corridors toward the Dark Arts classroom and found

Professor Moody leaving it. He looked as tired as they

felt. The eyelid of his normal eye was drooping, giving

his face an even more lopsided appearance than

usual.

“Professor Moody?” Harry called as they made their

way toward him through the crowd.

“Hello, Potter,” growled Moody. His magical eye

followed a couple of passing first years, who sped up,

looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody’s

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head and watched them around the corner before he

spoke again.

“Come in here.”

He stood back to let them into his empty classroom,

limped in after them, and closed the door.

“Did you find him?” Harry asked without preamble.

“Mr. Crouch?”

“No,” said Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat

down, stretched out his wooden leg with a slight

groan, and pulled out his hip flask.

“Did you use the map?” Harry said.

“Of course,” said Moody, taking a swig from his flask.

“Took a leaf out of your book, Potter. Summoned it

from my office into the forest. He wasn’t anywhere on

there.”

“So he did Disapparate?” said Ron.

“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron!” said

Hermione. “There are other ways he could have

disappeared, aren’t there, Professor?”

Moody’s magical eye quivered as it rested on

Hermione. “You’re another one who might think about

a career as an Auror,” he told her. “Mind works the

right way, Granger.”

Hermione flushed pink with pleasure.

“Well, he wasn’t invisible,” said Harry. “The map

shows invisible people. He must’ve left the grounds,

then.”

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“But under his own steam?” said Hermione eagerly,

“or because someone made him?”

“Yeah, someone could’ve — could’ve pulled him onto a

broom and flown off with him, couldn’t they?” said

Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too

wanted to be told he had the makings of an Auror.

“We can’t rule out kidnap,” growled Moody.

“So,” said Ron, “d’you reckon he’s somewhere in

Hogsmeade?”

“Could be anywhere,” said Moody, shaking his head.

“Only thing we know for sure is that he’s not here.”

He yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and

his lopsided mouth revealed a number of missing

teeth. Then he said, “Now, Dumbledore’s told me you

three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there’s

nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry’ll be

looking for him now, Dumbledore’s notified them.

Potter, you just keep your mind on the third task.”

“What?” said Harry. “Oh yeah …”

He hadn’t given the maze a single thought since he’d

left it with Krum the previous night.

“Should be right up your street, this one,” said

Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his

scarred and stubbly chin. “From what Dumbledore’s

said, you’ve managed to get through stuff like this

plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of

obstacles guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone in your first

year, didn’t you?”

“We helped,” Ron said quickly. “Me and Hermione

helped.”

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Moody grinned.

“Well, help him practice for this one, and I’ll be very

surprised if he doesn’t win,” said Moody. “In the

meantime … constant vigilance, Potter. Constant

vigilance.” He took another long draw from his hip

flask, and his magical eye swiveled onto the window.

The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible

through it.

“You two,” counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron

and Hermione, “you stick close to Potter, all right? I’m

keeping an eye on things, but all the same … you can

never have too many eyes out.”

* * *

Sirius sent their owl back the very next morning. It

fluttered down beside Harry at the same moment that

a tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a

copy of the Daily Prophet in its beak. She took the

newspaper, scanned the first few pages, said, “Ha!

She hasn’t got wind of Crouch!” then joined Ron and

Harry in reading what Sirius had to say on the

mysterious events of the night before last.

Harry — what do you think you are playing at,

walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want

you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to

go walking with anyone else at night. There is

somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to

me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing

Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from

them in the dark. You could have been killed.

Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by

accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on

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their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm

yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and

Disarming. A few hexes wouldn’t go amiss either.

There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your

head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your

letter giving me your word you won’t stray out-of-

bounds again.

Sirius

“Who’s he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?”

said Harry in mild indignation as he folded up Sirius’s

letter and put it inside his robes. “After all the stuff he

did at school!”

“He’s worried about you!” said Hermione sharply.

“Just like Moody and Hagrid! So listen to them!”

“No one’s tried to attack me all year,” said Harry. “No

one’s done anything to me at all —”

“Except put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” said

Hermione. “And they must’ve done that for a reason,

Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they’ve been biding

their time. Maybe this is the task they’re going to get

you.”

“Look,” said Harry impatiently, “let’s say Sirius is

right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch.

Well, they would’ve been in the trees near us,

wouldn’t they? But they waited till I was out of the

way until they acted, didn’t they? So it doesn’t look

like I’m their target, does it?”

“They couldn’t have made it look like an accident if

they’d murdered you in the forest!” said Hermione.

“But if you die during a task —”

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“They didn’t care about attacking Krum, did they?”

said Harry. “Why didn’t they just polish me off at the

same time? They could’ve made it look like Krum and

I had a duel or something.”

“Harry, I don’t understand it either,” said Hermione

desperately. “I just know there are a lot of odd things

going on, and I don’t like it. … Moody’s right — Sirius

is right — you’ve got to get in training for the third

task, straight away. And you make sure you write

back to Sirius and promise him you’re not going to go

sneaking off alone again.”

The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting

than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next

few days he spent all of his free time either in the

library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or

else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to

practice. Harry was concentrating on the Stunning

Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble

was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on

Ron’s and Hermione’s part.

“Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggested on

Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the

middle of their Charms classroom, having just been

Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a

row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use

Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m

not complaining or anything” — he got gingerly to his

feet, rubbing his backside — “but I’m aching all over.

…”

“Well, you keep missing the cushions, don’t you!” said

Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of

cushions they had used for the Banishing Spell,

which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. “Just try and fall

backward!”

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“Once you’re Stunned, you can’t aim too well,

Hermione!” said Ron angrily. “Why don’t you take a

turn?”

“Well, I think Harry’s got it now, anyway,” said

Hermione hastily. “And we don’t have to worry about

Disarming, because he’s been able to do that for ages.

… I think we ought to start on some of these hexes

this evening.”

She looked down the list they had made in the

library.

“I like the look of this one,” she said, “this

Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that’s

trying to attack you, Harry. We’ll start with that one.”

The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back

into Flitwick’s cupboard and slipped out of the

classroom.

“See you at dinner!” said Hermione, and she set off for

Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron headed toward

North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling

gold sunlight fell across the corridor from the high

windows. The sky outside was so brightly blue it

looked as though it had been enameled.

“It’s going to be boiling in Trelawney’s room, she never

puts out that fire,” said Ron as they started up the

staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor.

He was quite right. The dimly lit room was

swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire

were heavier than ever. Harry’s head swam as he

made his way over to one of the curtained windows.

While Professor Trelawney was looking the other way,

disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an

inch or so and settled back in his chintz armchair, so

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that a soft breeze played across his face. It was

extremely comfortable.

“My dears,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting down in

her winged armchair in front of the class and peering

around at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes,

“we have almost finished our work on planetary

divination. Today, however, will be an excellent

opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is

placed most interestingly at the present time. If you

will all look this way, I will dim the lights. …”

She waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire

was the only source of light now. Professor Trelawney

bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a

miniature model of the solar system, contained within

a glass dome. It was a beautiful thing; each of the

moons glimmered in place around the nine planets

and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air

beneath the glass. Harry watched lazily as Professor

Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle

Mars was making to Neptune. The heavily perfumed

fumes washed over him, and the breeze from the

window played across his face. He could hear an

insect humming gently somewhere behind the

curtain. His eyelids began to droop. …

He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring

through the clear blue sky toward an old, ivy-covered

house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they

flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry’s face, until

they reached a dark and broken window in the upper

story of the house and entered. Now they were flying

along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end

… through the door they went, into a dark room

whose windows were boarded up. …

Harry had left the owl’s back … he was watching,

now, as it fluttered across the room, into a chair with

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its back to him. … There were two dark shapes on the floor beside the chair … both of them were stirring. …

One was a huge snake … the other was a man … a

short, balding man, a man with watery eyes and a

pointed nose … he was wheezing and sobbing on the

hearth rug. …

“You are in luck, Wormtail,” said a cold, high-pitched

voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl

had landed. “You are very fortunate indeed. Your

blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.”

“My Lord!” gasped the man on the floor. “My Lord, I

am … I am so pleased … and so sorry. …”

“Nagini,” said the cold voice, “you are out of luck. I

will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all … but

never mind, never mind … there is still Harry Potter.

…”

The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue

fluttering.

“Now, Wormtail,” said the cold voice, “perhaps one

more little reminder why I will not tolerate another

blunder from you. …”

“My Lord … no … I beg you …”

The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of

the chair. It was pointing at Wormtail.

“Crucio!” said the cold voice.

Wormtail screamed, screamed as though every nerve

in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry’s

ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he

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was yelling too. … Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there. …

“Harry! Harry!”

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of

Professor Trelawney’s room with his hands over his

face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes

were watering. The pain had been real. The whole

class was standing around him, and Ron was

kneeling next to him, looking terrified.

“You all right?” he said.

“Of course he isn’t!” said Professor Trelawney, looking

thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry,

gazing at him. “What was it, Potter? A premonition?

An apparition? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself

shaking. He couldn’t stop himself from looking

around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemort’s

voice had sounded so close. …

“You were clutching your scar!” said Professor

Trelawney. “You were rolling on the floor, clutching

your scar! Come now, Potter, I have experience in

these matters!”

Harry looked up at her.

“I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he said.

“Bad headache.”

“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the

extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!” said

Professor Trelawney “If you leave now, you may lose

the opportunity to see further than you have ever —”

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“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,”

said Harry.

He stood up. The class backed away. They all looked

unnerved.

“See you later,” Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked

up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring

Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression

of great frustration, as though she had just been

denied a real treat.

When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder,

however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He

had no intention whatsoever of going there. Sirius

had told him what to do if his scar hurt him again,

and Harry was going to follow his advice: He was

going straight to Dumbledore’s office. He marched

down the corridors, thinking about what he had seen

in the dream … it had been as vivid as the one that

had awoken him on Privet Drive. … He ran over the

details in his mind, trying to make sure he could

remember them. … He had heard Voldemort accusing

Wormtail of making a blunder … but the owl had

brought good news, the blunder had been repaired,

somebody was dead … so Wormtail was not going to

be fed to the snake … he, Harry, was going to be fed

to it instead. …

Harry had walked right past the stone gargoyle

guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office without

noticing. He blinked, looked around, realized what he

had done, and retraced his steps, stopping in front of

it. Then he remembered that he didn’t know the

password.

“Sherbet lemon?” he tried tentatively.

The gargoyle did not move.

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“Okay,” said Harry, staring at it, “Pear Drop. Er —

Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee. Drooble’s Best

Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans … oh

no, he doesn’t like them, does he? … oh just open,

can’t you?” he said angrily. “I really need to see him,

it’s urgent!”

The gargoyle remained immovable.

Harry kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating

pain in his big toe.

“Chocolate Frog!” he yelled angrily, standing on one

leg. “Sugar Quill! Cockroach Cluster!”

The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry

blinked.

“Cockroach Cluster?” he said, amazed. “I was only

joking. …”

He hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped

onto the foot of a spiral stone staircase, which moved

slowly upward as the doors closed behind him, taking

him up to a polished oak door with a brass door

knocker.

He could hear voices from inside the office. He

stepped off the moving staircase and hesitated,

listening.

“Dumbledore, I’m afraid I don’t see the connection,

don’t see it at all!” It was the voice of the Minister of

Magic, Cornelius Fudge. “Ludo says Bertha’s perfectly

capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have

expected to have found her by now, but all the same,

we’ve no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at

all. As for her disappearance being linked with Barty

Crouch’s!”

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“And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch,

Minister?” said Moody’s growling voice.

“I see two possibilities, Alastor,” said Fudge. “Either

Crouch has finally cracked — more than likely, I’m

sure you’ll agree, given his personal history — lost his

mind, and gone wandering off somewhere —”

“He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case,

Cornelius,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Or else — well …” Fudge sounded embarrassed.

“Well, I’ll reserve judgment until after I’ve seen the

place where he was found, but you say it was just

past the Beauxbatons carriage? Dumbledore, you

know what that woman is?”

“I consider her to be a very able headmistress — and

an excellent dancer,” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Dumbledore, come!” said Fudge angrily. “Don’t you

think you might be prejudiced in her favor because of

Hagrid? They don’t all turn out harmless — if, indeed,

you can call Hagrid harmless, with that monster

fixation he’s got —”

“I no more suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid,”

said Dumbledore, just as calmly. “I think it possible

that it is you who are prejudiced, Cornelius.”

“Can we wrap up this discussion?” growled Moody.

“Yes, yes, let’s go down to the grounds, then,” said

Fudge impatiently.

“No, it’s not that,” said Moody, “it’s just that Potter

wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He’s just outside

the door.”

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THE PENSIEVE

The door of the office opened.

“Hello, Potter,” said Moody. “Come in, then.”

Harry walked inside. He had been inside

Dumbledore’s office once before; it was a very

beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of

previous headmasters and headmistresses of

Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests

rising and falling gently.

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore’s

desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding

his lime-green bowler hat.

“Harry!” said Fudge jovially, moving forward. “How are

you?”

“Fine,” Harry lied.

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“We were just talking about the night when Mr.

Crouch turned up on the grounds,” said Fudge. “It

was you who found him, was it not?”

“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to

pretend that he hadn’t overheard what they had been

saying, he added, “I didn’t see Madame Maxime

anywhere, though, and she’d have a job hiding,

wouldn’t she?”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge’s back, his

eyes twinkling.

“Yes, well,” said Fudge, looking embarrassed, “we’re

about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if

you’ll excuse us … perhaps if you just go back to your

class —”

“I wanted to talk to you, Professor,” Harry said

quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift,

searching look.

“Wait here for me, Harry,” he said. “Our examination

of the grounds will not take long.”

They trooped out in silence past him and closed the

door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of

Moody’s wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor

below. He looked around.

“Hello, Fawkes,” he said.

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix, was

standing on his golden perch beside the door. The

size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold

plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked

benignly at Harry.

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Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old

headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their

frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and

running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped

hurting now.

He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in

Dumbledore’s office, knowing he would shortly be

telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the

walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged

Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next

to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies

set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he

himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his

second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric

Gryffindor, founder of Harry’s House. He was gazing

at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when

he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a

patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the

glass case. He looked around for the source of the

light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly

from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door

had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated,

glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the

office, and pulled open the cabinet door.

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings

around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did

not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the

basin’s contents, which were like nothing Harry had

ever seen before. He could not tell whether the

substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish

silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it

became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then,

like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked

like light made liquid — or like wind made solid —

Harry couldn’t make up his mind.

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He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years’ experience of the magical world told

him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some

unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He

therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his

robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked

back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began

to swirl very fast.

Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet.

The silvery substance had become transparent; it

looked like glass. He looked down into it, expecting to

see the stone bottom of the basin — and saw instead

an enormous room below the surface of the

mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed

to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be

underground, for there were no windows, merely

torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated

the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his

nose was a mere inch away from the glassy

substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches

and wizards were seated around every wall on what

seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair

stood in the very center of the room. There was

something about the chair that gave Harry an

ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as

though its occupants were usually tied to it.

Where was this place? It surely wasn’t Hogwarts; he

had never seen a room like that here in the castle.

Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the

bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and

Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers

at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting

for something; even though he could only see the tops

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of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one

another.

The basin being circular, and the room he was

observing square, Harry could not make out what was

going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer,

tilting his head, trying to see …

The tip of his nose touched the strange substance

into which he was staring.

Dumbledore’s office gave an almighty lurch — Harry

was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the

substance inside the basin —

But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was

falling through something icy-cold and black; it was

like being sucked into a dark whirlpool —

And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench

at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench

raised high above the others. He looked up at the

high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular

window through which he had just been staring, but

there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.

Breathing hard and fast, Harry looked around him.

Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and

there were at least two hundred of them) was looking

at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a

fourteen-year-old boy had just dropped from the

ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard

next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of

surprise that reverberated around the silent room.

He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.

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“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to — I was just looking at

that basin in your cabinet — I — where are we?”

But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored

Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the

benches, he was staring into the far corner of the

room, where there was a door.

Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then

around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at

Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him. …

Once before, Harry had found himself somewhere that

nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had

fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right

into somebody else’s memory … and unless he was

very much mistaken, something of the sort had

happened again. …

Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then

waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore’s face.

Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or

indeed move at all. And that, in Harry’s opinion,

settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn’t ignore him

like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not

the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn’t be that

long ago … the Dumbledore sitting next to him now

was silver-haired, just like the present-day

Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all

these wizards waiting for?

Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he

had suspected when observing it from above, was

almost certainly underground — more of a dungeon

than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and

forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures

on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried

rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room,

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all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.

Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the

place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The

door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three

people entered — or at least one man, flanked by two

dementors.

Harry’s insides went cold. The dementors — tall,

hooded creatures whose faces were concealed — were

gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the

room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their

dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between

them looked as though he was about to faint, and

Harry couldn’t blame him … he knew the dementors

could not touch him inside a memory, but he

remembered their power only too well. The watching

crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the

man in the chained chair and glided back out of the

room. The door swung shut behind them.

Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the

chair and saw that it was Karkaroff.

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger;

his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in

sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was

shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the

arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked

their way up Karkaroff’s arms, binding him there.

“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to Harry’s left.

Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing

up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch’s

hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he

looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from

Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic.

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You have given us to understand that you have

important information for us.”

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could,

tightly bound to the chair.

“I have, sir,” he said, and although his voice was very

scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous

note in it. “I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish

to help. I — I know that the Ministry is trying to — to

round up the last of the Dark Lord’s supporters. I am

eager to assist in any way I can. …”

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of

the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff

with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then

Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore’s

other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.”

Harry leaned forward so that he could see past

Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there —

except that there was a very noticeable difference in

his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but

two normal ones. Both were looking down upon

Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed

quietly to Dumbledore. “He’s done a deal with him.

Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch

is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names.

Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him

straight back to the dementors.”

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through

his long, crooked nose.

“Ah, I was forgetting … you don’t like the dementors,

do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile.

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“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with

such creatures.”

“But for filth like this …” Moody said softly.

“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr.

Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.”

“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly,

“that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in

the greatest secrecy. … He preferred that we — I

mean to say, his supporters — and I regret now, very

deeply, that I ever counted myself among them —”

“Get on with it,” sneered Moody.

“— we never knew the names of every one of our

fellows — He alone knew exactly who we all were —”

“Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented

someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them

in,” muttered Moody.

“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr.

Crouch.

“I — I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these

were important supporters, mark you. People I saw

with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this

information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce

him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can

barely —”

“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

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“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I — I saw him torture countless Muggles and — and non-supporters

of the Dark Lord.”

“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody.

“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said

Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.”

“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I — I am

delighted to hear it!”

But he didn’t look it. Harry could tell that this news

had come as a real blow to him. One of his names

was worthless.

“Any others?” said Crouch coldly.

“Why, yes … there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff

hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.”

“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly

after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than

come quietly and was killed in the struggle.”

“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered

Moody to Harry’s right. Harry looked around at him

once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk

out of his nose to Dumbledore.

“No — no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff,

a real note of panic in his voice now. Harry could see

that he was starting to worry that none of his

information would be of any use to the Ministry.

Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner,

behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood,

waiting.

“Any more?” said Crouch.

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“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers — he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber — he specialized in

the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do

horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from

inside the Ministry itself!”

Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck

gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring

together.

“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch

sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her

piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the

Department of Mysteries?”

“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he

used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the

Ministry and out, to collect information —”

“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch.

“Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be

returned to Azkaban while we decide —”

“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate.

“Wait, I have more!”

Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his

white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his

hair and beard.

“Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!”

“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch

disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus

Dumbledore.”

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“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape

is a Death Eater!”

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.

“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said

calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater.

However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s

downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk.

He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.”

Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was

wearing a look of deep skepticism behind

Dumbledore’s back.

“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have

been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will

return to Azkaban in the meantime. …”

Mr. Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the

dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of

smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his

own body — all else was swirling darkness. …

And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in

a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to

the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed

quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches

and wizards all around the walls were talking to one

another, almost as though they were at some sort of

sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the

rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair,

was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end

of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a

younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around;

Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing

different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and

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somehow fiercer, gaunter. … Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day … a different trial.

The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman

walked into the room.

This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed,

but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of

his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn’t broken

now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman

looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair,

but it did not bind him there as it had bound

Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from

this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at

a couple of them, and managed a small smile.

“Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front

of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges

relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,” said Mr.

Crouch. “We have heard the evidence against you,

and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have

anything to add to your testimony before we

pronounce judgment?”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a

Death Eater?

“Only,” said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, “well — I

know I’ve been a bit of an idiot —”

One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding

seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear

to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo

Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity

and dislike.

“You never spoke a truer word, boy,” someone

muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He

looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. “If I

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didn’t know he’d always been dim, I’d have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain.

…”

“Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing

information to Lord Voldemort’s supporters,” said Mr.

Crouch. “For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment

in Azkaban lasting no less than —”

But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding

benches. Several of the witches and wizards around

the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even

their fists, at Mr. Crouch.

“But I’ve told you, I had no idea!” Bagman called

earnestly over the crowd’s babble, his round blue eyes

widening. “None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of

my dad’s … never crossed my mind he was in with

You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information

for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting

me a job in the Ministry later on … once my

Quidditch days are over, you know … I mean, I can’t

keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life,

can I?”

There were titters from the crowd.

“It will be put to the vote,” said Mr. Crouch coldly. He

turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. “The

jury will please raise their hands … those in favor of

imprisonment …”

Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the

dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of

the witches and wizards around the walls began to

clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up.

“Yes?” barked Crouch.

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“We’d just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his

splendid performance for England in the Quidditch

match against Turkey last Saturday,” the witch said

breathlessly.

Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing

with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and

bowed, beaming.

“Despicable,” Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting

down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon.

“Rookwood get him a job indeed. … The day Ludo

Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the

Ministry. …”

And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had

returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore

were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the

atmosphere could not have been more different. There

was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a

frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr.

Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her

mouth with trembling hands. Harry looked up at

Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and grayer

than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple.

“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed

through the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner opened yet again. Six

dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four

people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to

look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to

one another.

The dementors placed each of the four people in the

four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the

dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared

blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-

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looking man, whose eyes were darting around the

crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and

heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained

chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late

teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was

shivering, his straw-colored hair all over his face, his

freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside

Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her

seat, whimpering into her handkerchief.

Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in

front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.

“You have been brought here before the Council of

Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass

judgment on you, for a crime so heinous —”

“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair.

“Father … please …”

“— that we have rarely heard the like of it within this

court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning

out his son’s voice. “We have heard the evidence

against you. The four of you stand accused of

capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and

subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him

to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your

exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

“Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I

didn’t, I swear it, Father, don’t send me back to the

dementors —”

“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of

using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s

wife, when he would not give you information. You

planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to

power, and to resume the lives of violence you

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presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the

jury —”

“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little

witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward

and forward. “Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn’t do it,

it wasn’t me!”

“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise

their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes

deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!”

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-

hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The

crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for

Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy

began to scream.

“No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t

know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!”

The dementors were gliding back into the room. The

boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats;

the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at

Crouch and called, “The Dark Lord will rise again,

Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will

rise again and will come for us, he will reward us

beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were

faithful! We alone tried to find him!”

But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors,

even though Harry could see their cold, draining

power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering,

some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of

the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.

“I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your

son!”

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“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!”

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and

slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch

appeared not to have noticed.

“Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors,

spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and

may they rot there!”

“Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father,

please!”

“I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office,” said

a quiet voice in Harry’s ear.

Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on

his other side.

There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right,

watching Crouch’s son being dragged away by the

dementors — and there was an Albus Dumbledore on

his left, looking right at him.

“Come,” said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put

his hand under Harry’s elbow. Harry felt himself

rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him;

for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as

though he had done a slow-motion somersault,

suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like

the dazzling light of Dumbledore’s sunlit office. The

stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of

him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside

him.

“Professor,” Harry gasped, “I know I shouldn’t’ve — I

didn’t mean — the cabinet door was sort of open and

—”

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“I quite understand,” said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the

polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He

motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him.

Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents

had returned to their original, silvery-white state,

swirling and rippling beneath his gaze.

“What is it?” Harry asked shakily.

“This? It is called a Pensieve,” said Dumbledore. “I

sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling,

that I simply have too many thoughts and memories

crammed into my mind.”

“Er,” said Harry, who couldn’t truthfully say that he

had ever felt anything of the sort.

“At these times,” said Dumbledore, indicating the

stone basin, “I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons

the excess thoughts from one’s mind, pours them into

the basin, and examines them at one’s leisure. It

becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you

understand, when they are in this form.”

“You mean … that stuff’s your thoughts?” Harry said,

staring at the swirling white substance in the basin.

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Let me show you.”

Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his

robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair,

near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair

seemed to be clinging to it — but then Harry saw that

it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange

silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve.

Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin,

and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming

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around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed

his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and

swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for

fragments of gold … and Harry saw his own face

change smoothly into Snape’s, who opened his mouth

and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly.

“It’s coming back … Karkaroff’s too … stronger and

clearer than ever …”

“A connection I could have made without assistance,”

Dumbledore sighed, “but never mind.” He peered over

the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was

gaping at Snape’s face, which was continuing to swirl

around the bowl. “I was using the Pensieve when Mr.

Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather

hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door

properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your

attention.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore shook his head. “Curiosity is not a sin,”

he said. “But we should exercise caution with our

curiosity … yes, indeed …”

Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the

basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose

out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who

began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin.

She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor

Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as

Snape’s had done, as though it were coming from the

depths of the stone basin. “He put a hex on me,

Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him,

sir. I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind

the greenhouses last Thursday. …”

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“But why, Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to

follow him in the first place?”

“Bertha?” Harry whispered, looking up at her. “Is that

— was that Bertha Jorkins?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the

basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they

became silvery and opaque once more. “That was

Bertha as I remember her at school.”

The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated

Dumbledore’s face, and it struck Harry suddenly how

very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that

Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he

never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man.

“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Before you got

lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me

something.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Professor — I was in Divination

just now, and — er — I fell asleep.”

He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was

coming, but Dumbledore merely said, “Quite

understandable. Continue.”

“Well, I had a dream,” said Harry. “A dream about

Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail … you

know who Wormtail —”

“I do know,” said Dumbledore promptly. “Please

continue.”

“Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said

something like, Wormtail’s blunder had been

repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said,

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Wormtail wouldn’t be fed to the snake — there was a snake beside his chair. He said — he said he’d be

feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus

Curse on Wormtail — and my scar hurt,” Harry said.

“It woke me up, it hurt so badly.”

Dumbledore merely looked at him.

“Er — that’s all,” said Harry.

“I see,” said Dumbledore quietly. “I see. Now, has your

scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the

time it woke you up over the summer?”

“No, I — how did you know it woke me up over the

summer?” said Harry, astonished.

“You are not Sirius’s only correspondent,” said

Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him

ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who

suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place

for him to stay.”

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down

behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his

wand tip to his temple, removed another shining

silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The

thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry

couldn’t make out anything clearly: It was merely a

blur of color.

“Professor?” he said quietly, after a couple of minutes.

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry.

“My apologies,” he said quietly. He sat back down at

his desk.

“D’you — d’you know why my scar’s hurting me?”

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Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a

moment, and then said, “I have a theory, no more

than that. … It is my belief that your scar hurts both

when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is

feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.”

“But … why?”

“Because you and he are connected by the curse that

failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.”

“So you think … that dream … did it really happen?”

“It is possible,” said Dumbledore. “I would say —

probable. Harry — did you see Voldemort?”

“No,” said Harry. “Just the back of his chair. But —

there wouldn’t have been anything to see, would

there? I mean, he hasn’t got a body, has he? But …

but then how could he have held the wand?” Harry

said slowly.

“How indeed?” muttered Dumbledore. “How indeed

…”

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while.

Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every

now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and

adding another shining silver thought to the seething

mass within the Pensieve.

“Professor,” Harry said at last, “do you think he’s

getting stronger?”

“Voldemort?” said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over

the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look

Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and

always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were

seeing right through him in a way that even Moody’s

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magical eye could not. “Once again, Harry, I can only give you my suspicions.”

Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and

wearier, than ever.

“The years of Voldemort’s ascent to power,” he said,

“were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins

has vanished without a trace in the place where

Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch

too has disappeared … within these very grounds.

And there was a third disappearance, one which the

Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any

importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was

Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort’s

father grew up, and he has not been seen since last

August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers,

unlike most of my Ministry friends.”

Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry.

“These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The

Ministry disagrees — as you may have heard, while

waiting outside my office.”

Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again,

Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then.

Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity

held him in his chair.

“Professor?” he said again.

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore.

“Er … could I ask you about … that court thing I was

in … in the Pensieve?”

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“You could,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more

clearly than others … particularly now. …”

“You know — you know the trial you found me in?

The one with Crouch’s son? Well … were they talking

about Neville’s parents?”

Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp look. “Has

Neville never told you why he has been brought up by

his grandmother?” he said.

Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how

he could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four

years of knowing him.

“Yes, they were talking about Neville’s parents,” said

Dumbledore. “His father, Frank, was an Auror just

like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured

for information about Voldemort’s whereabouts after

he lost his powers, as you heard.”

“So they’re dead?” said Harry quietly.

“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness

Harry had never heard there before. “They are insane.

They are both in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical

Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them,

with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do

not recognize him.”

Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had never known

… never, in four years, bothered to find out …

“The Longbottoms were very popular,” said

Dumbledore. “The attacks on them came after

Voldemort’s fall from power, just when everyone

thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave

of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was

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under great pressure to catch those who had done it.

Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ evidence was —

given their condition — none too reliable.”

“Then Mr. Crouch’s son might not have been

involved?” said Harry slowly.

Dumbledore shook his head.

“As to that, I have no idea.”

Harry sat in silence once more, watching the contents

of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions

he was burning to ask … but they concerned the guilt

of living people. …

“Er,” he said, “Mr. Bagman …”

“… has never been accused of any Dark activity

since,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Right,” said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of

the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly

now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts.

“And … er …”

But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for

him. Snape’s face was swimming on the surface

again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up

at Harry.

“No more has Professor Snape,” he said.

Harry looked into Dumbledore’s light blue eyes, and

the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his

mouth before he could stop it.

“What made you think he’d really stopped supporting

Voldemort, Professor?”

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Dumbledore held Harry’s gaze for a few seconds, and then said, “That, Harry, is a matter between Professor

Snape and myself.”

Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore

did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone

that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so

did Dumbledore.

“Harry,” he said as Harry reached the door. “Please do

not speak about Neville’s parents to anybody else. He

has the right to let people know, when he is ready.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, turning to go.

“And —”

Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over

the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery

spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at

Harry for a moment, and then said, “Good luck with

the third task.”

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THE THIRD TASK

“Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who’s getting

stronger again as well?” Ron whispered.

Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly

everything Dumbledore had told and shown him

afterward, he had now shared with Ron and

Hermione — and, of course, with Sirius, to whom

Harry had sent an owl the moment he had left

Dumbledore’s office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat

up late in the common room once again that night,

talking it all over until Harry’s mind was reeling, until

he understood what Dumbledore had meant about a

head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have

been a relief to siphon them off.

Ron stared into the common room fire. Harry thought

he saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening

was warm.

“And he trusts Snape?” Ron said. “He really trusts

Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?”

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“Yes,” said Harry.

Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was

sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her

knees. Harry thought she too looked as though she

could have done with a Pensieve.

“Rita Skeeter,” she muttered finally.

“How can you be worrying about her now?” said Ron,

in utter disbelief.

“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione said to her

knees. “I’m just thinking … remember what she said

to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about

Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This

is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she

knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters.

And Winky too, remember … ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad

wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got

off, he would have talked about it at home.”

“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on

purpose, did he?”

Hermione shrugged.

“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked

Crouch?” Ron said, turning back to Harry.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he’s only saying that because

Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.”

“We never thought of her, did we?” said Ron slowly.

“Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she

doesn’t want to admit it —”

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Hermione sharply,

looking up. “Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita

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found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her, just because she’s part

giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I’d probably

say I had big bones if I knew that’s what I’d get for

telling the truth.”

Hermione looked at her watch. “We haven’t done any

practicing!” she said, looking shocked. “We were going

to do the Impediment Curse! We’ll have to really get

down to it tomorrow! Come on, Harry, you need to get

some sleep.”

Harry and Ron went slowly upstairs to their

dormitory. As Harry pulled on his pajamas, he looked

over at Neville’s bed. True to his word to Dumbledore,

he had not told Ron and Hermione about Neville’s

parents. As Harry took off his glasses and climbed

into his four-poster, he imagined how it must feel to

have parents still living but unable to recognize you.

He often got sympathy from strangers for being an

orphan, but as he listened to Neville’s snores, he

thought that Neville deserved it more than he did.

Lying in the darkness, Harry felt a rush of anger and

hate toward the people who had tortured Mr. and

Mrs. Longbottom. … He remembered the jeers of the

crowd as Crouch’s son and his companions had been

dragged from the court by the dementors. … He

understood how they had felt. … Then he

remembered the milk-white face of the screaming boy

and realized with a jolt that he had died a year later.

…

It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the

canopy of his bed in the darkness, it all came back to

Voldemort. … He was the one who had torn these

families apart, who had ruined all these lives. …

Ron and Hermione were supposed to be studying for

their exams, which would finish on the day of the

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third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry prepare.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said shortly when

Harry pointed this out to them and said he didn’t

mind practicing on his own for a while, “at least we’ll

get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We’d

never have found out about all these hexes in class.”

“Good training for when we’re all Aurors,” said Ron

excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a

wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it

stop dead in midair.

The mood in the castle as they entered June became

excited and tense again. Everyone was looking

forward to the third task, which would take place a

week before the end of term. Harry was practicing

hexes at every available moment. He felt more

confident about this task than either of the others.

Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly

be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his

way past monstrous creatures and enchanted

barriers before now, and this time he had some

notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay

ahead.

Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, and Ron all

over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them

permission to use the empty Transfiguration

classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered

the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and

obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would

enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and

the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermione’s

that would make his wand point due north, therefore

enabling him to check whether he was going in the

right direction within the maze. He was still having

trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This was

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supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione

managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs

Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten

minutes afterward before she had looked up the

counter-jinx.

“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione said

encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off

those spells they had already learned. “Some of these

are bound to come in handy.”

“Come and look at this,” said Ron, who was standing

by the window. He was staring down onto the

grounds. “What’s Malfoy doing?”

Harry and Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and

Goyle were standing in the shadow of a tree below.

Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout;

both were smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up

to his mouth and speaking into it.

“He looks like he’s using a walkie-talkie,” said Harry

curiously.

“He can’t be,” said Hermione, “I’ve told you, those

sorts of things don’t work around Hogwarts. Come on,

Harry,” she added briskly, turning away from the

window and moving back into the middle of the room,

“let’s try that Shield Charm again.”

Sirius was sending daily owls now. Like Hermione, he

seemed to want to concentrate on getting Harry

through the last task before they concerned

themselves with anything else. He reminded Harry in

every letter that whatever might be going on outside

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the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry’s responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it.

If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote,

my priority is to ensure your safety. He cannot hope to

lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore’s

protection, but all the same, take no risks: Concentrate on getting through that maze safely, and then we can

turn our attention to other matters.

Harry’s nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth

drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had

felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing,

he was confident that, this time, he had done

everything in his power to prepare for the task. For

another, this was the final hurdle, and however well

or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over,

which would be an enormous relief.

Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor

table on the morning of the third task. The post owls

appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from

Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over

and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but

Harry appreciated it all the same. A screech owl

arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of

the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolded the paper,

glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of

pumpkin juice all over it.

“What?” said Harry and Ron together, staring at her.

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the

paper out of sight, but Ron grabbed it. He stared at

the headline and said, “No way. Not today. That old

cow. ”

“What?” said Harry. “Rita Skeeter again?”

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“No,” said Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempted to push the paper out of sight.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” said Harry.

“No,” said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone.

But before Harry could demand to see the paper,

Draco Malfoy shouted across the Great Hall from the

Slytherin table.

“Hey, Potter! Potter! How’s your head? You feeling all

right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?”

Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too.

Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering,

twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction.

“Let me see it,” Harry said to Ron. “Give it here.”

Very reluctantly, Ron handed over the newspaper.

Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his

own picture, beneath the banner headline:

HARRY POTTER

“DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS”

The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is

unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter,

Special Correspondent . Alarming evidence has

recently come to light about Harry Potter’s strange

behavior, which casts doubts upon his suitability to

compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard

Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School.

Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal,

regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to

complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the

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curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him).

On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson,

your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming

from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too

badly to continue studying.

It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital

for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter’s brain

was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You-

Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is

still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated

confusion.

“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist.

“This could be a plea for attention.”

The Daily Prophet , however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore,

Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from

the wizarding public.

“Potter can speak Parseltongue,” reveals Draco Malfoy,

a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks

on students a couple of years ago, and most people

thought Potter was behind them after they saw him

lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on

another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s

made friends with werewolves and giants too. We

think he’d do anything for a bit of power.”

Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has

long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most

famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than

You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force

Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed,

stated that he would regard any wizard who could

speak Parseltongue “as worthy of investigation.

Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody

who could converse with snakes, as serpents are

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often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly,

“anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious

creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to

have a fondness for violence.”

Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a

boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the

Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might

resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the

tournament, the third task of which takes place this

evening.

“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she?” said Harry lightly,

folding up the paper.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle

were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their

fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling

their tongues like snakes.

“How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?”

Ron said. “There’s no way she was there, there’s no

way she could’ve heard —”

“The window was open,” said Harry. “I opened it to

breathe.”

“You were at the top of North Tower!” Hermione said.

“Your voice couldn’t have carried all the way down to

the grounds!”

“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be

researching magical methods of bugging!” said Harry.

“You tell me how she did it!”

“I’ve been trying!” said Hermione. “But I … but …”

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An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over

Hermione’s face. She slowly raised a hand and ran

her fingers through her hair.

“Are you all right?” said Ron, frowning at her.

“Yes,” said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers

through her hair again, and then held her hand up to

her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible

walkie-talkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other.

“I’ve had an idea,” Hermione said, gazing into space.

“I think I know … because then no one would be able

to see … even Moody … and she’d have been able to

get onto the window ledge … but she’s not allowed …

she’s definitely not allowed … I think we’ve got her!

Just give me two seconds in the library — just to

make sure!”

With that, Hermione seized her school bag and

dashed out of the Great Hall.

“Oi!” Ron called after her. “We’ve got our History of

Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey,” he said, turning

back to Harry, “she must really hate that Skeeter

woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What’re

you going to do in Binns’s class — read again?”

Exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard

champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of every

exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third

task.

“S’pose so,” Harry said to Ron; but just then,

Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the

Gryffindor table toward him.

“Potter, the champions are congregating in the

chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she said.

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“But the task’s not till tonight!” said Harry,

accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front,

afraid he had mistaken the time.

“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she said. “The champions’

families are invited to watch the final task, you know.

This is simply a chance for you to greet them.”

She moved away. Harry gaped after her.

“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does

she?” he asked Ron blankly.

“Dunno,” said Ron. “Harry, I’d better hurry, I’m going

to be late for Binns. See you later.”

Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great

Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the

Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as he crossed to the

side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join

them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was.

He really didn’t want to go into the chamber. He had

no family — no family who would turn up to see him

risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up,

thinking that he might as well go up to the library

and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side

chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out.

“Harry, come on, they’re waiting for you!”

Utterly perplexed, Harry got up. The Dursleys

couldn’t possibly be here, could they? He walked

across the Hall and opened the door into the

chamber.

Cedric and his parents were just inside the door.

Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his

dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He

had inherited his father’s hooked nose. On the other

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side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur’s little sister, Gabrielle, was

holding her mother’s hand. She waved at Harry, who

waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and

Bill standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him.

“Surprise!” Mrs. Weasley said excitedly as he smiled

broadly and walked over to them. “Thought we’d come

and watch you, Harry!” She bent down and kissed

him on the cheek.

“You all right?” said Bill, grinning at Harry and

shaking his hand. “Charlie wanted to come, but he

couldn’t get time off. He said you were incredible

against the Horntail.”

Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with

great interest over her mother’s shoulder. Harry could

tell she had no objection whatsoever to long hair or

earrings with fangs on them.

“This is really nice of you,” Harry muttered to Mrs.

Weasley. “I thought for a moment — the Dursleys —”

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had

always refrained from criticizing the Dursleys in front

of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time they were

mentioned.

“It’s great being back here,” said Bill, looking around

the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady’s friend, winked at

him from her frame). “Haven’t seen this place for five

years. Is that picture of the mad knight still around?

Sir Cadogan?”

“Oh yeah,” said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the

previous year.

“And the Fat Lady?” said Bill.

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“She was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back

to the dormitory at four in the morning —”

“What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in

the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with

amazement.

Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling.

“Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,”

she said. “He got caught by Apollyon Pringle — he

was the caretaker in those days — your father’s still

got the marks.”

“Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?” said Bill.

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry, and they made their way

back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they

passed Amos Diggory, he looked around.

“There you are, are you?” he said, looking Harry up

and down. “Bet you’re not feeling quite as full of

yourself now Cedric’s caught you up on points, are

you?”

“What?” said Harry.

“Ignore him,” said Cedric in a low voice to Harry,

frowning after his father. “He’s been angry ever since

Rita Skeeter’s article about the Triwizard Tournament

— you know, when she made out you were the only

Hogwarts champion.”

“Didn’t bother to correct her, though, did he?” said

Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he

started to walk out of the door with Mrs. Weasley and

Bill. “Still … you’ll show him, Ced. Beaten him once

before, haven’t you?”

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“Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, Amos!” Mrs. Weasley said angrily. “I would have

thought you’d know that, working at the Ministry!”

Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going to say

something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm,

and he merely shrugged and turned away.

Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the

sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing

them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang

ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping

Willow, which had been planted after she had left

school, and reminisced at length about the

gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg.

“How’s Percy?” Harry asked as they walked around

the greenhouses.

“Not good,” said Bill.

“He’s very upset,” said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her

voice and glancing around. “The Ministry wants to

keep Mr. Crouch’s disappearance quiet, but Percy’s

been hauled in for questioning about the instructions

Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think

there’s a chance they weren’t genuinely written by

him. Percy’s been under a lot of strain. They’re not

letting him fill in for Mr. Crouch as the fifth judge

tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it.”

They returned to the castle for lunch.

“Mum — Bill!” said Ron, looking stunned, as he

joined the Gryffindor table. “What’re you doing here?”

“Come to watch Harry in the last task!” said Mrs.

Weasley brightly. “I must say, it makes a lovely

change, not having to cook. How was your exam?”

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“Oh … okay,” said Ron. “Couldn’t remember all the

goblin rebels’ names, so I invented a few. It’s all

right,” he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty,

while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, “they’re all called

stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it

wasn’t hard.”

Fred, George, and Ginny came to sit next to them too,

and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost

as though he were back at the Burrow; he had

forgotten to worry about that evening’s task, and not

until Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch,

did he remember that she had had a brainwave about

Rita Skeeter.

“Are you going to tell us — ?”

Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at

Mrs. Weasley.

“Hello, Hermione,” said Mrs. Weasley, much more

stiffly than usual.

“Hello,” said Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold

expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face.

Harry looked between them, then said, “Mrs. Weasley,

you didn’t believe that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in

Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione’s not my

girlfriend.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Weasley. “No — of course I didn’t!”

But she became considerably warmer toward

Hermione after that.

Harry, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley whiled away the

afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and

then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast.

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Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge had joined the

staff table now. Bagman looked quite cheerful, but

Cornelius Fudge, who was sitting next to Madame

Maxime, looked stern and was not talking. Madame

Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and Harry

thought her eyes looked red. Hagrid kept glancing

along the table at her.

There were more courses than usual, but Harry, who

was starting to feel really nervous now, didn’t eat

much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to

fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to

his feet at the staff table, and silence fell.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be

asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch

field for the third and final task of the Triwizard

Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr.

Bagman down to the stadium now.”

Harry got up. The Gryffindors all along the table were

applauding him; the Weasleys and Hermione all

wished him good luck, and he headed off out of the

Great Hall with Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor.

“Feeling all right, Harry?” Bagman asked as they went

down the stone steps onto the grounds. “Confident?”

“I’m okay,” said Harry. It was sort of true; he was

nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and

spells he had been practicing in his mind as they

walked, and the knowledge that he could remember

them all made him feel better.

They walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now

completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge

ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap

right in front of them: the entrance to the vast maze.

The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy.

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Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet

as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The

sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars

were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody,

Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick came

walking into the stadium and approached Bagman

and the champions. They were wearing large, red,

luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who

had his on the back of his moleskin vest.

“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the

maze,” said Professor McGonagall to the champions.

“If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued,

send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come

and get you, do you understand?”

The champions nodded.

“Off you go, then!” said Bagman brightly to the four

patrollers.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hagrid whispered, and the four of

them walked away in different directions, to station

themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed

his wand at his throat, muttered, “Sonorus, ” and his

magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the

Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me

remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in

first place, with eighty-five points each — Mr. Cedric

Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts

School!” The cheers and applause sent birds from the

Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky.

“In second place, with eighty points — Mr. Viktor

Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And

in third place — Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons

Academy!”

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Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up

the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved

back, beaming at him.

“So … on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said

Bagman. “Three — two — one —”

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and

Cedric hurried forward into the maze.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the

path, and, whether because they were so tall and

thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound

of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment

they entered the maze. Harry felt almost as though he

were underwater again. He pulled out his wand,

muttered, “Lumos, ” and heard Cedric do the same

just behind him.

After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They

looked at each other.

“See you,” Harry said, and he took the left one, while

Cedric took the right.

Harry heard Bagman’s whistle for the second time.

Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His

chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned

right, and hurried on, holding his wand high over his

head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still,

there was nothing in sight.

Bagman’s whistle blew in the distance for the third

time. All of the champions were now inside.

Harry kept looking behind him. The old feeling that

he was being watched was upon him. The maze was

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growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork.

“Point Me, ” he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in

his palm.

The wand spun around once and pointed toward his

right, into solid hedge. That way was north, and he

knew that he needed to go northwest for the center of

the maze. The best he could do was to take the left

fork and go right again as soon as possible.

The path ahead was empty too, and when Harry

reached a right turn and took it, he again found his

way unblocked. Harry didn’t know why, but the lack

of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should

have met something by now? It felt as though the

maze were luring him into a false sense of security.

Then he heard movement right behind him. He held

out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only

upon Cedric, who had just hurried out of a path on

the right-hand side. Cedric looked severely shaken.

The sleeve of his robe was smoking.

“Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” he hissed. “They’re

enormous — I only just got away!”

He shook his head and dived out of sight, along

another path. Keen to put plenty of distance between

himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again.

Then, as he turned a corner, he saw … a dementor

gliding toward him. Twelve feet tall, its face hidden by

its hood, its rotting, scabbed hands outstretched, it

advanced, sensing its way blindly toward him. Harry

could hear its rattling breath; he felt clammy coldness

stealing over him, but knew what he had to do. …

He summoned the happiest thought he could,

concentrated with all his might on the thought of

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getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and Hermione, raised his wand, and cried, “Expecto

Patronum!”

A silver stag erupted from the end of Harry’s wand

and galloped toward the dementor, which fell back

and tripped over the hem of its robes. … Harry had

never seen a dementor stumble.

“Hang on!” he shouted, advancing in the wake of his

silver Patronus. “You’re a boggart! Riddikulus!”

There was a loud crack, and the shape-shifter

exploded in a wisp of smoke. The silver stag faded

from sight. Harry wished it could have stayed, he

could have used some company … but he moved on,

quickly and quietly as possible, listening hard, his

wand held high once more.

Left … right … left again … Twice he found himself

facing dead ends. He did the Four-Point Spell again

and found that he was going too far east. He turned

back, took a right turn, and saw an odd golden mist

floating ahead of him.

Harry approached it cautiously, pointing the wand’s

beam at it. This looked like some kind of

enchantment. He wondered whether he might be able

to blast it out of the way.

“Reducto!” he said.

The spell shot straight through the mist, leaving it

intact. He supposed he should have known better; the

Reductor Curse was for solid objects. What would

happen if he walked through the mist? Was it worth

chancing it, or should he double back?

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He was still hesitating when a scream shattered the silence.

“Fleur?” Harry yelled.

There was silence. He stared all around him. What

had happened to her? Her scream seemed to have

come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath

and ran through the enchanted mist.

The world turned upside down. Harry was hanging

from the ground, with his hair on end, his glasses

dangling off his nose, threatening to fall into the

bottomless sky. He clutched them to the end of his

nose and hung there, terrified. It felt as though his

feet were glued to the grass, which had now become

the ceiling. Below him the dark, star-spangled

heavens stretched endlessly. He felt as though if he

tried to move one of his feet, he would fall away from

the earth completely.

Think, he told himself, as all the blood rushed to his

head, think …

But not one of the spells he had practiced had been

designed to combat a sudden reversal of ground and

sky. Did he dare move his foot? He could hear the

blood pounding in his ears. He had two choices — try

and move, or send up red sparks, and get rescued

and disqualified from the task.

He shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t be able to see the

view of endless space below him, and pulled his right

foot as hard as he could away from the grassy ceiling.

Immediately, the world righted itself. Harry fell

forward onto his knees onto the wonderfully solid

ground. He felt temporarily limp with shock. He took

a deep, steadying breath, then got up again and

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hurried forward, looking back over his shoulder as he ran away from the golden mist, which twinkled

innocently at him in the moonlight.

He paused at a junction of two paths and looked

around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had

been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was

she all right? There was no sign of red sparks — did

that mean she had got herself out of trouble, or was

she in such trouble that she couldn’t reach her

wand? Harry took the right fork with a feeling of

increasing unease … but at the same time, he

couldn’t help thinking, One champion down …

The cup was somewhere close by, and it sounded as

though Fleur was no longer in the running. He’d got

this far, hadn’t he? What if he actually managed to

win? Fleetingly, and for the first time since he’d found

himself champion, he saw again that image of

himself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the rest

of the school. …

He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running

into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong

turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to

jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow

flicker and distort on the hedge walls. Then he

rounded another corner and found himself facing a

Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Cedric was right — it was enormous. Ten feet long, it

looked more like a giant scorpion than anything. Its

long sting was curled over its back. Its thick armor

glinted in the light from Harry’s wand, which he

pointed at it.

“Stupefy!”

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The spell hit the skrewt’s armor and rebounded;

Harry ducked just in time, but could smell burning

hair; it had singed the top of his head. The skrewt

issued a blast of fire from its end and flew forward

toward him.

“Impedimenta!” Harry yelled. The spell hit the skrewt’s

armor again and ricocheted off; Harry staggered back

a few paces and fell over. “IMPEDIMENTA!”

The skrewt was inches from him when it froze — he

had managed to hit it on its fleshy, shell-less

underside. Panting, Harry pushed himself away from

it and ran, hard, in the opposite direction — the

Impediment Curse was not permanent; the skrewt

would be regaining the use of its legs at any moment.

He took a left path and hit a dead end, a right, and

hit another; forcing himself to stop, heart hammering,

he performed the Four-Point Spell again,

backtracked, and chose a path that would take him

northwest.

He had been hurrying along the new path for a few

minutes, when he heard something in the path

running parallel to his own that made him stop dead.

“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric’s voice. “What the

hell d’you think you’re doing?”

And then Harry heard Krum’s voice.

“Crucio!”

The air was suddenly full of Cedric’s yells. Horrified,

Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a

way into Cedric’s. When none appeared, he tried the

Reductor Curse again. It wasn’t very effective, but it

burned a small hole in the hedge through which

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Harry forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles and branches until they broke and made an opening;

he struggled through it, tearing his robes, and looking

to his right, saw Cedric jerking and twitching on the

ground, Krum standing over him.

Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at

Krum just as Krum looked up. Krum turned and

began to run.

“Stupefy!” Harry yelled.

The spell hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in

his tracks, fell forward, and lay motionless, facedown

in the grass. Harry dashed over to Cedric, who had

stopped twitching and was lying there panting, his

hands over his face.

“Are you all right?” Harry said roughly, grabbing

Cedric’s arm.

“Yeah,” panted Cedric. “Yeah … I don’t believe it … he

crept up behind me. … I heard him, I turned around,

and he had his wand on me. …”

Cedric got up. He was still shaking. He and Harry

looked down at Krum.

“I can’t believe this … I thought he was all right,”

Harry said, staring at Krum.

“So did I,” said Cedric.

“Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Cedric. “You don’t think Krum got her

too?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly.

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“Should we leave him here?” Cedric muttered.

“No,” said Harry. “I reckon we should send up red

sparks. Someone’ll come and collect him … otherwise

he’ll probably be eaten by a skrewt.”

“He’d deserve it,” Cedric muttered, but all the same,

he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks

into the air, which hovered high above Krum, marking

the spot where he lay.

Harry and Cedric stood there in the darkness for a

moment, looking around them. Then Cedric said,

“Well … I s’pose we’d better go on . …”

“What?” said Harry. “Oh … yeah … right …”

It was an odd moment. He and Cedric had been

briefly united against Krum — now the fact that they

were opponents came back to Harry. The two of them

proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then

Harry turned left, and Cedric right. Cedric’s footsteps

soon died away.

Harry moved on, continuing to use the Four-Point

Spell, making sure he was moving in the right

direction. It was between him and Cedric now. His

desire to reach the cup first was now burning

stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what

he’d just seen Krum do. The use of an Unforgivable

Curse on a fellow human being meant a life term in

Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum

surely couldn’t have wanted the Triwizard Cup that

badly. … Harry sped up.

Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the

increasing darkness made him feel sure he was

getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode

down a long, straight path, he saw movement once

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again, and his beam of wandlight hit an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form,

in his Monster Book of Monsters.

It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large lion:

great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in

a brown tuft. Its head, however, was that of a woman.

She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon Harry

as he approached. He raised his wand, hesitating.

She was not crouching as if to spring, but pacing

from side to side of the path, blocking his progress.

Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice.

“You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past

me.”

“So … so will you move, please?” said Harry, knowing

what the answer was going to be.

“No,” she said, continuing to pace. “Not unless you

can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess — I

let you pass. Answer wrongly — I attack. Remain

silent — I will let you walk away from me unscathed.”

Harry’s stomach slipped several notches. It was

Hermione who was good at this sort of thing, not him.

He weighed his chances. If the riddle was too hard, he

could keep silent, get away from the sphinx

unharmed, and try and find an alternative route to

the center.

“Okay,” he said. “Can I hear the riddle?”

The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very

middle of the path, and recited:

“First think of the person who lives in disguise,

Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies.

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Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend, The middle of middle and end of the end?

And finally give me the sound often heard

During the search for a hard-to-find word.

Now string them together, and answer me this,

Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?”

Harry gaped at her.

“Could I have it again … more slowly?” he asked

tentatively.

She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the poem.

“All the clues add up to a creature I wouldn’t want to

kiss?” Harry asked.

She merely smiled her mysterious smile. Harry took

that for a “yes.” Harry cast his mind around. There

were plenty of animals he wouldn’t want to kiss; his

immediate thought was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but

something told him that wasn’t the answer. He’d have

to try and work out the clues. …

“A person in disguise,” Harry muttered, staring at her,

“who lies … er … that’d be a — an imposter. No,

that’s not my guess! A — a spy? I’ll come back to that

… could you give me the next clue again, please?”

She repeated the next lines of the poem.

“ ‘The last thing to mend,’ ” Harry repeated. “Er … no

idea … ‘middle of middle’ … could I have the last bit

again?”

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She gave him the last four lines.

“ ‘The sound often heard during the search for a hard-

to-find word,’ ” said Harry. “Er … that’d be … er …

hang on — ‘er’! Er’s a sound!”

The sphinx smiled at him.

“Spy … er … spy … er …” said Harry, pacing up and

down. “A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss … a spider!”

The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up,

stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for

him to pass.

“Thanks!” said Harry, and, amazed at his own

brilliance, he dashed forward.

He had to be close now, he had to be. … His wand

was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he

didn’t meet anything too horrible, he might have a

chance. …

Harry broke into a run. He had a choice of paths up

ahead. “Point Me!” he whispered again to his wand,

and it spun around and pointed him to the right-

hand one. He dashed up this one and saw light

ahead.

The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a

hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled

out onto the path in front of him.

Cedric was going to get there first. Cedric was

sprinting as fast as he could toward the cup, and

Harry knew he would never catch up, Cedric was

much taller, had much longer legs —

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Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge to

his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected

with his own; it was moving so fast Cedric was about

to run into it, and Cedric, his eyes on the cup, had

not seen it —

“Cedric!” Harry bellowed. “On your left!”

Cedric looked around just in time to hurl himself past

the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste,

he tripped. Harry saw Cedric’s wand fly out of his

hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and

began to bear down upon Cedric.

“Stupefy!” Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider’s

gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did,

he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider

jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead.

“Stupefy! Impedimenta! Stupefy!”

But it was no use — the spider was either so large, or

so magical, that the spells were doing no more than

aggravating it. Harry had one horrifying glimpse of

eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers

before it was upon him.

He was lifted into the air in its front legs; struggling

madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the

pincers and next moment he was in excruciating

pain. He could hear Cedric yelling “Stupefy!” too, but

his spell had no more effect than Harry’s — Harry

raised his wand as the spider opened its pincers once

more and shouted “Expelliarmus!”

It worked — the Disarming Spell made the spider

drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet

onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath

him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the

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spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted “Stupefy!” just as Cedric yelled the same

thing.

The two spells combined did what one alone had not:

The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby

hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy

legs.

“Harry!” he heard Cedric shouting. “You all right? Did

it fall on you?”

“No,” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at

his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort

of thick, gluey secretion from the spider’s pincers on

his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was

shaking badly and did not want to support his weight.

He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and

looked around.

Cedric was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup,

which was gleaming behind him.

“Take it, then,” Harry panted to Cedric. “Go on, take

it. You’re there.”

But Cedric didn’t move. He merely stood there,

looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare at the cup.

Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its

golden light. Cedric looked around at Harry again,

who was now holding onto the hedge to support

himself. Cedric took a deep breath.

“You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve

saved my neck in here.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Harry said. He

felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all

over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all

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his efforts, Cedric had beaten him to it, just as he’d beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. “The one who

reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m

telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg.”

Cedric took a few paces nearer to the Stunned spider,

away from the cup, shaking his head.

“No,” he said.

“Stop being noble,” said Harry irritably. “Just take it,

then we can get out of here.”

Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight

to the hedge.

“You told me about the dragons,” Cedric said. “I

would’ve gone down in the first task if you hadn’t told

me what was coming.”

“I had help on that too,” Harry snapped, trying to mop

up his bloody leg with his robes. “You helped me with

the egg — we’re square.”

“I had help on the egg in the first place,” said Cedric.

“We’re still square,” said Harry, testing his leg

gingerly; it shook violently as he put weight on it; he

had sprained his ankle when the spider had dropped

him.

“You should’ve got more points on the second task,”

said Cedric mulishly. “You stayed behind to get all the

hostages. I should’ve done that.”

“I was the only one who was thick enough to take that

song seriously!” said Harry bitterly. “Just take the

cup!”

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“No,” said Cedric.

He stepped over the spider’s tangled legs to join

Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was serious. He was

walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House

hadn’t had in centuries.

“Go on,” Cedric said. He looked as though this was

costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his

face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed

decided.

Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one shining

moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze,

holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup

aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw Cho’s face

shining with admiration, more clearly than he had

ever seen it before … and then the picture faded, and

he found himself staring at Cedric’s shadowy,

stubborn face.

“Both of us,” Harry said.

“What?”

“We’ll take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts

victory. We’ll tie for it.”

Cedric stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms.

“You — you sure?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah … we’ve helped each other

out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it

together.”

For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn’t

believe his ears; then his face split in a grin.

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“You’re on,” he said. “Come here.”

He grabbed Harry’s arm below the shoulder and

helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup

stood. When they had reached it, they both held a

hand out over one of the cup’s gleaming handles.

“On three, right?” said Harry. “One — two — three —”

He and Cedric both grasped a handle.

Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his

navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not

unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was

pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling

color, Cedric at his side.

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FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured

leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of

the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head.

“Where are we?” he said.

Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his

feet, and they looked around.

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they

had obviously traveled miles — perhaps hundreds of

miles — for even the mountains surrounding the

castle were gone. They were standing instead in a

dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a

small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to

their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry

could just make out the outline of a fine old house on

the hillside.

Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up

at Harry.

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“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he asked.

“Nope,” said Harry. He was looking around the

graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie.

“Is this supposed to be part of the task?”

“I dunno,” said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous.

“Wands out, d’you reckon?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the

suggestion rather than him.

They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking

around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling

that they were being watched.

“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched

the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward

them between the graves. Harry couldn’t make out a

face, but from the way it was walking and holding its

arms, he could tell that it was carrying something.

Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded

cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And

— several paces nearer, the gap between them closing

all the time — Harry saw that the thing in the

person’s arms looked like a baby … or was it merely a

bundle of robes?

Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways

at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both

turned back to watch the approaching figure.

It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only

six feet from them. For a second, Harry and Cedric

and the short figure simply looked at one another.

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And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded

with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in

all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put

his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on

the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head

was about to split open.

From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold

voice say, “Kill the spare. ”

A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched

the words to the night: “Avada Kedavra!”

A blast of green light blazed through Harry’s eyelids,

and he heard something heavy fall to the ground

beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch

that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of

what he was about to see, he opened his stinging

eyes.

Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside

him. He was dead.

For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared

into Cedric’s face, at his open gray eyes, blank and

expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at

his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised.

And then, before Harry’s mind had accepted what he

was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb

disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle,

lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the

marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it

flickering in the wandlight before he was forced

around and slammed against it.

TOM RIDDLE

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The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords

around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the

headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing

from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the

man hit him — hit him with a hand that had a finger

missing. And Harry realized who was under the hood.

It was Wormtail.

“You!” he gasped.

But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes,

did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of

the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably,

fumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was

bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t

move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black

material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it

roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he

turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn’t

make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had

gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the

headstone; he could see only what was right in front

of him.

Cedric’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some

way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the

Triwizard Cup. Harry’s wand was on the ground at

Cedric’s feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had

thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the

grave. It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched

it, and his scar seared with pain again … and he

suddenly knew that he didn’t want to see what was in

those robes … he didn’t want that bundle opened. …

He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and

saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass,

circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail’s

fast, wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It

sounded as though he was forcing something heavy

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across the ground. Then he came back within Harry’s range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone

cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what

seemed to be water — Harry could hear it slopping

around — and it was larger than any cauldron Harry

had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a

full-grown man to sit in.

The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground

was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying

to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at

the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly

there were crackling flames beneath it. The large

snake slithered away into the darkness.

The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast.

The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out

fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was

thickening, blurring the outline of Wormtail tending

the fire. The movements beneath the robes became

more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice

again.

“Hurry!”

The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks

now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds.

“It is ready, Master.”

“Now …” said the cold voice.

Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground,

revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a

yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking

his mouth.

It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone

and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind — but

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worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail

had been carrying had the shape of a crouched

human child, except that Harry had never seen

anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-

looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs

were thin and feeble, and its face — no child alive

ever had a face like that — flat and snakelike, with

gleaming red eyes.

The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin

arms, put them around Wormtail’s neck, and

Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back,

and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Wormtail’s

weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the

creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment,

Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks

dancing on the surface of the potion. And then

Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron;

there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface;

Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft

thud.

Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost

past endurance, please … let it drown. …

Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed

frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand,

closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.

“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew

your son!”

The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked.

Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose

into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into

the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke

and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned

a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

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And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His

voice broke into petrified sobs.

“Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will

— revive — your master. ”

He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the

hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger

very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward.

Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a

second before it happened — he closed his eyes as

tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream

that pierced the night, that went through Harry as

though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He

heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s

anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as

something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry

couldn’t stand to look … but the potion had turned a

burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s

closed eyelids…

Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not

until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his

face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of

him.

“B-blood of the enemy … forcibly taken … you will …

resurrect your foe. ”

Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too

tightly. … Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at

the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver

dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt

its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and

blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes.

Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his

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pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it.

He staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood.

He poured it inside. The liquid within turned,

instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done,

dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then

slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the

bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond

sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it

turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing

happened. …

Let it have drowned, Harry thought, let it have gone

wrong. …

And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the

cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam

billowed thickly from the cauldron instead,

obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he

couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor

hanging in the air… It’s gone wrong, he thought … it’s

drowned … please … please let it be dead…

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw,

with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man,

tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the

cauldron.

“Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the

steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still

cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the

black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached

up, and pulled them one-handed over his master’s

head.

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The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry … and Harry stared back into the face that had

haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a

skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that

was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils …

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

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THE DEATH EATERS

Voldemort looked away from Harry and began

examining his own body. His hands were like large,

pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own

chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils

were slits, like a cat’s, gleamed still more brightly

through the darkness. He held up his hands and

flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant.

He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay

twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great

snake, which had slithered back into sight and was

circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of

those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep

pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently

too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail,

who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the

headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of

it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort

turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high,

cold, mirthless laugh.

Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had

wrapped the stump of his arm in them.

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“My Lord …” he choked, “my Lord … you promised …

you did promise …”

“Hold out your arm,” said Voldemort lazily.

“Oh Master … thank you, Master …”

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort

laughed again.

“The other arm, Wormtail.”

“Master, please … please …”

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left

arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past

his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin

there, something like a vivid red tattoo — a skull with

a snake protruding from its mouth — the image that

had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup:

the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully,

ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

“It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it

… and now, we shall see … now we shall know …”

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on

Wormtail’s arm.

The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp

pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl;

Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark,

and Harry saw that it had turned jet black.

A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort

straightened up, threw back his head, and stared

around at the dark graveyard.

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“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed

upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough

to stay away?”

He began to pace up and down before Harry and

Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while.

After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again,

a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late

father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool … very

like your dear mother. But they both had their uses,

did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a

child … and I killed my father, and see how useful he

has proved himself, in death. …”

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced,

looking all around him as he walked, and the snake

continued to circle in the grass.

“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My

father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here

in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned

her when she told him what she was. … He didn’t like

magic, my father …

“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before

I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to

me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage …

but I vowed to find him … I revenged myself upon

him, that fool who gave me his name … Tom Riddle.

…”

Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to

grave.

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“Listen to me, reliving family history …” he said

quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental. … But

look, Harry! My true family returns. …”

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks.

Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every

shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them

were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved

forward … slowly, cautiously, as though they could

hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence,

waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to

his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the

hem of his black robes.

“Master … Master …” he murmured.

The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of

them approaching Voldemort on his knees and

kissing his robes, before backing away and standing

up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom

Riddle’s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and

twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps

in the circle, as though waiting for more people.

Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He

looked around at the hooded faces, and though there

was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the

circle, as though it had shivered.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” said Voldemort quietly.

“Thirteen years … thirteen years since last we met.

Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday.

… We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or

are we?”

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like

nostrils widening.

“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench of guilt

upon the air.”

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A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back

from him.

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers

intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask

myself … why did this band of wizards never come to

the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal

loyalty?”

No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who

was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding

arm.

“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, “they

must have believed me broken, they thought I was

gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they

pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment.

…

“And then I ask myself, but how could they have

believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the

steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal

death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of

my power in the times when I was mightier than any

wizard living?

“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still

greater power could exist, one that could vanquish

even Lord Voldemort … perhaps they now pay

allegiance to another … perhaps that champion of

commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus

Dumbledore?”

At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members

of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook

their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

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“It is a disappointment to me … I confess myself

disappointed. …”

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward,

breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he

collapsed at Voldemort’s feet.

“Master!” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us

all!”

Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand.

“Crucio!”

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked;

Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses

around. … Let the police come, he thought desperately

… anyone … anything …

Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater

lay flat upon the ground, gasping.

“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You

ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget.

Thirteen long years … I want thirteen years’

repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has

paid some of his debt already, have you not,

Wormtail?”

He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob.

“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear

of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail.

You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” moaned Wormtail, “please, Master …

please …”

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“Yet you helped return me to my body,” said

Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the

ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you

helped me … and Lord Voldemort rewards his

helpers. …”

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it

through the air. A streak of what looked like molten

silver hung shining in the wand’s wake. Momentarily

shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a

gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as

moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself

upon Wormtail’s bleeding wrist.

Wormtail’s sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing

harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in

disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly

to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling

glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling,

picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it

into powder.

“My Lord,” he whispered. “Master … it is beautiful …

thank you … thank you. …”

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the

hem of Voldemort’s robes.

“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” said

Voldemort.

“No, my Lord … never, my Lord …”

Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle,

staring at his powerful new hand, his face still

shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the

man on Wormtail’s right.

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“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting before him. “I am told that you have not renounced

the old ways, though to the world you present a

respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in

a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried

to find me, Lucius. … Your exploits at the Quidditch

World Cup were fun, I daresay … but might not your

energies have been better directed toward finding and

aiding your master?”

“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” came Lucius

Malfoy’s voice swiftly from beneath the hood. “Had

there been any sign from you, any whisper of your

whereabouts, I would have been at your side

immediately, nothing could have prevented me —”

“And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful

Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?” said

Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking

abruptly. “Yes, I know all about that, Lucius. … You

have disappointed me. … I expect more faithful

service in the future.”

“Of course, my Lord, of course. … You are merciful,

thank you. …”

Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the

space — large enough for two people — that

separated Malfoy and the next man.

“The Lestranges should stand here,” said Voldemort

quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They

were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than

renounce me. … When Azkaban is broken open, the

Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The

dementors will join us … they are our natural allies …

we will recall the banished giants … I shall have all

my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of

creatures whom all fear. …”

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He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to

them.

“Macnair … destroying dangerous beasts for the

Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall

have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord

Voldemort will provide. …”

“Thank you, Master … thank you,” murmured

Macnair.

“And here” — Voldemort moved on to the two largest

hooded figures — “we have Crabbe … you will do

better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you,

Goyle?”

They bowed clumsily, muttering dully.

“Yes, Master …”

“We will, Master. …”

“The same goes for you, Nott,” said Voldemort quietly

as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyle’s

shadow.

“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your

most faithful —”

“That will do,” said Voldemort.

He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood

surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he

could see people standing there.

“And here we have six missing Death Eaters … three

dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return … he

will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever … he

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will be killed, of course … and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered

my service.”

The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw their eyes

dart sideways at one another through their masks.

“He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was

through his efforts that our young friend arrived here

tonight. …

“Yes,” said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth

as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry’s direction.

“Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing

party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of

honor.”

There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right

of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy’s

voice spoke from under the mask.

“Master, we crave to know … we beg you to tell us …

how you have achieved this … this miracle … how

you managed to return to us. …”

“Ah, what a story it is, Lucius,” said Voldemort. “And

it begins — and ends — with my young friend here.”

He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that

the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of

them. The snake continued to circle.

“You know, of course, that they have called this boy

my downfall?” Voldemort said softly, his red eyes

upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that

he almost screamed in agony. “You all know that on

the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill

him. His mother died in the attempt to save him —

and unwittingly provided him with a protection I

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admit I had not foreseen. … I could not touch the

boy.”

Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put

it very close to Harry’s cheek.

“His mother left upon him the traces of her sacrifice.

… This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I

was foolish to overlook it … but no matter. I can

touch him now.”

Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch

him, and thought his head would burst with the pain.

Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the

finger away and continued addressing the Death

Eaters.

“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was

deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it

rebounded upon myself. Aaah … pain beyond pain,

my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I

was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less

than the meanest ghost … but still, I was alive. What

I was, even I do not know … I, who have gone further

than anybody along the path that leads to

immortality. You know my goal — to conquer death.

And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or

more of my experiments had worked … for I had not

been killed, though the curse should have done it.

Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest

creature alive, and without the means to help myself

… for I had no body, and every spell that might have

helped me required the use of a wand. …

“I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly,

endlessly, second by second, to exist. … I settled in a

faraway place, in a forest, and I waited. … Surely, one

of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me …

one of them would come and perform the magic I

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could not, to restore me to a body … but I waited in vain. …”

The shiver ran once more around the circle of

listening Death Eaters. Voldemort let the silence

spiral horribly before continuing.

“Only one power remained to me. I could possess the

bodies of others. But I dared not go where other

humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors

were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes

inhabited animals — snakes, of course, being my

preference — but I was little better off inside them

than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to

perform magic … and my possession of them

shortened their lives; none of them lasted long. …

“Then … four years ago … the means for my return

seemed assured. A wizard — young, foolish, and

gullible — wandered across my path in the forest I

had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I

had been dreaming of … for he was a teacher at

Dumbledore’s school … he was easy to bend to my

will … he brought me back to this country, and after

a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise

him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan

failed. I did not manage to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. I

was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted …

thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter. …”

Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the

leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters were quite

motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed

upon Voldemort, and upon Harry.

“The servant died when I left his body, and I was left

as weak as ever I had been,” Voldemort continued. “I

returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not

pretend to you that I didn’t then fear that I might

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never regain my powers. … Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour … I could not hope that I would be sent

another wizard to possess … and I had given up hope,

now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had

become of me. …”

One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved

uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice.

“And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost

abandoned hope, it happened at last … a servant

returned to me. Wormtail here, who had faked his

own death to escape justice, was driven out of hiding

by those he had once counted friends, and decided to

return to his master. He sought me in the country

where it had long been rumored I was hiding …

helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way.

Wormtail has a curious affinity with rats, do you not,

Wormtail? His filthy little friends told him there was a

place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided,

where small animals like themselves had met their

deaths by a dark shadow that possessed them. …

“But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it,

Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the

very forest where he had hoped to find me, he

foolishly stopped at an inn for some food … and who

should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a

witch from the Ministry of Magic.

“Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort.

This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my

last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail — displaying

a presence of mind I would never have expected from

him — convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him

on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her … he

brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might

have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my

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wildest dreams … for — with a little persuasion — she became a veritable mine of information.

“She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be

played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she

knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too

willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She

told me many things … but the means I used to break

the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and

when I had extracted all useful information from her,

her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair.

She had now served her purpose. I could not possess

her. I disposed of her.”

Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes

blank and pitiless.

“Wormtail’s body, of course, was ill adapted for

possession, as all assumed him dead, and would

attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he

was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor

wizard though he is, Wormtail was able to follow the

instructions I gave him, which would return me to a

rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be

able to inhabit while awaiting the essential

ingredients for true rebirth … a spell or two of my

own invention … a little help from my dear Nagini,”

Voldemort’s red eyes fell upon the continually circling

snake, “a potion concocted from unicorn blood, and

the snake venom Nagini provided … I was soon

returned to an almost human form, and strong

enough to travel.

“There was no hope of stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone

anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have

seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to

embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality.

I set my sights lower … I would settle for my old body

back again, and my old strength.

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“I knew that to achieve this — it is an old piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight — I

would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of

them was already at hand, was it not, Wormtail?

Flesh given by a servant. …

“My father’s bone, naturally, meant that we would

have to come here, where he was buried. But the

blood of a foe … Wormtail would have had me use any

wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any wizard who

had hated me … as so many of them still do. But I

knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more

powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted

Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one

who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago …

for the lingering protection his mother once gave him

would then reside in my veins too. …

“But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been

better protected than I think even he knows,

protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago,

when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s future.

Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the

boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care.

Not even I can touch him there. … Then, of course,

there was the Quidditch World Cup. … I thought his

protection might be weaker there, away from his

relations and Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong

enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of a horde of

Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to

Hogwarts, where he is under the crooked nose of that

Muggle-loving fool from morning until night. So how

could I take him?

“Why … by using Bertha Jorkins’s information, of

course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at

Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy’s name was entered

into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure

that the boy won the tournament — that he touched

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the Triwizard Cup first — the cup which my Death

Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring

him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore’s help and

protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is

… the boy you all believed had been my downfall…”

Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face

Harry. He raised his wand.

“Crucio!”

It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever

experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was

surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling

madly in his head; he wanted it to end … to black out

… to die …

And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the

ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort’s

father, looking up into those bright red eyes through

a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound

of the Death Eaters’ laughter.

“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that

this boy could ever have been stronger than me,” said

Voldemort. “But I want there to be no mistake in

anybody’s mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky

chance. And I am now going to prove my power by

killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when

there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to

die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be

allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt

which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer,

Nagini,” he whispered, and the snake glided away

through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood

watching.

“Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his

wand.”

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PRIORI INCANTATEM

Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find

his feet, to support his own weight before the ropes

were untied. Wormtail raised his new silver hand,

pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and

then, with one swipe, cut through the bonds tying

Harry to the gravestone.

There was a split second, perhaps, when Harry might

have considered running for it, but his injured leg

shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave,

as the Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter

circle around him and Voldemort, so that the gaps

where the missing Death Eaters should have stood

were filled. Wormtail walked out of the circle to the

place where Cedric’s body lay and returned with

Harry’s wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry’s

hand without looking at him. Then Wormtail resumed

his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters.

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?”

said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through

the darkness.

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At these words Harry remembered, as though from a

former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had

attended briefly two years ago. … All he had learned

there was the Disarming Spell, “Expelliarmus” … and

what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his

wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by

Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one?

He had never learned anything that could possibly fit

him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against

which Moody had always warned … the un-blockable

Avada Kedavra curse — and Voldemort was right —

his mother was not here to die for him this time. …

He was quite unprotected. …

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort,

bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face

upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be

observed. … Dumbledore would like you to show

manners. … Bow to death, Harry. …”

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort’s

lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was

not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing

him … he was not going to give him that satisfaction.

…

“I said, bow, ” Voldemort said, raising his wand — and

Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible

hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the

Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.

“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised

his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted

too. “And now you face me, like a man … straight-

backed and proud, the way your father died. …

“And now — we duel.”

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Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even

move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse.

The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no

longer knew where he was. … White-hot knives were

piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely

going to burst with pain, he was screaming more

loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life —

And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled

to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as

Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off;

he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death

Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward

Voldemort.

“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils

dilating with excitement, “a little pause … That hurt,

didn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do that again,

do you?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was going to die like Cedric,

those pitiless red eyes were telling him so … he was

going to die, and there was nothing he could do about

it… but he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going

to obey Voldemort … he wasn’t going to beg. …

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,”

said Voldemort softly. “Answer me! Imperio!”

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the

sensation that his mind had been wiped of all

thought. … Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as

though he were floating, dreaming … just answer no

… say no … just answer no. …

I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his

head, I won’t answer. …

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Just answer no. …

I won’t do it, I won’t say it. …

Just answer no. …

“I WON’T!”

And these words burst from Harry’s mouth; they

echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state

was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been

thrown over him — back rushed the aches that the

Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body — back

rushed the realization of where he was, and what he

was facing. …

“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death

Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no?

Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before

you die. … Perhaps another little dose of pain?”

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was

ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch

training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground;

he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort’s

father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed

him.

“We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” said

Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the

Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide from me.

Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this

mean that you would prefer me to finish it now,

Harry? Come out, Harry … come out and play, then

… it will be quick … it might even be painless … I

would not know … I have never died. …”

Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the

end had come. There was no hope … no help to be

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had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or

reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a

child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die

kneeling at Voldemort’s feet … he was going to die

upright like his father, and he was going to die trying

to defend himself, even if no defense was possible. …

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face

around the headstone, Harry stood up … he gripped

his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of

him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing

Voldemort.

Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted,

“Expelliarmus!” Voldemort cried, “Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light issued from Voldemort’s wand just

as a jet of red light blasted from Harry’s — they met

in midair — and suddenly Harry’s wand was vibrating

as though an electric charge were surging through it;

his hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have

released it if he’d wanted to — and a narrow beam of

light connected the two wands, neither red nor green,

but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with

his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort’s long white

fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking

and vibrating.

And then — nothing could have prepared Harry for

this — he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and

Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their

wands still connected by that thread of shimmering

golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of

Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch

of ground that was clear and free of graves. … The

Death Eaters were shouting; they were asking

Voldemort for instructions; they were closing in,

reforming the circle around Harry and Voldemort, the

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snake slithering at their heels, some of them drawing their wands —

The golden thread connecting Harry and Voldemort

splintered; though the wands remained connected, a

thousand more beams arced high over Harry and

Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they

were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage

of light, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like

jackals, their cries strangely muffled now. …

“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death

Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with

astonishment at what was happening, saw him

fighting to break the thread of light still connecting

his wand with Harry’s; Harry held onto his wand

more tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread

remained unbroken. “Do nothing unless I command

you!” Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.

And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the

air. … It was coming from every thread of the light-

spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It

was a sound Harry recognized, though he had heard

it only once before in his life: phoenix song.

It was the sound of hope to Harry … the most

beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his

life. … He felt as though the song were inside him

instead of just around him. … It was the sound he

connected with Dumbledore, and it was almost as

though a friend were speaking in his ear. …

Don’t break the connection.

I know, Harry told the music, I know I mustn’t … but

no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became

much harder to do. His wand began to vibrate more

powerfully than ever … and now the beam between

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him and Voldemort changed too … it was as though

large beads of light were sliding up and down the

thread connecting the wands — Harry felt his wand

give a shudder under his hand as the light beads

began to slide slowly and steadily his way. … The

direction of the beam’s movement was now toward

him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder

angrily. …

As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harry’s

wand tip, the wood beneath his fingers grew so hot he

feared it would burst into flame. The closer that bead

moved, the harder Harry’s wand vibrated; he was sure

his wand would not survive contact with it; it felt as

though it was about to shatter under his fingers —

He concentrated every last particle of his mind upon

forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his ears full

of phoenix song, his eyes furious, fixed … and slowly,

very slowly, the beads quivered to a halt, and then,

just as slowly, they began to move the other way …

and it was Voldemort’s wand that was vibrating extra-

hard now … Voldemort who looked astonished, and

almost fearful. …

One of the beads of light was quivering, inches from

the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Harry didn’t understand

why he was doing it, didn’t know what it might

achieve … but he now concentrated as he had never

done in his life on forcing that bead of light right back

into Voldemort’s wand … and slowly … very slowly …

it moved along the golden thread … it trembled for a

moment… and then it connected. …

At once, Voldemort’s wand began to emit echoing

screams of pain … then — Voldemort’s red eyes

widened with shock — a dense, smoky hand flew out

of the tip of it and vanished … the ghost of the hand

he had made Wormtail … more shouts of pain … and

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then something much larger began to blossom from

Voldemort’s wand tip, a great, grayish something,

that looked as though it were made of the solidest,

densest smoke. … It was a head … now a chest and

arms … the torso of Cedric Diggory.

If ever Harry might have released his wand from

shock, it would have been then, but instinct kept him

clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of

golden light remained unbroken, even though the

thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory ( was it a ghost? it

looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of

Voldemort’s wand, as though it were squeezing itself

out of a very narrow tunnel … and this shade of

Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the golden

thread of light, and spoke.

“Hold on, Harry,” it said.

Its voice was distant and echoing. Harry looked at

Voldemort … his wide red eyes were still shocked …

he had no more expected this than Harry had … and,

very dimly, Harry heard the frightened yells of the

Death Eaters, prowling around the edges of the

golden dome. …

More screams of pain from the wand … and then

something else emerged from its tip … the dense

shadow of a second head, quickly followed by arms

and torso … an old man Harry had seen only in a

dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the

wand just as Cedric had done … and his ghost, or his

shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to Cedric’s, and

surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web,

and the connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning

on his walking stick. …

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“He was a real wizard, then?” the old man said, his eyes on Voldemort. “Killed me, that one did. … You

fight him, boy. …”

But already, yet another head was emerging … and

this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman’s. …

Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep

his wand still, saw her drop to the ground and

straighten up like the others, staring. …

The shadow of Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle

before her with wide eyes.

“Don’t let go, now!” she cried, and her voice echoed

like Cedric’s as though from very far away. “Don’t let

him get you, Harry — don’t let go!”

She and the other two shadowy figures began to pace

around the inner walls of the golden web, while the

Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it … and

Voldemort’s dead victims whispered as they circled

the duelers, whispered words of encouragement to

Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn’t hear to

Voldemort.

And now another head was emerging from the tip of

Voldemort’s wand … and Harry knew when he saw it

who it would be … he knew, as though he had

expected it from the moment when Cedric had

appeared from the wand … knew, because the woman

was the one he’d thought of more than any other

tonight. …

The smoky shadow of a young woman with long hair

fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened

up, and looked at him … and Harry, his arms shaking

madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his

mother.

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“Your father’s coming …” she said quietly. “Hold on for your father … it will be all right … hold on. …”

And he came … first his head, then his body … tall

and untidy-haired like Harry, the smoky, shadowy

form of James Potter blossomed from the end of

Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and

straightened like his wife. He walked close to Harry,

looking down at him, and he spoke in the same

distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so

that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his

victims prowled around him, could not hear. …

“When the connection is broken, we will linger for

only moments … but we will give you time … you

must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts

… do you understand, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on

his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his

fingers.

“Harry …” whispered the figure of Cedric, “take my

body back, will you? Take my body back to my

parents. …”

“I will,” said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort

of holding the wand.

“Do it now,” whispered his father’s voice, “be ready to

run … do it now. …”

“NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn’t think he could have

held on for another moment anyway — he pulled his

wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the

golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the

phoenix song died — but the shadowy figures of

Voldemort’s victims did not disappear — they were

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closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze —

And Harry ran as he had never run in his life,

knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he

passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their

curses following him, hearing them hit the

headstones — he was dodging curses and graves,

pelting toward Cedric’s body, no longer aware of the

pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what

he had to do —

“Stun him!” he heard Voldemort scream.

Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble

angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of

its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand

more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel —

“Impedimenta!” he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly

over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him.

From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at

least one of them, but there was no time to stop and

look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard

more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew

over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to

grab Cedric’s arm —

“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked

Voldemort.

Harry’s hand had closed on Cedric’s wrist; one

tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but

Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of

reach —

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Voldemort’s red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his

wand.

“Accio!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the

Triwizard Cup.

It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry

caught it by the handle —

He heard Voldemort’s scream of fury at the same

moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that

meant the Portkey had worked — it was speeding him

away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along

with him. … They were going back.

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VERITASERUM

Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face

was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his

nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey

transported him, and he kept them closed now. He

did not move. All the breath seemed to have been

knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly

he felt as though the ground beneath him were

swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself

steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he

was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Tri-

wizard Cup and Cedric’s body. He felt as though he

would slide away into the blackness gathering at the

edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock

and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in

the smell of the grass, waiting … waiting for someone

to do something … something to happen … and all

the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead. …

A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there

were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. … He

remained where he was, his face screwed up against

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the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass. …

Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned

him over.

“Harry! Harry!”

He opened his eyes.

He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus

Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark

shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around

them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath

his head reverberating with their footsteps.

He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could

see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people

moving in them, the stars above.

Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Cedric to him

even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized

Dumbledore’s wrist, while Dumbledore’s face swam in

and out of focus.

“He’s back,” Harry whispered. “He’s back. Voldemort.”

“What’s going on? What’s happened?”

The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down

over Harry; it looked white, appalled.

“My God — Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore —

he’s dead!”

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures

pressing in on them gasped it to those around them

… and then others shouted it — screeched it — into

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the night — “He’s dead!” “He’s dead!” “Cedric Diggory!

Dead!”

“Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge’s voice say, and

he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric’s limp

body, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. Then

Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and

misted, came closer.

“Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.”

“He wanted me to bring him back,” Harry muttered —

it seemed important to explain this. “He wanted me to

bring him back to his parents. …”

“That’s right, Harry … just let go now. …”

Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary

strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from

the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His

head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer

support his weight. The crowd around them jostled,

fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him —

“What’s happened?” “What’s wrong with him?”

“Diggory’s dead!”

“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was

saying loudly. “He’s ill, he’s injured — Dumbledore,

Diggory’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands.

…”

“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him —”

“No, I would prefer —”

“Dumbledore, Amos Diggory’s running … he’s coming

over. … Don’t you think you should tell him — before

he sees — ?”

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“Harry, stay here —”

Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically. … The

scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes. …

“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you … come on … hospital

wing …”

“Dumbledore said stay,” said Harry thickly, the

pounding in his scar making him feel as though he

was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse

than ever.

“You need to lie down. … Come on now. …”

Someone larger and stronger than he was was half

pulling, half carrying him through the frightened

crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and

shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path

through them, taking him back to the castle. Across

the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship,

Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the

man helping him walk.

“What happened, Harry?” the man asked at last as he

lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

It was Mad-Eye Moody.

“Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the

entrance hall. “Took me and Cedric to a graveyard …

and Voldemort was there … Lord Voldemort …”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs …

“The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?”

“Killed Cedric … they killed Cedric. …”

“And then?”

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Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor …

“Made a potion … got his body back. …”

“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?”

“And the Death Eaters came … and then we dueled.

…”

“You dueled with the Dark Lord?”

“Got away … my wand … did something funny. … I

saw my mum and dad … they came out of his wand.

…”

“In here, Harry … in here, and sit down. … You’ll be

all right now … drink this. …”

Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup

being pushed into his hands.

“Drink it … you’ll feel better … come on, now, Harry, I

need to know exactly what happened. …”

Moody helped tip the stuff down Harry’s throat; he

coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody’s

office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody

himself. … He looked as white as Fudge had looked,

and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry’s

face.

“Voldemort’s back, Harry? You’re sure he’s back? How

did he do it?”

“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from

Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. His head felt clearer;

his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see

Moody’s face distinctly, even though the office was

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dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting

from the distant Quidditch field.

“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody.

“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was

ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it.

Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss.

“And the Death Eaters? They returned?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them …”

“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did

he forgive them?”

But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have

told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway

—

“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death

Eater here — they put my name in the Goblet of Fire,

they made sure I got through to the end —”

Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back

down.

“I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly.

“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have

you got him? Is he locked up?”

“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh.

“Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark

burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful

supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them …

but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of

tracking his enemies.”

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“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then — he didn’t put my name in the goblet?”

“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who

did that.”

Harry heard, but didn’t believe.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that … you

can’t have done …”

“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye

swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry

knew he was making sure that there was no one

outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his

wand and pointed it at Harry.

“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters

who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?”

“What?” said Harry.

He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at

him. This was a bad joke, it had to be.

“I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave

the scum who never even went to look for him. Those

treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave

Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth

who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the

Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark

Mark when I fired it into the sky.”

“You fired … What are you talking about … ?”

“I told you, Harry … I told you. If there’s one thing I

hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who

walked free. They turned their backs on my master

when he needed them most. I expected him to punish

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them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry. …” Moody’s face was suddenly lit with

an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone

remained faithful … prepared to risk everything to

deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all …

you. ”

“You didn’t … it — it can’t be you. …”

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the

name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off

every person I thought might try to hurt you or

prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who

nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did.

Who helped you see the only way you could beat the

dragon? I did. ”

Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was

fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more

widely than ever.

“It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these

tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use

every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand

would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore

would have been very suspicious if you had managed

everything too easily. As long as you got into that

maze, preferably with a decent head start — then, I

knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the

other champions and leaving your way clear. But I

also had to contend with your stupidity. The second

task … that was when I was most afraid we would

fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you

hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you

another hint —”

“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the

clue —”

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“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I

trusted that he would pass the information on to you.

Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was

sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him

about the dragons, and so he did. But even then,

Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was

watching all the time … all those hours in the library.

Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in

your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I

gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember?

Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would

have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed.

I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could

for help. Longbottom would have told you in an

instant. But you did not … you did not. … You have a

streak of pride and independence that might have

ruined all.

“So what could I do? Feed you information from

another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball

a house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas

present. I called the elf to the staffroom to collect

some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation

with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who

had been taken, and whether Potter would think to

use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to

Snape’s office and then hurried to find you. …”

Moody’s wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s

heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in

the Foe-Glass on the wall.

“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you

had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your

idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I

breathed again.

“You had an easier time of it than you should have in

that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was

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patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way.

I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the

Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish

Diggory and leave your path to the cup clear.”

Harry stared at Moody. He just didn’t see how this

could be. … Dumbledore’s friend, the famous Auror

… the one who had caught so many Death Eaters …

It made no sense … no sense at all. …

The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening,

had become more distinct. Harry could see the

outlines of three people over Moody’s shoulder,

moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn’t watching

them. His magical eye was upon Harry.

“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you, Potter, and

he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he

will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I

gave you to him — the thing he needed above all to

regenerate — and then I killed you for him. I will be

honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his

dearest, his closest supporter … closer than a son. …”

Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye

fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry

knew he would never reach his own wand in time. …

“The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked

completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering

down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for

instance, had very disappointing fathers … very

disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the

indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers.

And both of us had the pleasure … the very great

pleasure … of killing our fathers to ensure the

continued rise of the Dark Order!”

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“You’re mad,” Harry said — he couldn’t stop himself

— “you’re mad!”

“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising

uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now

that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side!

He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him —

and now — I conquer you!”

Moody raised his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry

plunged his own hand into his robes —

“Stupefy!” There was a blinding flash of red light, and

with a great splintering and crashing, the door of

Moody’s office was blasted apart —

Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor.

Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face

had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape,

and Professor McGonagall looking back at him out of

the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of

them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front,

his wand outstretched.

At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first

time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard

Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon

Dumbledore’s face as he stared down at the

unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more

terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There

was no benign smile upon Dumbledore’s face, no

twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was

cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of

power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were

giving off burning heat.

He stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath

Moody’s unconscious body, and kicked him over onto

his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed

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him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room. Professor

McGonagall went straight to Harry.

“Come along, Potter,” she whispered. The thin line of

her mouth was twitching as though she was about to

cry. “Come along … hospital wing …”

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply.

“Dumbledore, he ought to — look at him — he’s been

through enough tonight —”

“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to

understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding

is the first step to acceptance, and only with

acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know

who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered

tonight, and why.”

“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of

complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?”

“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly.

“You have never known Alastor Moody. The real

Moody would not have removed you from my sight

after what happened tonight. The moment he took

you, I knew — and I followed.”

Dumbledore bent down over Moody’s limp form and

put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out Moody’s

hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned

to Professors McGonagall and Snape.

“Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion

you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and

bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly

go down to Hagrid’s house, where you will find a large

black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog

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up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, then come back here.”

If either Snape or McGonagall found these

instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both

turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore walked

over to the trunk with seven locks, fitted the first key

in the lock, and opened it. It contained a mass of

spell-books. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a

second key in the second lock, and opened the trunk

again. The spellbooks had vanished; this time it

contained an assortment of broken Sneako-scopes,

some parchment and quills, and what looked like a

silvery Invisibility Cloak. Harry watched, astounded,

as Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and

sixth keys in their respective locks, reopening the

trunk, and each time revealing different contents.

Then he placed the seventh key in the lock, threw

open the lid, and Harry let out a cry of amazement.

He was looking down into a kind of pit, an

underground room, and lying on the floor some ten

feet below, apparently fast asleep, thin and starved in

appearance, was the real Mad-Eye Moody. His

wooden leg was gone, the socket that should have

held the magical eye looked empty beneath its lid,

and chunks of his grizzled hair were missing. Harry

stared, thunderstruck, between the sleeping Moody in

the trunk and the unconscious Moody lying on the

floor of the office.

Dumbledore climbed into the trunk, lowered himself,

and fell lightly onto the floor beside the sleeping

Moody. He bent over him.

“Stunned — controlled by the Imperius Curse — very

weak,” he said. “Of course, they would have needed to

keep him alive. Harry, throw down the imposter’s

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cloak — he’s freezing. Madam Pomfrey will need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger.”

Harry did as he was told; Dumbledore covered Moody

in the cloak, tucked it around him, and clambered

out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip

flask that stood upon the desk, unscrewed it, and

turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto

the office floor.

“Polyjuice Potion, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “You see

the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. For Moody

never does drink except from his hip flask, he’s well

known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep

the real Moody close by, so that he could continue

making the potion. You see his hair …” Dumbledore

looked down on the Moody in the trunk. “The

imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it

is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight,

our fake Moody might have forgotten to take it as

frequently as he should have done … on the hour …

every hour. … We shall see.”

Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat

down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious

Moody on the floor. Harry stared at him too. Minutes

passed in silence. …

Then, before Harry’s very eyes, the face of the man on

the floor began to change. The scars were

disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the

mangled nose became whole and started to shrink.

The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing

into the scalp and turning the color of straw.

Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away

as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the

magical eyeball had popped out of the man’s face as a

real eye replaced it; it rolled away across the floor and

continued to swivel in every direction.

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Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned,

slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. He knew who

he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore’s Pensieve,

had watched him being led away from court by the

dementors, trying to convince Mr. Crouch that he was

innocent … but he was lined around the eyes now

and looked much older. …

There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor.

Snape had returned with Winky at his heels.

Professor McGonagall was right behind them.

“Crouch!” Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway.

“Barty Crouch!”

“Good heavens,” said Professor McGonagall, stopping

dead and staring down at the man on the floor.

Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape’s legs.

Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing

shriek.

“Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?”

She flung herself forward onto the young man’s chest.

“You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed

Master’s son!”

“He is simply Stunned, Winky,” said Dumbledore.

“Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?”

Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of

completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which

he had threatened Harry in class. Dumbledore got up,

bent over the man on the floor, and pulled him into a

sitting position against the wall beneath the Foe-

Glass, in which the reflections of Dumbledore, Snape,

and McGonagall were still glaring down upon them

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all. Winky remained on her knees, trembling, her

hands over her face. Dumbledore forced the man’s

mouth open and poured three drops inside it. Then

he pointed his wand at the man’s chest and said,

“Rennervate. ”

Crouch’s son opened his eyes. His face was slack, his

gaze unfocused. Dumbledore knelt before him, so that

their faces were level.

“Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

The man’s eyelids flickered.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“I would like you to tell us,” said Dumbledore softly,

“how you came to be here. How did you escape from

Azkaban?”

Crouch took a deep, shuddering breath, then began

to speak in a flat, expressionless voice.

“My mother saved me. She knew she was dying. She

persuaded my father to rescue me as a last favor to

her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He

agreed. They came to visit me. They gave me a draft of

Polyjuice Potion containing one of my mother’s hairs.

She took a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of

my hairs. We took on each other’s appearance.”

Winky was shaking her head, trembling.

“Say no more, Master Barty, say no more, you is

getting your father into trouble!”

But Crouch took another deep breath and continued

in the same flat voice.

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“The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy, one dying person entering Azkaban. They sensed one

healthy, one dying person leaving it. My father

smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case

any prisoners were watching through their doors.

“My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban.

She was careful to drink Polyjuice Potion until the

end. She was buried under my name and bearing my

appearance. Everyone believed her to be me.”

The man’s eyelids flickered.

“And what did your father do with you, when he had

got you home?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Staged my mother’s death. A quiet, private funeral.

That grave is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to

health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be

controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to

subdue me. When I had recovered my strength, I

thought only of finding my master … of returning to

his service.”

“How did your father subdue you?” said Dumbledore.

“The Imperius Curse,” Crouch said. “I was under my

father’s control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility

Cloak day and night. I was always with the house-elf.

She was my keeper and caretaker. She pitied me. She

persuaded my father to give me occasional treats.

Rewards for my good behavior.”

“Master Barty, Master Barty,” sobbed Winky through

her hands. “You isn’t ought to tell them, we is getting

in trouble. …”

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“Did anybody ever discover that you were still alive?”

said Dumbledore softly. “Did anyone know except

your father and the house-elf?”

“Yes,” said Crouch, his eyelids flickering again. “A

witch in my father’s office. Bertha Jorkins. She came

to the house with papers for my father’s signature. He

was not at home. Winky showed her inside and

returned to the kitchen, to me. But Bertha Jorkins

heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate.

She heard enough to guess who was hiding under the

Invisibility Cloak. My father arrived home. She

confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory

Charm on her to make her forget what she’d found

out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory

permanently.”

“Why is she coming to nose into my master’s private

business?” sobbed Winky. “Why isn’t she leaving us

be?”

“Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup,” said

Dumbledore.

“Winky talked my father into it,” said Crouch, still in

the same monotonous voice. “She spent months

persuading him. I had not left the house for years. I

had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He will be

in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell

fresh air for once. She said my mother would have

wanted it. She told my father that my mother had

died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a

life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end.

“It was carefully planned. My father led me and Winky

up to the Top Box early in the day. Winky was to say

that she was saving a seat for my father. I was to sit

there, invisible. When everyone had left the box, we

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would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone.

Nobody would ever know.

“But Winky didn’t know that I was growing stronger. I

was starting to fight my father’s Imperius Curse.

There were times when I was almost myself again.

There were brief periods when I seemed outside his

control. It happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like

waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in

public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front

of me, a wand sticking out of a boy’s pocket. I had not

been allowed a wand since before Azkaban. I stole it.

Winky didn’t know. Winky is frightened of heights.

She had her face hidden.”

“Master Barty, you bad boy!” whispered Winky, tears

trickling between her fingers.

“So you took the wand,” said Dumbledore, “and what

did you do with it?”

“We went back to the tent,” said Crouch. “Then we

heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones

who had never been to Azkaban. The ones who had

never suffered for my master. They had turned their

backs on him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They

were free to seek him, but they did not. They were

merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of their

voices awoke me. My mind was clearer than it had

been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted

to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My

father had left the tent; he had gone to free the

Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She

used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She

pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest,

away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I

wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show

those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord

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meant, and to punish them for their lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky.

“Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells

everywhere. One of the spells came through the trees

where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us

was broken. We were both Stunned.

“When Winky was discovered, my father knew I must

be nearby. He searched the bushes where she had

been found and felt me lying there. He waited until

the other Ministry members had left the forest. He put

me back under the Imperius Curse and took me

home. He dismissed Winky. She had failed him. She

had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me

escape.”

Winky let out a wail of despair.

“Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And

then … and then …” Crouch’s head rolled on his

neck, and an insane grin spread across his face. “My

master came for me.

“He arrived at our house late one night in the arms of

his servant Wormtail. My master had found out that I

was still alive. He had captured Bertha Jorkins in

Albania. He had tortured her. She told him a great

deal. She told him about the Triwizard Tournament.

She told him the old Auror, Moody, was going to teach

at Hogwarts. He tortured her until he broke through

the Memory Charm my father had placed upon her.

She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told

him my father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from

seeking my master. And so my master knew that I

was still his faithful servant — perhaps the most

faithful of all. My master conceived a plan, based

upon the information Bertha had given him. He

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needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight.

My father answered the door.”

The smile spread wider over Crouch’s face, as though

recalling the sweetest memory of his life. Winky’s

petrified brown eyes were visible through her fingers.

She seemed too appalled to speak.

“It was very quick. My father was placed under the

Imperius Curse by my master. Now my father was the

one imprisoned, controlled. My master forced him to

go about his business as usual, to act as though

nothing was wrong. And I was released. I awoke. I

was myself again, alive as I hadn’t been in years.”

“And what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?” said

Dumbledore.

“He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything

for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest

ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him. He

told me he needed to place a faithful servant at

Hogwarts. A servant who would guide Harry Potter

through the Triwizard Tournament without appearing

to do so. A servant who would watch over Harry

Potter. Ensure he reached the Triwizard Cup. Turn

the cup into a Portkey, which would take the first

person to touch it to my master. But first —”

“You needed Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore. His

blue eyes were blazing, though his voice remained

calm.

“Wormtail and I did it. We had prepared the Polyjuice

Potion beforehand. We journeyed to his house. Moody

put up a struggle. There was a commotion. We

managed to subdue him just in time. Forced him into

a compartment of his own magical trunk. Took some

of his hair and added it to the potion. I drank it; I

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became Moody’s double. I took his leg and his eye. I was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he arrived to

sort out the Muggles who had heard a disturbance. I

made the dustbins move around the yard. I told

Arthur Weasley I had heard intruders in my yard,

who had set off the dustbins. Then I packed up

Moody’s clothes and Dark detectors, put them in the

trunk with Moody, and set off for Hogwarts. I kept

him alive, under the Imperius Curse. I wanted to be

able to question him. To find out about his past, learn

his habits, so that I could fool even Dumbledore. I

also needed his hair to make the Polyjuice Potion. The

other ingredients were easy. I stole boom-slang skin

from the dungeons. When the Potions master found

me in his office, I said I was under orders to search

it.”

“And what became of Wormtail after you attacked

Moody?” said Dumbledore.

“Wormtail returned to care for my master, in my

father’s house, and to keep watch over my father.”

“But your father escaped,” said Dumbledore.

“Yes. After a while he began to fight the Imperius

Curse just as I had done. There were periods when he

knew what was happening. My master decided it was

no longer safe for my father to leave the house. He

forced him to send letters to the Ministry instead. He

made him write and say he was ill. But Wormtail

neglected his duty. He was not watchful enough. My

father escaped. My master guessed that he was

heading for Hogwarts. My father was going to tell

Dumbledore everything, to confess. He was going to

admit that he had smuggled me from Azkaban.

“My master sent me word of my father’s escape. He

told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited and

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watched. I used the map I had taken from Harry

Potter. The map that had almost ruined everything.”

“Map?” said Dumbledore quickly. “What map is this?”

“Potter’s map of Hogwarts. Potter saw me on it. Potter

saw me stealing more ingredients for the Polyjuice

Potion from Snape’s office one night. He thought I was

my father. We have the same first name. I took the

map from Potter that night. I told him my father

hated Dark wizards. Potter believed my father was

after Snape.

“For a week I waited for my father to arrive at

Hogwarts. At last, one evening, the map showed my

father entering the grounds. I pulled on my Invisibility

Cloak and went down to meet him. He was walking

around the edge of the forest. Then Potter came, and

Krum. I waited. I could not hurt Potter; my master

needed him. Potter ran to get Dumbledore. I Stunned

Krum. I killed my father.”

“Noooo!” wailed Winky. “Master Barty, Master Barty,

what is you saying?”

“You killed your father,” Dumbledore said, in the

same soft voice. “What did you do with the body?”

“Carried it into the forest. Covered it with the

Invisibility Cloak. I had the map with me. I watched

Potter run into the castle. He met Snape. Dumbledore

joined them. I watched Potter bringing Dumbledore

out of the castle. I walked back out of the forest,

doubled around behind them, went to meet them. I

told Dumbledore Snape had told me where to come.

“Dumbledore told me to go and look for my father. I

went back to my father’s body. Watched the map.

When everyone was gone, I Transfigured my father’s

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body. He became a bone … I buried it, while wearing the Invisibility Cloak, in the freshly dug earth in front

of Hagrid’s cabin.”

There was complete silence now, except for Winky’s

continued sobs. Then Dumbledore said, “And tonight

…”

“I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze

before dinner,” whispered Barty Crouch. “Turned it

into a Portkey. My master’s plan worked. He is

returned to power and I will be honored by him

beyond the dreams of wizards.”

The insane smile lit his features once more, and his

head drooped onto his shoulder as Winky wailed and

sobbed at his side.

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THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Dumbledore stood up. He stared down at Barty

Crouch for a moment with disgust on his face. Then

he raised his wand once more and ropes flew out of it,

ropes that twisted themselves around Barty Crouch,

binding him tightly. He turned to Professor

McGonagall.

“Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I

take Harry upstairs?”

“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall. She looked

slightly nauseous, as though she had just watched

someone being sick. However, when she drew out her

wand and pointed it at Barty Crouch, her hand was

quite steady.

“Severus” — Dumbledore turned to Snape — “please

tell Madam Pomfrey to come down here; we need to

get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go

down into the grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and

bring him up to this office. He will undoubtedly want

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to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the hospital wing in half an hour’s time if he needs me.”

Snape nodded silently and swept out of the room.

“Harry?” Dumbledore said gently.

Harry got up and swayed again; the pain in his leg,

which he had not noticed all the time he had been

listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He

also realized that he was shaking. Dumbledore

gripped his arm and helped him out into the dark

corridor.

“I want you to come up to my office first, Harry,” he

said quietly as they headed up the passageway.

“Sirius is waiting for us there.”

Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of

complete unreality were upon him, but he did not

care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to

think about anything that had happened since he had

first touched the Triwizard Cup. He didn’t want to

have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as

photographs, which kept flashing across his mind.

Mad-Eye Moody, inside the trunk. Wormtail, slumped

on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm.

Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Cedric

… dead … Cedric, asking to be returned to his

parents. …

“Professor,” Harry mumbled, “where are Mr. and Mrs.

Diggory?”

“They are with Professor Sprout,” said Dumbledore.

His voice, which had been so calm throughout the

interrogation of Barty Crouch, shook very slightly for

the first time. “She was Head of Cedric’s house, and

knew him best.”

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They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore

gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry

went up the moving spiral staircase to the oak door.

Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing

there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been

when he had escaped Azkaban. In one swift moment,

he had crossed the room.

“Harry, are you all right? I knew it — I knew

something like this — what happened?”

His hands shook as he helped Harry into a chair in

front of the desk.

“What happened?” he asked more urgently.

Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty

Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So

tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted

nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours

and hours, until he fell asleep and didn’t have to

think or feel anymore.

There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix

had left his perch, flown across the office, and landed

on Harry’s knee.

“ ’Lo, Fawkes,” said Harry quietly. He stroked the

phoenix’s beautiful scarlet-and-gold plumage. Fawkes

blinked peacefully up at him. There was something

comforting about his warm weight.

Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite

Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who

avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question

him. He was going to make Harry relive everything.

“I need to know what happened after you touched the

Portkey in the maze, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

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“We can leave that till morning, can’t we,

Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand

on Harry’s shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him

rest.”

Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but

Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He

leaned forward toward Harry. Very unwillingly, Harry

raised his head and looked into those blue eyes.

“If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said

gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and

allowing you to postpone the moment when you

would have to think about what has happened

tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the

pain for a while will make it worse when you finally

feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I

could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate

your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what

happened.”

The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It

shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of

hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his

stomach, warming him, and strengthening him.

He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he

spoke, visions of everything that had passed that

night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the

sparkling surface of the potion that had revived

Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating

between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s

body, lying on the ground beside the cup.

Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to

say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s

shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop

him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier

to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief;

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he felt almost as though something poisonous were

being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit

of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed

that once he had finished, he would feel better.

When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with

the dagger, however, Sirius let out a vehement

exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that

Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk

and told Harry to stretch out his arm. Harry showed

them both the place where his robes were torn and

the cut beneath them.

“He said my blood would make him stronger than if

he’d used someone else’s,” Harry told Dumbledore.

“He said the protection my — my mother left in me —

he’d have it too. And he was right — he could touch

me without hurting himself, he touched my face.”

For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam

of something like triumph in Dumbledore’s eyes. But

next second, Harry was sure he had imagined it, for

when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind

the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had

ever seen him.

“Very well,” he said, sitting down again. “Voldemort

has overcome that particular barrier. Harry, continue,

please.”

Harry went on; he explained how Voldemort had

emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he

could remember of Voldemort’s speech to the Death

Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had untied him,

returned his wand to him, and prepared to duel.

But when he reached the part where the golden beam

of light had connected his and Voldemort’s wands, he

found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking,

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but the memories of what had come out of

Voldemort’s wand were flooding into his mind. He

could see Cedric emerging, see the old man, Bertha

Jorkins … his father … his mother …

He was glad when Sirius broke the silence.

“The wands connected?” he said, looking from Harry

to Dumbledore. “Why?”

Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face

there was an arrested look.

“Priori Incantatem, ” he muttered.

His eyes gazed into Harry’s and it was almost as

though an invisible beam of understanding shot

between them.

“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Sirius sharply.

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “Harry’s wand and

Voldemort’s wand share cores. Each of them contains

a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This

phoenix, in fact,” he added, and he pointed at the

scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry’s

knee.

“My wand’s feather came from Fawkes?” Harry said,

amazed.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell

me you had bought the second wand, the moment

you left his shop four years ago.”

“So what happens when a wand meets its brother?”

said Sirius.

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“They will not work properly against each other,” said Dumbledore. “If, however, the owners of the wands

force the wands to do battle … a very rare effect will

take place. One of the wands will force the other to

regurgitate spells it has performed — in reverse. The

most recent first … and then those which preceded it.

…”

He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded.

“Which means,” said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes

upon Harry’s face, “that some form of Cedric must

have reappeared.”

Harry nodded again.

“Diggory came back to life?” said Sirius sharply.

“No spell can reawaken the dead,” said Dumbledore

heavily. “All that would have happened is a kind of

reverse echo. A shadow of the living Cedric would

have emerged from the wand … am I correct, Harry?”

“He spoke to me,” Harry said. He was suddenly

shaking again. “The … the ghost Cedric, or whatever

he was, spoke.”

“An echo,” said Dumbledore, “which retained Cedric’s

appearance and character. I am guessing other such

forms appeared … less recent victims of Voldemort’s

wand. …”

“An old man,” Harry said, his throat still constricted.

“Bertha Jorkins. And …”

“Your parents?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Yes,” said Harry.

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Sirius’s grip on Harry’s shoulder was now so tight it was painful.

“The last murders the wand performed,” said

Dumbledore, nodding. “In reverse order. More would

have appeared, of course, had you maintained the

connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these

shadows … what did they do?”

Harry described how the figures that had emerged

from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden

web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how

the shadow of Harry’s father had told him what to do,

how Cedric’s had made its final request.

At this point, Harry found he could not continue. He

looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face

in his hands.

Harry suddenly became aware that Fawkes had left

his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It

was resting its beautiful head against Harry’s injured

leg, and thick, pearly tears were falling from its eyes

onto the wound left by the spider. The pain vanished.

The skin mended. His leg was repaired.

“I will say it again,” said Dumbledore as the phoenix

rose into the air and resettled itself upon the perch

beside the door. “You have shown bravery beyond

anything I could have expected of you tonight, Harry.

You have shown bravery equal to those who died

fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You

have shouldered a grown wizard’s burden and found

yourself equal to it — and you have now given us all

that we have a right to expect. You will come with me

to the hospital wing. I do not want you returning to

the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some

peace … Sirius, would you like to stay with him?”

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Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back

into the great black dog and walked with Harry and

Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them

down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing.

When Dumbledore pushed open the door, Harry saw

Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped

around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They

appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was

and what had happened to him. All of them whipped

around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog

entered, and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled

scream.

“Harry! Oh Harry!”

She started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore

moved between them.

“Molly,” he said, holding up a hand, “please listen to

me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible

ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me.

What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If

he would like you all to stay with him,” he added,

looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, “you

may do so. But I do not want you questioning him

until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this

evening.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She

rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they

were being noisy, and hissed, “Did you hear? He

needs quiet!”

“Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the

great black dog that was Sirius, “may I ask what — ?”

“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,”

said Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is

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extremely well trained. Harry — I will wait while you get into bed.”

Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to

Dumbledore for asking the others not to question

him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want them there;

but the thought of explaining it all over again, the

idea of reliving it one more time, was more than he

could stand.

“I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with

Fudge, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I would like you to

remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the

school.” He left.

As Madam Pomfrey led Harry to a nearby bed, he

caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless in a

bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and

magical eye were lying on the bedside table.

“Is he okay?” Harry asked.

“He’ll be fine,” said Madam Pomfrey, giving Harry

some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He

took off his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into

bed. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and the black

dog came around the screen and settled themselves

in chairs on either side of him. Ron and Hermione

were looking at him almost cautiously, as though

scared of him.

“I’m all right,” he told them. “Just tired.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes filled with tears as she smoothed

his bedcovers unnecessarily.

Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office,

returned holding a small bottle of some purple potion

and a goblet.

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“You’ll need to drink all of this, Harry,” she said. “It’s a potion for dreamless sleep.”

Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He

felt himself becoming drowsy at once. Everything

around him became hazy; the lamps around the

hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a

friendly way through the screen around his bed; his

body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the

warmth of the feather matress. Before he could finish

the potion, before he could say another word, his

exhaustion had carried him off to sleep.

Harry woke up, so warm, so very sleepy, that he

didn’t open his eyes, wanting to drop off again. The

room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still

nighttime and had a feeling that he couldn’t have

been asleep very long.

Then he heard whispering around him.

“They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!”

“What are they shouting about? Nothing else can

have happened, can it?”

Harry opened his eyes blearily Someone had removed

his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of Mrs.

Weasley and Bill close by. Mrs. Weasley was on her

feet.

“That’s Fudge’s voice,” she whispered. “And that’s

Minerva McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they

arguing about?”

Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and

running toward the hospital wing.

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“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva —” Cornelius Fudge was saying loudly.

“You should never have brought it inside the castle!”

yelled Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore

finds out —”

Harry heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed

by any of the people around his bed, all of whom were

staring at the door as Bill pulled back the screens,

Harry sat up and put his glasses back on.

Fudge came striding up the ward. Professors

McGonagall and Snape were at his heels.

“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded of Mrs.

Weasley.

“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Weasley angrily. “This is a

hospital wing, Minister, don’t you think you’d do

better to —”

But the door opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping

up the ward.

“What has happened?” said Dumbledore sharply,

looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why

are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m

surprised at you — I asked you to stand guard over

Barty Crouch —”

“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore,

Dumbledore!” she shrieked. “The Minister has seen to

that!”

Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall lose

control like this. There were angry blotches of color in

her cheeks, and her hands were balled into fists; she

was trembling with fury.

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“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the

Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” said

Snape, in a low voice, “he seemed to feel his personal

safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a

dementor to accompany him into the castle. He

brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch —”

“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!”

Professor McGonagall fumed. “I told him you would

never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle,

but —”

“My dear woman!” roared Fudge, who likewise looked

angrier than Harry had ever seen him, “as Minister of

Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring

protection with me when interviewing a possibly

dangerous —”

But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowned Fudge’s.

“The moment that — that thing entered the room,”

she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over,

“it swooped down on Crouch and — and —”

Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Professor

McGonagall struggled to find words to describe what

had happened. He did not need her to finish her

sentence. He knew what the dementor must have

done. It had administered its fatal kiss to Barty

Crouch. It had sucked his soul out through his

mouth. He was worse than dead.

“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It

seems he has been responsible for several deaths!”

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said

Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as

though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He

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cannot give evidence about why he killed those

people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?”

blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what

Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have

thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s

instructions!”

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions,

Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people’s deaths

were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort

to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort

has been restored to his body.”

Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a

heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he

stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn’t quite

believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter,

still goggling at Dumbledore.

“You-Know-Who … returned? Preposterous. Come

now, Dumbledore …”

“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,”

said Dumbledore, “we heard Barry Crouch confess.

Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how

he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort

— learning of his continued existence from Bertha

Jorkins — went to free him from his father and used

him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you.

Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was

astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face,

“you — you can’t seriously believe that. You-Know-

Who — back? Come now, come now … certainly,

Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon

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You-Know-Who’s orders — but to take the word of a

lunatic like that, Dumbledore …”

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he

was transported straight to Voldemort,” said

Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s

rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to

my office.”

Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he

was awake, but shook his head and said, “I am afraid

I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.”

Fudge’s curious smile lingered. He too glanced at

Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said,

“You are — er — prepared to take Harry’s word on

this, are you, Dumbledore?”

There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by

Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was

baring his teeth at Fudge.

“Certainly, I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His

eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch’s confession,

and I heard Harry’s account of what happened after

he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make

sense, they explain everything that has happened

since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.”

Fudge still had that strange smile on his face. Once

again, he glanced at Harry before answering.

“You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has

returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a

boy who … well …”

Fudge shot Harry another look, and Harry suddenly

understood.

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“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge,” he

said quietly.

Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill all jumped.

None of them had realized that Harry was awake.

Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate

look came over his face.

“And if I have?” he said, looking at Dumbledore. “If I

have discovered that you’ve been keeping certain facts

about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And

having funny turns all over the place —”

“I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry

has been experiencing in his scar?” said Dumbledore

coolly.

“You admit that he has been having these pains,

then?” said Fudge quickly. “Headaches? Nightmares?

Possibly — hallucinations?”

“Listen to me, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, taking a

step toward Fudge, and once again, he seemed to

radiate that indefinable sense of power that Harry

had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young

Crouch. “Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon

his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it

hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling

particularly murderous.”

Fudge had taken half a step back from Dumbledore,

but he looked no less stubborn.

“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard

of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before. …”

“Look, I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry shouted.

He tried to get out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley

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forced him back. “I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy —”

Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry

looked at him, Snape’s eyes flew back to Fudge.

“Malfoy was cleared!” said Fudge, visibly affronted. “A

very old family — donations to excellent causes —”

“Macnair!” Harry continued.

“Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!”

“Avery — Nott — Crabbe — Goyle —”

“You are merely repeating the names of those who

were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years

ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found those

names in old reports of the trials! For heaven’s sake,

Dumbledore — the boy was full of some crackpot

story at the end of last year too — his tales are getting

taller, and you’re still swallowing them — the boy can

talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he’s

trustworthy?”

“You fool!” Professor McGonagall cried. “Cedric

Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the

random work of a lunatic!”

“I see no evidence to the contrary!” shouted Fudge,

now matching her anger, his face purpling. “It seems

to me that you are all determined to start a panic that

will destabilize everything we have worked for these

last thirteen years!”

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had

always thought of Fudge as a kindly figure, a little

blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good-

natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before

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him, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable and ordered world — to

believe that Voldemort could have risen.

“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeated. “If

you accept that fact straightaway, Fudge, and take

the necessary measures, we may still be able to save

the situation. The first and most essential step is to

remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors —”

“Preposterous!” shouted Fudge again. “Remove the

dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting

it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night

because we know the dementors are standing guard

at Azkaban!”

“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds,

Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord

Voldemort’s most dangerous supporters in the care of

creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!”

said Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you,

Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope

for their powers and their pleasures than you can!

With the dementors behind him, and his old

supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed

to stop him regaining the sort of power he had

thirteen years ago!”

Fudge was opening and closing his mouth as though

no words could express his outrage.

“The second step you must take — and at once,”

Dumbledore pressed on, “is to send envoys to the

giants.”

“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieked, finding his

tongue again. “What madness is this?”

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“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late,” said Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will

persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among

wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!”

“You — you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasped,

shaking his head and retreating further from

Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that

I had approached the giants — people hate them,

Dumbledore — end of my career —”

“You are blinded,” said Dumbledore, his voice rising

now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes

blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold,

Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you

always have done, on the so-called purity of blood!

You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone

is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has

just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-

blood family as old as any — and see what that man

chose to make of his life! I tell you now — take the

steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered,

in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest

Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act —

and history will remember you as the man who

stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance

to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!”

“Insane,” whispered Fudge, still backing away. “Mad

…”

And then there was silence. Madam Pomfrey was

standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands

over her mouth. Mrs. Weasley was still standing over

Harry, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from

rising. Bill, Ron, and Hermione were staring at Fudge.

“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you

as far as this, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “we have

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reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I — I shall act as I see fit.”

Dumbledore’s voice carried no hint of a threat; it

sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as

though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a

wand.

“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” he said, waving a

threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always.

I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have

agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept

quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire

werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach

your students without reference to the Ministry. But if

you’re going to work against me —”

“The only one against whom I intend to work,” said

Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against

him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.”

It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He

rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a

moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands.

Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He

can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be …”

Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up

the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out

his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled.

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark.

It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it

burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death

Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord.

It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his

means of summoning us to him. When he touched

the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate,

and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has

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been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff’s too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the

Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff

fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too

many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a

welcome back into the fold.”

Fudge stepped back from Snape too. He was shaking

his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word

Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the

ugly mark on Snape’s arm, then looked up at

Dumbledore and whispered, “I don’t know what you

and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have

heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in

touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the

running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.”

He had almost reached the door when he paused. He

turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and

stopped at Harry’s bed.

“Your winnings,” he said shortly, taking a large bag of

gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harry’s

bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should

have been a presentation ceremony, but under the

circumstances …”

He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked

out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The

moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to

look at the group around Harry’s bed.

“There is work to be done,” he said. “Molly … am I

right in thinking that I can count on you and

Arthur?”

“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Weasley. She was

white to the lips, but she looked resolute. “We know

what Fudge is. It’s Arthur’s fondness for Muggles that

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has held him back at the Ministry all these years.

Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.”

“Then I need to send a message to Arthur,” said

Dumbledore. “All those that we can persuade of the

truth must be notified immediately, and he is well

placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as

shortsighted as Cornelius.”

“I’ll go to Dad,” said Bill, standing up. “I’ll go now.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Tell him what has

happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him

shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge

thinks I am interfering at the Ministry —”

“Leave it to me,” said Bill.

He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, kissed his

mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode

quickly from the room.

“Minerva,” said Dumbledore, turning to Professor

McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as

soon as possible. Also — if she will consent to come —

Madame Maxime.”

Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word.

“Poppy,” Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, “would

you be very kind and go down to Professor Moody’s

office, where I think you will find a house-elf called

Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for

her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby

will look after her for us.”

“Very — very well,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking

startled, and she too left.

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Dumbledore made sure that the door was closed, and that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away,

before he spoke again.

“And now,” he said, “it is time for two of our number

to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius … if

you could resume your usual form.”

The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then,

in an instant, turned back into a man.

Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed.

“Sirius Black!” she shrieked, pointing at him.

“Mum, shut up!” Ron yelled. “It’s okay!”

Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the

look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror.

“Him!” he snarled, staring at Sirius, whose face

showed equal dislike. “What is he doing here?”

“He is here at my invitation,” said Dumbledore,

looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust

you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old

differences and trust each other.”

Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near

miracle. Sirius and Snape were eyeing each other

with the utmost loathing.

“I will settle, in the short term,” said Dumbledore,

with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of

open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the

same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of

us who know the truth do not stand united, there is

no hope for any of us.”

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Very slowly — but still glaring at each other as

though each wished the other nothing but ill — Sirius

and Snape moved toward each other and shook

hands. They let go extremely quickly.

“That will do to be going on with,” said Dumbledore,

stepping between them once more. “Now I have work

for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not

unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to

set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella

Figg, Mundungus Fletcher — the old crowd. Lie low at

Lupins for a while; I will contact you there.”

“But —” said Harry.

He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to

say goodbye again so quickly.

“You’ll see me very soon, Harry,” said Sirius, turning

to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you

understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah … of course I do.”

Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to

Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog,

and ran the length of the room to the door, whose

handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you

know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready … if

you are prepared …”

“I am,” said Snape.

He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold,

black eyes glittered strangely.

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“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape

swept wordlessly after Sirius.

It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke

again.

“I must go downstairs,” he said finally. “I must see the

Diggorys. Harry — take the rest of your potion. I will

see all of you later.”

Harry slumped back against his pillows as

Dumbledore disappeared. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs.

Weasley were all looking at him. None of them spoke

for a very long time.

“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion, Harry,”

Mrs. Weasley said at last. Her hand nudged the sack

of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the

bottle and the goblet. “You have a good long sleep. Try

and think about something else for a while … think

about what you’re going to buy with your winnings!”

“I don’t want that gold,” said Harry in an

expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have

it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Cedric’s.”

The thing against which he had been fighting on and

off ever since he had come out of the maze was

threatening to overpower him. He could feel a

burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his

eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.

“It wasn’t your fault, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley whispered.

“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry.

Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He

wished Ron would look away.

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Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside

cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry.

He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as

though by a mother. The full weight of everything he

had seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as

Mrs. Weasley held him to her. His mother’s face, his

father’s voice, the sight of Cedric, dead on the ground

all started spinning in his head until he could hardly

bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the

howl of misery fighting to get out of him.

There was a loud slamming noise, and Mrs. Weasley

and Harry broke apart. Hermione was standing by the

window. She was holding something tight in her

hand.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Your potion, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley quickly,

wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

Harry drank it in one gulp. The effect was

instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless

sleep broke over him; he fell back onto his pillows and

thought no more.

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THE BEGINNING

When he looked back, even a month later, Harry

found he had only scattered memories of the next few

days. It was as though he had been through too much

to take in any more. The recollections he did have

were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the

meeting with the Diggorys that took place the

following morning.

They did not blame him for what had happened; on

the contrary, both thanked him for returning Cedric’s

body to them. Mr. Diggory sobbed through most of

the interview. Mrs. Diggory’s grief seemed to be

beyond tears.

“He suffered very little then,” she said, when Harry

had told her how Cedric had died. “And after all,

Amos … he died just when he’d won the tournament.

He must have been happy.”

When they got to their feet, she looked down at Harry

and said, “You look after yourself, now.”

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Harry seized the sack of gold on the bedside table.

“You take this,” he muttered to her. “It should’ve been

Cedric’s, he got there first, you take it —”

But she backed away from him.

“Oh no, it’s yours, dear, I couldn’t … you keep it.”

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following

evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him,

Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning

at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave

Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger

him to tell the story of what had happened in the

maze. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in

the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered

behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that

many of them had believed Rita Skeeter’s article

about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was.

Perhaps they were formulating their own theories

about how Cedric had died. He found he didn’t care

very much. He liked it best when he was with Ron

and Hermione and they were talking about other

things, or else letting him sit in silence while they

played chess. He felt as though all three of them had

reached an understanding they didn’t need to put

into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some

word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts — and

that it was useless to speculate about what might be

coming until they knew anything for certain. The only

time they touched upon the subject was when Ron

told Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had had

with Dumbledore before going home.

“She went to ask him if you could come straight to us

this summer,” he said. “But he wants you to go back

to the Dursleys, at least at first.”

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“Why?” said Harry.

“She said Dumbledore’s got his reasons,” said Ron,

shaking his head darkly. “I suppose we’ve got to trust

him, haven’t we?”

The only person apart from Ron and Hermione that

Harry felt able to talk to was Hagrid. As there was no

longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, they

had those lessons free. They used the one on

Thursday afternoon to go down and visit Hagrid in his

cabin. It was a bright and sunny day; Fang bounded

out of the open door as they approached, barking and

wagging his tail madly.

“Who’s that?” called Hagrid, coming to the door.

“Harry!”

He strode out to meet them, pulled Harry into a one-

armed hug, ruffled his hair, and said, “Good ter see

yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh.”

They saw two bucket-size cups and saucers on the

wooden table in front of the fireplace when they

entered Hagrid’s cabin.

“Bin havin’ a cuppa with Olympe,” Hagrid said. “She’s

jus’ left.”

“Who?” said Ron curiously.

“Madame Maxime, o’ course!” said Hagrid.

“You two made up, have you?” said Ron.

“Dunno what yeh’re talkin’ about,” said Hagrid airily,

fetching more cups from the dresser. When he had

made tea and offered around a plate of doughy

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cookies, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed

Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes.

“You all righ’?” he said gruffly.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“No, yeh’re not,” said Hagrid. “ ’Course yeh’re not. But

yeh will be.”

Harry said nothing.

“Knew he was goin’ ter come back,” said Hagrid, and

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up at him, shocked.

“Known it fer years, Harry. Knew he was out there,

bidin’ his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has,

an’ we’ll jus’ have ter get on with it. We’ll fight. Migh’

be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That’s

Dumbledore’s plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore.

’S long as we’ve got him, I’m not too worried.”

Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving

expressions on their faces.

“No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it,” he said. “What’s

comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.

Dumbledore told me wha’ you did, Harry.”

Hagrid’s chest swelled as he looked at Harry.

“Yeh did as much as yer father would’ve done, an’ I

can’ give yeh no higher praise than that.”

Harry smiled back at him. It was the first time he’d

smiled in days. “What’s Dumbledore asked you to do,

Hagrid?” he asked. “He sent Professor McGonagall to

ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him — that

night.”

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“Got a little job fer me over the summer,” said Hagrid.

“Secret, though. I’m not s’pposed ter talk abou’ it, no,

not even ter you lot. Olympe — Madame Maxime ter

you — might be comin’ with me. I think she will.

Think I got her persuaded.”

“Is it to do with Voldemort?”

Hagrid flinched at the sound of the name.

“Migh’ be,” he said evasively. “Now … who’d like ter

come an’ visit the las’ skrewt with me? I was jokin’ —

jokin’!” he added hastily, seeing the looks on their

faces.

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that Harry packed his trunk

up in the dormitory on the night before his return to

Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast,

which was usually a cause for celebration, when the

winner of the Inter-House Championship would be

announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall

when it was full ever since he had left the hospital

wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to

avoid the stares of his fellow students.

When he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Hall, they

saw at once that the usual decorations were missing.

The Great Hall was normally decorated with the

winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. Tonight,

however, there were black drapes on the wall behind

the teachers’ table. Harry knew instantly that they

were there as a mark of respect to Cedric.

The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table now,

his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He

was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone

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spoke to him. Harry couldn’t blame him; Moody’s fear of attack was bound to have been increased by his

ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk. Professor

Karkaroff’s chair was empty. Harry wondered, as he

sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff

was now, and whether Voldemort had caught up with

him.

Madame Maxime was still there. She was sitting next

to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Further

along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall,

was Snape. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment

as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to

read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever.

Harry continued to watch him, long after Snape had

looked away.

What was it that Snape had done on Dumbledore’s

orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And

why … why … was Dumbledore so convinced that

Snape was truly on their side? He had been their spy,

Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had

turned spy against Voldemort, “at great personal

risk.” Was that the job he had taken up again? Had

he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps?

Pretended that he had never really gone over to

Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort

himself, biding his time?

Harry’s musings were ended by Professor

Dumbledore, who stood up at the staff table. The

Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy

than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very

quiet.

“The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them

all, “of another year.”

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He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff

table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before

he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the

saddest and palest faces in the Hall.

“There is much that I would like to say to you all

tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first

acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who

should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the

Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like

you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to

Cedric Diggory.”

They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as

everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets,

and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Cedric

Diggory.”

Harry caught a glimpse of Cho through the crowd.

There were tears pouring silently down her face. He

looked down at the table as they all sat down again.

“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the

qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house,”

Dumbledore continued. “He was a good and loyal

friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death

has affected you all, whether you knew him well or

not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to

know exactly how it came about.”

Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore.

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were

staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He

looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter

themselves into silence.

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“The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continued, “does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of

your parents will be horrified that I have done so —

either because they will not believe that Lord

Voldemort has returned, or because they think I

should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my

belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable

to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric

died as the result of an accident, or some sort of

blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was

turned toward Dumbledore now … or almost every

face. Over at the Slytherin table, Harry saw Draco

Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle.

Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach.

He forced himself to look back at Dumbledore.

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in

connection with Cedric’s death,” Dumbledore went

on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.”

A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads

turned in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face

Dumbledore.

“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,”

said Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return

Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every

respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever

shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor

him.”

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his

goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall

followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had

murmured Cedric’s, and drank to him. But through a

gap in the standing figures, Harry saw that Malfoy,

Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had

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remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets

untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no

magical eye, did not see them.

When everyone had once again resumed their seats,

Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s

aim was to further and promote magical

understanding. In the light of what has happened —

of Lord Voldemort’s return — such ties are more

important than ever before.”

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and

Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons

students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the

Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary,

almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore

to say something harsh.

“Every guest in this Hall,” said Dumbledore, and his

eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, “will be

welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to

come. I say to you all, once again — in the light of

Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we

are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord

Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is

very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally

strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of

habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are

identical and our hearts are open.

“It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am

mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult

times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered

directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your

families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a

student was taken from our midst.

“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should

come when you have to make a choice between what

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is right and what is easy, remember what happened

to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because

he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort.

Remember Cedric Diggory.”

Harry’s trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her

cage on top of it. He, Ron, and Hermione were waiting

in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the

fourth years for the carriages that would take them

back to Hogsmeade station. It was another beautiful

summer’s day. He supposed that Privet Drive would

be hot and leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when

he arrived there that evening. The thought gave him

no pleasure at all.

“ ’Arry!”

He looked around. Fleur Delacour was hurrying up

the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far across

the grounds, Harry could see Hagrid helping Madame

Maxime to back two of the giant horses into their

harness. The Beauxbatons carriage was about to take

off.

“We will see each uzzer again, I ’ope,” said Fleur as

she reached him, holding out her hand. “I am ’oping

to get a job ’ere, to improve my Eenglish.”

“It’s very good already,” said Ron in a strangled sort of

voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled.

“Good-bye, ’Arry,” said Fleur, turning to go. “It ’az

been a pleasure meeting you!”

Harry’s spirits couldn’t help but lift slightly as he

watched Fleur hurry back across the lawns to

Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the

sunlight.

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“Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting

back,” said Ron. “D’you reckon they can steer that

ship without Karkaroff?”

“Karkaroff did not steer,” said a gruff voice. “He

stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork.”

Krum had come to say good-bye to Hermione.

“Could I have a vord?” he asked her.

“Oh … yes … all right,” said Hermione, looking

slightly flustered, and following Krum through the

crowd and out of sight.

“You’d better hurry up!” Ron called loudly after her.

“The carriages’ll be here in a minute!”

He let Harry keep a watch for the carriages, however,

and spent the next few minutes craning his neck over

the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione

might be up to. They returned quite soon. Ron stared

at Hermione, but her face was quite impassive.

“I liked Diggory,” said Krum abruptly to Harry. “He

vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos

from Durmstrang — with Karkaroff,” he added,

scowling.

“Have you got a new headmaster yet?” said Harry.

Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had

done, shook Harry’s hand, and then Ron’s. Ron

looked as though he was suffering some sort of

painful internal struggle. Krum had already started

walking away when Ron burst out, “Can I have your

autograph?”

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Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless

carriages that were now trundling toward them up the

drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed

a fragment of parchment for Ron.

The weather could not have been more different on

the journey back to King’s Cross than it had been on

their way to Hogwarts the previous September. There

wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione had managed to get a compartment to

themselves. Pigwidgeon was once again hidden under

Ron’s dress robes to stop him from hooting

continually; Hedwig was dozing, her head under her

wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a spare seat

like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione talked more fully and freely than they had

all week as the train sped them southward. Harry felt

as though Dumbledore’s speech at the Leaving Feast

had unblocked him, somehow. It was less painful to

discuss what had happened now. They broke off their

conversation about what action Dumbledore might be

taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the

lunch trolley arrived.

When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her

money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy

of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in

there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really

wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione,

seeing him looking at it, said calmly, “There’s nothing

in there. You can look for yourself, but there’s

nothing at all. I’ve been checking every day. Just a

small piece the day after the third task saying you

won the tournament. They didn’t even mention

Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me, Fudge

is forcing them to keep quiet.”

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“He’ll never keep Rita quiet,” said Harry. “Not on a story like this.”

“Oh, Rita hasn’t written anything at all since the third

task,” said Hermione in an oddly constrained voice.

“As a matter of fact,” she added, her voice now

trembling slightly, “Rita Skeeter isn’t going to be

writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she

wants me to spill the beans on her. ”

“What are you talking about?” said Ron.

“I found out how she was listening in on private

conversations when she wasn’t supposed to be

coming onto the grounds,” said Hermione in a rush.

Harry had the impression that Hermione had been

dying to tell them this for days, but that she had

restrained herself in light of everything else that had

happened.

“How was she doing it?” said Harry at once.

“How did you find out?” said Ron, staring at her.

“Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea,

Harry,” she said.

“Did I?” said Harry, perplexed. “How?”

“Bugging, ” said Hermione happily.

“But you said they didn’t work —”

“Oh not electronic bugs,” said Hermione. “No, you see

… Rita Skeeter” — Hermione’s voice trembled with

quiet triumph — “is an unregistered Animagus. She

can turn —”

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Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out of her bag.

“— into a beetle.”

“You’re kidding,” said Ron. “You haven’t … she’s not

…”

“Oh yes she is,” said Hermione happily, brandishing

the jar at them.

Inside were a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat

beetle.

“That’s never — you’re kidding —” Ron whispered,

lifting the jar to his eyes.

“No, I’m not,” said Hermione, beaming. “I caught her

on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very

closely, and you’ll notice the markings around her

antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she

wears.”

Harry looked and saw that she was quite right. He

also remembered something.

“There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard

Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!”

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “And Viktor pulled a beetle

out of my hair after we’d had our conversation by the

lake. And unless I’m very much mistaken, Rita was

perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the

day your scar hurt. She’s been buzzing around for

stories all year.”

“When we saw Malfoy under that tree …” said Ron

slowly.

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“He was talking to her, in his hand,” said Hermione.

“He knew, of course. That’s how she’s been getting all

those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They

wouldn’t care that she was doing something illegal, as

long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us

and Hagrid.”

Hermione took the glass jar back from Ron and

smiled at the beetle, which buzzed angrily against the

glass.

“I’ve told her I’ll let her out when we get back to

London,” said Hermione. “I’ve put an Unbreakable

Charm on the jar, you see, so she can’t transform.

And I’ve told her she’s to keep her quill to herself for a

whole year. See if she can’t break the habit of writing

horrible lies about people.”

Smiling serenely, Hermione placed the beetle back

inside her schoolbag.

The door of the compartment slid open.

“Very clever, Granger,” said Draco Malfoy.

Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him. All

three of them looked more pleased with themselves,

more arrogant and more menacing, than Harry had

ever seen them.

“So,” said Malfoy slowly, advancing slightly into the

compartment and looking slowly around at them, a

smirk quivering on his lips. “You caught some

pathetic reporter, and Potter’s Dumbledore’s favorite

boy again. Big deal.”

His smirk widened. Crabbe and Goyle leered.

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“Trying not to think about it, are we?” said Malfoy softly, looking around at all three of them. “Trying to

pretend it hasn’t happened?”

“Get out,” said Harry.

He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had

watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during

Dumbledore’s speech about Cedric. He could feel a

kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand

under his robes.

“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I

told you you ought to choose your company more

carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first

day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with

riffraff like this!” He jerked his head at Ron and

Hermione. “Too late now, Potter! They’ll be the first to

go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and

Muggle-lovers first! Well — second — Diggory was the

f —”

It was as though someone had exploded a box of

fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the

blaze of the spells that had blasted from every

direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry

blinked and looked down at the floor.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all lying unconscious

in the doorway. He, Ron, and Hermione were on their

feet, all three of them having used a different hex. Nor

were they the only ones to have done so.

“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” said

Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into

the compartment. He had his wand out, and so did

George, who was careful to tread on Malfoy as he

followed Fred inside.

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“Interesting effect,” said George, looking down at Crabbe. “Who used the Furnunculus Curse?”

“Me,” said Harry.

“Odd,” said George lightly. “I used Jelly-Legs. Looks

as though those two shouldn’t be mixed. He seems to

have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well,

let’s not leave them here, they don’t add much to the

decor.”

Ron, Harry, and George kicked, rolled, and pushed

the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle — each of

whom looked distinctly the worse for the jumble of

jinxes with which they had been hit — out into the

corridor, then came back into the compartment and

rolled the door shut.

“Exploding Snap, anyone?” said Fred, pulling out a

pack of cards.

They were halfway through their fifth game when

Harry decided to ask them.

“You going to tell us, then?” he said to George. “Who

you were blackmailing?”

“Oh,” said George darkly. “That. ”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fred, shaking his head

impatiently. “It wasn’t anything important. Not now,

anyway.”

“We’ve given up,” said George, shrugging.

But Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept on asking, and

finally, Fred said, “All right, all right, if you really

want to know … it was Ludo Bagman.”

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“Bagman?” said Harry sharply. “Are you saying he

was involved in —”

“Nah,” said George gloomily. “Nothing like that.

Stupid git. He wouldn’t have the brains.”

“Well, what, then?” said Ron.

Fred hesitated, then said, “You remember that bet we

had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how

Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?”

“Yeah,” said Harry and Ron slowly.

“Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he’d caught

from the Irish mascots.”

“So?”

“So,” said Fred impatiently, “it vanished, didn’t it? By

next morning, it had gone!”

“But — it must’ve been an accident, mustn’t it?” said

Hermione.

George laughed very bitterly.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought, at first. We thought if

we just wrote to him, and told him he’d made a

mistake, he’d cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored

our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at

Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to

get away from us.”

“In the end, he turned pretty nasty,” said Fred. “Told

us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn’t giving

us anything.”

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“So we asked for our money back,” said George

glowering.

“He didn’t refuse!” gasped Hermione.

“Right in one,” said Fred.

“But that was all your savings!” said Ron.

“Tell me about it,” said George. “ ’Course, we found

out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan’s dad

had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as

well. Turns out he’s in big trouble with the goblins.

Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them

cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and

took all the gold he had, and it still wasn’t enough to

cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to

Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He’s lost everything

gambling. Hasn’t got two Galleons to rub together.

And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins

back?”

“How?” said Harry.

“He put a bet on you, mate,” said Fred. “Put a big bet

on you to win the tournament. Bet against the

goblins.”

“So that’s why he kept trying to help me win!” said

Harry. “Well — I did win, didn’t I? So he can pay you

your gold!”

“Nope,” said George, shaking his head. “The goblins

play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory,

and Bagman was betting you’d win outright. So

Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after

the third task.”

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George sighed deeply and started dealing out the

cards again.

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough;

Harry wished it could have gone on all summer, in

fact, and that he would never arrive at King’s Cross …

but as he had learned the hard way that year, time

will not slow down when something unpleasant lies

ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was

pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The

usual confusion and noise filled the corridors as the

students began to disembark. Ron and Hermione

struggled out past Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle,

carrying their trunks. Harry, however, stayed put.

“Fred — George — wait a moment.”

The twins turned. Harry pulled open his trunk and

drew out his Triwizard winnings.

“Take it,” he said, and he thrust the sack into

George’s hands.

“What?” said Fred, looking flabbergasted.

“Take it,” Harry repeated firmly. “I don’t want it.”

“You’re mental,” said George, trying to push it back at

Harry.

“No, I’m not,” said Harry. “You take it, and get

inventing. It’s for the joke shop.”

“He is mental,” Fred said in an almost awed voice.

“Listen,” said Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m

throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t

need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before long.”

“Harry,” said George weakly, weighing the money bag

in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons

in here.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Think how many

Canary Creams that is.”

The twins stared at him.

“Just don’t tell your mum where you got it …

although she might not be so keen for you to join the

Ministry anymore, come to think of it. …”

“Harry,” Fred began, but Harry pulled out his wand.

“Look,” he said flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know

some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay?

Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re

from you.”

He left the compartment before they could say

another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and

Goyle, who were still lying on the floor, covered in hex

marks.

Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier. Mrs.

Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very

tightly when she saw him and whispered in his ear, “I

think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in the

summer. Keep in touch, Harry.”

“See you, Harry,” said Ron, clapping him on the back.

“ ’Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something

she had never done before, and kissed him on the

cheek.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

“Harry — thanks,” George muttered, while Fred

nodded fervently at his side.

Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and

followed him silently from the station. There was no

point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the

back of the Dursleys’ car.

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come…

and he would have to meet it when it did.

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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – J.K. Rowling

Document Outline

- THE RIDDLE HOUSE

- THE SCAR

- THE INVITATION

- BACK TO THE BURROW

- WEASLEYS’ WIZARD WHEEZES

- THE PORTKEY

- BAGMAN AND CROUCH

- THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

- THE DARK MARK

- MAYHEM AT THE MINISTRY

- ABOARD THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS

- THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

- MAD-EYE MOODY

- THE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES

- BEAUXBATONS AND DRUMSTRANG

- THE GOBLET OF FIRE

- THE FOUR CHAMPIONS

- THE WEIGHING OF THE WANDS

- THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL

- THE FIRST TASK

- THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT

- THE UNEXPECTED TASK

- THE YULE BALL

- RITA SKEETER’S SCOOP

- THE EGG AND THE EYE

- THE SECOND TASK

- PADFOOT RETURNS

- THE MADNESS OF MR. CROUCH

- THE DREAM

- THE PENSIEVE

- THE THIRD TASK

- FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE

- THE DEATH EATERS

- PRIORI INCANTATEM

- VERITASERUM

- THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

- THE BEGINNING

DUDLEY DEMENTED

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to

a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square

houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually

gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that

were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing;

the use of hosepipes had been banned due to

drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and

lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive

had retreated into the shade of their cool houses,

windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a

nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was

a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a

flower bed outside number four.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who

had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone

who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His

jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and

faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away

from the uppers. Harry Potter’s appearance did not

endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of

people who thought scruffiness ought to be

P a g e | 2 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself

behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was

quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he

would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt

Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room

window and looked straight down into the flower bed

below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be

congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not,

perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard

earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at

him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not

hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as

had happened every time he had tried sitting down in

the living room and watching television with his aunt

and uncle.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through

the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle,

suddenly spoke. “Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying

to butt in. Where is he anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not

in the house.”

Uncle Vernon grunted.

“Watching the news …” he said scathingly. “I’d like to

know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares

what’s on the news — Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s

going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is!

Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot

on our news —”

“Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s

open!”

“Oh — yes — sorry, dear …”

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The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle

about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched

Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby

Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning

and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that

he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had

recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever

she met him in the street. She had rounded the

corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s

voice floated out of the window again.

“Dudders out for tea?”

“At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got

so many little friends, he’s so popular …”

Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys

really were astonishingly stupid about their son,

Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies

about having tea with a different member of his gang

every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew

perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea

anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening

vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners,

and throwing stones at passing cars and children.

Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks

around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the

holidays wandering the streets, scavenging

newspapers from bins along the way.

The opening notes of the music that heralded the

seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his

stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a

month of waiting — would be the night —

“Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill

airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike

reaches its second week —”

P a g e | 4 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,” snarled Uncle

Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence,

but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s

stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had

happened, it would surely have been the first item on

the news; death and destruction were more important

than stranded holidaymakers...

He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the

brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been

the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary

relief, and then mounting tension again … and

always, growing more insistent all the time, the

question of why nothing had happened yet...

He kept listening, just in case there was some small

clue, not recognized for what it really was by the

Muggles — an unexplained disappearance,

perhaps, or some strange accident … but the

baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news on the

drought in the Southeast (“I hope he’s listening next

door!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, “with his sprinklers on

at three in the morning!”); then a helicopter that had

almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous

actress’s divorce from her famous husband (“as if

we’re interested in their sordid affairs,” sniffed Aunt

Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in

every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).

Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening

sky as the newsreader said, “And finally, Bungy the

budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this

summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in

Barnsley, has learned to water-ski! Mary Dorkins

went to find out more...”

Harry opened his eyes again. If they had reached

water-skiing budgerigars, there was nothing else

worth hearing. He rolled cautiously onto his front and

P a g e | 5 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

raised himself onto his knees and elbows, preparing

to crawl out from under the window.

He had moved about two inches when several things

happened in very quick succession.

A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a

gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car

and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath, and

the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys’

living room, and as though Harry had been waiting

for this signal, he jumped to his feet, at the same time

pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden

wand as if he were unsheathing a sword. But before

he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his

head collided with the Dursleys’ open window, and

the resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even

louder.

Harry felt as if his head had been split in two; eyes

streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street

and spot the source of the noise, but he had barely

staggered upright again when two large purple hands

reached through the open window and closed tightly

around his throat.

“Put — it — away!” Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry’s ear. “Now! Before — anyone — sees!”

“Get — off — me!” Harry gasped; for a few seconds

they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle’s sausage-

like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a

firm grip on his raised wand. Then, as the pain in the

top of Harry’s head gave a particularly nasty throb,

Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he

had received an electric shock — some invisible force

seemed to have surged through his nephew, making

him impossible to hold.

P a g e | 6 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Panting, Harry fell forward over the hydrangea bush,

straightened up, and stared around. There was no

sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but

there were several faces peering through various

nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back

into his jeans and tried to look innocent.

“Lovely evening!” shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at

Mrs. Number Seven, who was glaring from behind her

net curtains. “Did you hear that car backfire just

now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!”

He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all

the curious neighbors had disappeared from their

various windows, then the grin became a grimace of

rage as he beckoned Harry back toward him.

Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop

just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon’s

outstretched hands could resume their strangling.

“What the devil do you mean by it, boy?” asked Uncle

Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury.

“What do I mean by what?” said Harry coldly. He kept

looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see

the person who had made the cracking noise.

“Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside

our —”

“I didn’t make that noise,” said Harry firmly.

Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsey face now appeared beside

Uncle Vernon’s wide, purple one. She looked livid.

“Why were you lurking under our window?”

P a g e | 7 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Yes — yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?”

“Listening to the news,” said Harry in a resigned

voice.

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.

“Listening to the news! Again?”

“Well, it changes every day, you see,” said Harry.

“Don’t you be clever with me, boy! I want to know

what you’re really up to — and don’t give me any

more of this listening to the news tosh! You know

perfectly well that your lot …”

“Careful, Vernon!” breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle

Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry could barely

hear him, “… that your lot don’t get on our news!”

“That’s all you know,” said Harry.

The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then

Aunt Petunia said, “You’re a nasty little liar. What are

all those —” she too lowered her voice so that Harry

had to lip-read the next word, “— owls — doing if

they’re not bringing you news?”

“Aha!” said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper.

“Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn’t know you get

all your news from those pestilential birds!”

Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something

to tell the truth this time, even though his aunt and

uncle could not possibly know how bad Harry felt at

admitting it.

P a g e | 8 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“The owls … aren’t bringing me news,” said Harry

tonelessly.

“I don’t believe it,” said Aunt Petunia at once.

“No more do I,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully.

“We know you’re up to something funny,” said Aunt

Petunia.

“We’re not stupid, you know,” said Uncle Vernon.

“Well, that’s news to me,” said Harry, his temper

rising, and before the Dursleys could call him back,

he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn,

stepped over the low garden wall, and was striding off

up the street.

He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have

to face his aunt and uncle later and pay the price for

his rudeness, but he did not care very much just at

the moment; he had much more pressing matters on

his mind.

Harry was sure that the cracking noise had been

made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It

was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made

when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that

Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be

following him right at this very moment? As this

thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back

down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely

deserted again and Harry was sure that Dobby did

not know how to become invisible...

He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was

taking, for he had pounded these streets so often

lately that his feet carried him to his favorite haunts

automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over

P a g e | 9 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as

he lay among Aunt Petunias dying begonias, he was

sure of it. Why hadn’t they spoken to him, why hadn’t

they made contact, why were they hiding now?

And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his

certainty leaked away.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a magical sound after all.

Perhaps he was so desperate for the tiniest sign of

contact from the world to which he belonged that he

was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises.

Could he be sure it hadn’t been the sound of

something breaking inside a neighbor’s house?

Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach

and, before he knew it, the feeling of hopelessness

that had plagued him all summer rolled over him

once again...

Tomorrow morning he would be awoken by the alarm

at five o’clock so that he could pay the owl that

delivered the Daily Prophet — but was there any point

in continuing to take it? Harry merely glanced at the

front page before throwing it aside these days; when

the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that

Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and

that was the only kind Harry cared about.

If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying

letters from his best friends, Ron and Hermione,

though any expectation he had had that their letters

would bring him news had long since been dashed.

“We can’t say much about you-know-what,

obviously...” “We’ve been told not to say anything

important in case our letters go astray... ” “We’re quite

busy but I can’t give you details here...” “There’s a fair

P a g e | 10 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

amount going on, we’ll tell you everything when we see you...”

But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed

too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had

scribbled, “I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon”

inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As

far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their

letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place,

presumably at Ron’s parents’ house. He could hardly

bear to think of the pair of them having fun at the

Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he

was so angry at them that he had thrown both their

birthday presents of Honeydukes chocolates away

unopened, though he had regretted this after eating

the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for

dinner that night.

And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why

wasn’t he, Harry, busy? Hadn’t he proved himself

capable of handling much more than they? Had they

all forgotten what he had done? Hadn’t it been he who

had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being

murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly

killed … ?

Don’t think about that, Harry told himself sternly for

the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough

that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his

nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking

moments too.

He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway

along he passed the narrow alleyway down the side of

a garage where he had first clapped eyes on his

godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to understand how

Harry was feeling; admittedly his letters were just as

empty of proper news as Ron and Hermione’s, but at

P a g e | 11 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

least they contained words of caution and consolation

instead of tantalizing hints:

“I know this must be frustrating for you...” “Keep your

nose clean and everything will be okay...” “Be careful

and don’t do anything rash...”

Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia

Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road, and headed

toward the darkening play park, he had (by and large)

done as Sirius advised; he had at least resisted the

temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set

off for the Burrow by himself. In fact Harry thought

his behavior had been very good considering how

frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet

Drive this long, reduced to hiding in flower beds in

the hope of hearing something that might point to

what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was

quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who

had served twelve years in the wizard prison,

Azkaban, escaped, attempted to commit the murder

he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone

on the run with a stolen hippogriff...

Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off

across the parched grass. The park was as empty as

the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings

he sank onto the only one that Dudley and his friends

had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around

the chain, and stared moodily at the ground. He

would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flower bed

again. Tomorrow he would have to think of some

fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime,

he had nothing to look forward to but another

restless, disturbed night, because even when he

escaped nightmares about Cedric he had unsettling

dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in

dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had

something to do with the trapped feeling he had when

P a g e | 12 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

he was awake. Often the old scar on his forehead

prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself

that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very

interesting anymore... In the past his scar hurting

had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger

again, but now that Voldemort was back they would

probably remind him that its regular irritation was

only to be expected... Nothing to worry about … old

news …

The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he

wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn’t been for him,

nobody would even have known Voldemort was back!

And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for

four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical

world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so

that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars!

How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily?

Why had Ron and Hermione got together without

inviting him along too? How much longer was he

supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and

be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the

stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort

had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around

in Harry’s head, and his insides writhed with anger as

a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of

the smell of warm, dry grass and the only sound that

of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the

park railings.

He did not know how long he had sat on the swing

before the sound of voices interrupted his musings

and he looked up. The street-lamps from the

surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong

enough to silhouette a group of people making their

way across the park. One of them was singing a loud,

crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking

noise came from several expensive racing bikes that

they were wheeling along.

P a g e | 13 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front

was unmistakably his cousin, Dudley Dursley,

wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful

gang.

Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year’s hard dieting

and the discovery of a new talent had wrought quite a

change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly

told anyone who would listen, Dudley had recently

become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing

Champion of the Southeast. “The noble sport,” as

Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more

formidable than he had seemed to Harry in the

primary school days when he had served as Dudley’s

first punching bag. Harry was not remotely afraid of

his cousin anymore but he still didn’t think that

Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately

was cause for celebration. Neighborhood children all

around were terrified of him — even more terrified

than they were of “that Potter boy,” who, they had

been warned, was a hardened hooligan who attended

St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal

Boys.

Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass

and wondered whom they had been beating up

tonight. Look round, Harry found himself thinking as

he watched them. Come on … look round … I’m sitting

here all alone... Come and have ago...

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would

be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would

Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in

front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking

Harry... It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s

dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him

powerless to respond … and if any of the others tried

hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand …

let them try … He’d love to vent some of his

P a g e | 14 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

frustration on the boys who had once made his life

hell —

But they did not turn around, they did not see him,

they were almost at the railings. Harry mastered the

impulse to call after them... Seeking a fight was not a

smart move... He must not use magic... He would be

risking expulsion again...

Dudley’s gang’s voices died; they were out of sight,

heading along Magnolia Road.

There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing

rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what

you’d have done …

He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and

Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever Dudley

turned up was the right time to be home, and anytime

after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had

threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home

after Dudley again, so, stifling a yawn, still scowling,

Harry set off toward the park gate.

Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large,

square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all

owned by large, square owners who drove very clean

cars similar to Uncle Vernon’s. Harry preferred Little

Whinging by night, when the curtained windows

made patches of jewel-bright colors in the darkness

and he ran no danger of hearing disapproving

mutters about his “delinquent” appearance when he

passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that

halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley’s gang came into

view again; they were saying their farewells at the

entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into

the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.

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“… squealed like a pig, didn’t he?” Malcolm was

saying, to guffaws from the others.

“Nice right hook, Big D,” said Piers.

“Same time tomorrow?” said Dudley.

“Round at my place, my parents are out,” said

Gordon.

“See you then,” said Dudley.

“Bye Dud!”

“See ya, Big D!”

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on

before setting off again. When their voices had faded

once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia

Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon came

within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling

along at his ease, humming tunelessly.

“Hey, Big D!”

Dudley turned.

“Oh,” he grunted. “It’s you.”

“How long have you been ‘Big D’ then?” said Harry.

“Shut it,” snarled Dudley, turning away again.

“Cool name,” said Harry, grinning and falling into

step beside his cousin. “But you’ll always be Ickle

Diddykins to me.”

“I said, SHUT IT!” said Dudley, whose ham-like hands

had curled into fists.

P a g e | 16 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Don’t the boys know that’s what your mum calls

you?”

“Shut your face.”

“You don’t tell her to shut her face. What about

‘popkin’ and ‘Dinky Diddydums,’ can I use them

then?”

Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself

from hitting Harry seemed to be demanding all his

self-control.

“So who’ve you been beating up tonight?” Harry

asked, his grin fading. “Another ten-year-old? I know

you did Mark Evans two nights ago —”

“He was asking for it,” snarled Dudley.

“Oh yeah?”

“He cheeked me.”

“Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been

taught to walk on its hind legs? ’Cause that’s not

cheek, Dud, that’s true …”

A muscle was twitching in Dudley’s jaw. It gave Harry

enormous satisfaction to know how furious he was

making Dudley; he felt as though he was siphoning

off his own frustration into his cousin, the only outlet

he had.

They turned right down the narrow alleyway where

Harry had first seen Sirius and which formed a

shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria

Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets

it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their

P a g e | 17 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one

side and a high fence on the other.

“Think you’re a big man carrying that thing, don’t

you?” Dudley said after a few seconds.

“What thing?”

“That — that thing you’re hiding.”

Harry grinned again.

“Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s’pose

if you were, you wouldn’t be able to walk and talk at

the same time...”

Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look

sideways at it.

“You’re not allowed,” Dudley said at once. “I know

you’re not. You’d get expelled from that freak school

you go to.”

“How d’you know they haven’t changed the rules, Big

D?”

“They haven’t,” said Dudley, though he didn’t sound

completely convinced. Harry laughed softly.

“You haven’t got the guts to take me on without that

thing, have you?” Dudley snarled.

“Whereas you just need four mates behind you before

you can beat up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing

title you keep banging on about? How old was your

opponent? Seven? Eight?”

“He was sixteen for your information,” snarled

Dudley, “and he was out cold for twenty minutes after

P a g e | 18 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

I’d finished with him and he was twice as heavy as

you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing

out —”

“Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing

champ frightened of nasty Harry’s wand?”

“Not this brave at night, are you?” sneered Dudley.

“This is night, Diddykins. That’s what we call it when

it goes all dark like this.”

“I mean when you’re in bed!” Dudley snarled.

He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at

his cousin. From the little he could see of Dudley’s

large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant

look.

“What d’you mean, I’m not brave in bed?” said Harry,

completely nonplussed. “What — am I supposed to be

frightened of pillows or something?”

“I heard you last night,” said Dudley breathlessly.

“Talking in your sleep. Moaning.”

“What d’you mean?” Harry said again, but there was

a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had

revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.

Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter then adopted a

high-pitched, whimpering voice. “ ‘Don’t kill Cedric!

Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric — your boyfriend?”

“I — you’re lying —” said Harry automatically. But his

mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn’t lying —

how else would he know about Cedric?

P a g e | 19 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“ ‘Dad! Help me, Dad! He’s going to kill me, Dad! Boo-

hoo!’ ”

“Shut up,” said Harry quietly. “Shut up, Dudley, I’m

warning you!”

“ ‘Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me!

He’s killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He’s going to —’

Don’t you point that thing at me!”

Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing

the wand directly at Dudley’s heart. Harry could feel

fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his

veins — what wouldn’t he give to strike now, to jinx

Dudley so thoroughly he’d have to crawl home like an

insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers —

“Don’t ever talk about that again,” Harry snarled.

“D’you understand me?”

“Point that thing somewhere else!”

“I said, do you understand me?”

“Point it somewhere else!”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“GET THAT THING AWAY FROM —”

Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he

had been doused in icy water.

Something had happened to the night. The star-

strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and

lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps

at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant

grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone.

The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly

P a g e | 20 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable,

silent darkness, as though some giant hand had

dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway,

blinding them.

For a split second Harry thought he had done magic

without meaning to, despite the fact that he’d been

resisting as hard as he could — then his reason

caught up with his senses — he didn’t have the power

to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and

that, trying to see something, but the darkness

pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.

Dudley’s terrified voice broke in Harry’s ear.

“W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything! Shut up and don’t move!”

“I c-can’t see! I’ve g-gone blind! I —”

“I said shut up!”

Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left

and right. The cold was so intense that he was

shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his

arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were

standing up — he opened his eyes to their fullest

extent, staring blankly around, unseeing …

It was impossible... They couldn’t be here... Not in

Little Whinging … He strained his ears... He would

hear them before he saw them...

“I’ll t-tell Dad!” Dudley whimpered. “W-where are you?

What are you d-do — ?”

“Will you shut up?” Harry hissed, “I’m trying to lis —”

P a g e | 21 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.

There was something in the alleyway apart from

themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse,

rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as

he stood trembling in the freezing air.

“C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I’ll h-hit you, I swear I

will!”

“Dudley, shut —”

WHAM!

A fist made contact with the side of Harry’s head,

lifting Harry off his feet. Small white lights popped in

front of Harry’s eyes; for the second time in an hour

he felt as though his head had been cleaved in two;

next moment he had landed hard on the ground, and

his wand had flown out of his hand.

“You moron, Dudley!” Harry yelled, his eyes watering

with pain, as he scrambled to his hands and knees,

now feeling around frantically in the blackness. He

heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence,

stumbling.

“DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT

AT IT!”

There was a horrible squealing yell, and Dudley’s

footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a

creeping chill behind him that could mean only one

thing. There was more than one.

“DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER

YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!” Harry

P a g e | 22 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. “Where’s — wand — come on — Lumos!”

He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to

help him in his search — and to his disbelieving

relief, light flared inches from his right hand — the

wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up,

scrambled to his feet, and turned around.

His stomach turned over.

A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly

toward him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face

visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it

came.

Stumbling backward, Harry raised his wand.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand

and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked

properly; tripping over his feet, Harry retreated

farther as the dementor bore down upon him, panic

fogging his brain — concentrate —

A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside

the dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing

noise filled Harry’s ears.

“Expecto Patronum!”

His voice sounded dim and distant... Another wisp of

silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the

wand — he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t work

the spell —

There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-

pitched laughter... He could smell the dementor’s

P a g e | 23 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs,

drowning him — Think … something happy...

But there was no happiness in him... The dementor’s

icy fingers were closing on his throat — the high-

pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and

a voice spoke inside his head — “Bow to death,

Harry... It might even be painless... I would not

know... I have never died... ”

He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again —

And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he

fought for breath —

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of

Harry’s wand; its antlers caught the dementor in the

place where the heart should have been; it was

thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the

stag charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike

and defeated.

“THIS WAY!” Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling

around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit

wand aloft. “DUDLEY? DUDLEY!”

He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached

them: Dudley was curled on the ground, his arms

clamped over his face; a second dementor was

crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its

slimy hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly

apart, lowering its hooded head toward Dudley’s face

as though about to kiss him...

“GET IT!” Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring

sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping

back past him. The dementor’s eyeless face was

P a g e | 24 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

barely an inch from Dudley’s when the silver antlers

caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and,

like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into

the darkness. The stag cantered to the end of the

alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.

Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A

warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in

neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars

in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harry stood

quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the

abrupt return to normality. After a moment he

became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he

was drenched in sweat.

He could not believe what had just happened.

Dementors here, in Little Whinging …

Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and

shaking. Harry bent down to see whether he was in a

fit state to stand up, but then heard loud, running

footsteps behind him; instinctively raising his wand

again, he spun on his heel to face the newcomer.

Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into

sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its

hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging

from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her

tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand

hurriedly out of sight, but —

“Don’t put it away, idiot boy!” she shrieked. “What if

there are more of them around? Oh, I’m going to kill

Mundungus Fletcher!”

P a g e | 25 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

A PECK OF OWLS

“What?” said Harry blankly.

“He left!” said Mrs. Figg, wringing her hands. “Left to

see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off

the back of a broom! I told him I’d flay him alive if he

went, and now look! Dementors! It’s just lucky I put

Mr. Tibbies on the case! But we haven’t got time to

stand around! Hurry, now, we’ve got to get you back!

Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!”

“But —”

The revelation that his batty old cat-obsessed

neighbor knew what dementors were was almost as

big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them down the

alleyway. “You’re — you’re a witch?”

“I’m a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how

on earth was I supposed to help you fight off

dementors? He left you completely without cover

when I warned him —”

P a g e | 26 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“This bloke Mundungus has been following me? Hang

on — it was him! He Disapparated from the front of

my house!”

“Yes, yes, yes, but luckily I’d stationed Mr. Tibbies

under a car just in case, and Mr. Tibbies came and

warned me, but by the time I got to your house you’d

gone — and now — oh, what’s Dumbledore going to

say? You!” she shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the

alley floor. “Get your fat bottom off the ground,

quick!”

“You know Dumbledore?” said Harry, staring at her.

“Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn’t know

Dumbledore? But come on — I’ll be no help if they

come back, I’ve never so much as Transfigured a

teabag —”

She stooped down, seized one of Dudley’s massive

arms in her wizened hands, and tugged.

“Get up, you useless lump, get up!”

But Dudley either could not or would not move. He

was still on the ground, trembling and ashen-faced,

his mouth shut very tight.

“I’ll do it.” Harry took hold of Dudley’s arm and

heaved: With an enormous effort he managed to hoist

Dudley to his feet. Dudley seemed to be on the point

of fainting: His small eyes were rolling in their sockets

and sweat was beading his face; the moment Harry let

go of him he swayed dangerously.

“Hurry up!” said Mrs. Figg hysterically.

Harry pulled one of Dudley’s massive arms around

his own shoulders and dragged him toward the road,

P a g e | 27 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

sagging slightly under his weight. Mrs. Figg tottered

along in front of them, peering anxiously around the

corner.

“Keep your wand out,” she told Harry, as they entered

Wisteria Walk. “Never mind the Statute of Secrecy

now, there’s going to be hell to pay anyway, we might

as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg. Talk about

the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery …

This was exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of —

what’s that at the end of the street? Oh, it’s just Mr.

Prentice... Don’t put your wand away, boy, don’t I

keep telling you I’m no use?”

It was not easy to hold a wand steady and carry

Dudley along at the same time. Harry gave his cousin

an impatient dig in the ribs, but Dudley seemed to

have lost all desire for independent movement. He

was slumped on Harry’s shoulder, his large feet

dragging along the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a Squib?” Harry asked

Mrs. Figg, panting with the effort to keep walking. “All

those times I came round your house — why didn’t

you say anything?”

“Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you

but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I

gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys

would never have let you come if they’d thought you

enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know... But oh my

word,” she said tragically, wringing her hands once

more, “when Dumbledore hears about this — how

could Mundungus have left, he was supposed to be

on duty until midnight — where is he? How am I

going to tell Dumbledore what’s happened, I can’t

Apparate —”

P a g e | 28 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“I’ve got an owl, you can borrow her,” Harry groaned,

wondering whether his spine was going to snap under

Dudley’s weight.

“Harry, you don’t understand! Dumbledore will need

to act as quickly as possible, the Ministry have their

own ways of detecting underage magic, they’ll know

already, you mark my words —”

“But I was getting rid of dementors, I had to use

magic — they’re going to be more worried what

dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk,

surely?”

“Oh my dear, I wish it were so but I’m afraid —

MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL

YOU!”

There was a loud crack and a strong smell of mingled

drink and stale tobacco filled the air as a squat,

unshaven man in a tattered overcoat materialized

right in front of them. He had short bandy legs, long

straggly ginger hair, and bloodshot baggy eyes that

gave him the doleful look of a basset hound; he was

also clutching a silvery bundle that Harry recognized

at once as an Invisibility Cloak.

“ ’S’ up, Figgy?” he said, staring from Mrs. Figg to

Harry and Dudley. “What ’appened to staying

undercover?”

“I’ll give you undercover!” cried Mrs. Figg. “Dementors,

you useless, skiving sneak thief!”

“Dementors?” repeated Mundungus, aghast.

“Dementors here?”

P a g e | 29 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!”

shrieked Mrs. Figg. “Dementors attacking the boy on

your watch!”

“Blimey,” said Mundungus weakly, looking from Mrs.

Figg to Harry and back again. “Blimey, I …”

“And you off buying stolen cauldrons! Didn’t I tell you

not to go? Didn’t I?”

“I — well, I —” Mundungus looked deeply

uncomfortable. “It … it was a very good business

opportunity, see …”

Mrs. Figg raised the arm from which her string bag

dangled and whacked Mundungus around the face

and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it

made it was full of cat food.

“Ouch — gerroff — gerroff, you mad old bat!

Someone’s gotta tell Dumbledore!”

“Yes — they — have!” yelled Mrs. Figg, still swinging

the bag of cat food at every bit of Mundungus she

could reach. “And — it — had — better — be — you —

and — you — can — tell — him — why — you —

weren’t — there — to — help!”

“Keep your ’airnet on!” said Mundungus, his arms

over his head, cowering. “I’m going, I’m going!”

And with another loud crack, he vanished.

“I hope Dumbledore murders him!” said Mrs. Figg

furiously. “Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting

for?”

Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on

pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley’s

P a g e | 30 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

bulk. He gave the semiconscious Dudley a heave and

staggered onward.

“I’ll take you to the door,” said Mrs. Figg, as they

turned into Privet Drive. “Just in case there are more

of them around... Oh my word, what a catastrophe …

and you had to fight them off yourself … and

Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing

magic at all costs... Well, it’s no good crying over

spilled potion, I suppose … but the cat’s among the

pixies now …”

“So,” Harry panted, “Dumbledore’s … been having …

me followed?”

“Of course he has,” said Mrs. Figg impatiently. “Did

you expect him to let you wander around on your own

after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they

told me you were intelligent... Right … get inside and

stay there,” she said as they reached number four. “I

expect someone will be in touch with you soon

enough.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Harry quickly.

“I’m going straight home,” said Mrs. Figg, staring

around the dark street and shuddering. “I’ll need to

wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house.

Good night.”

“Hang on, don’t go yet! I want to know —”

But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet

slippers flopping, string bag clanking.

“Wait!” Harry shouted after her; he had a million

questions to ask anyone who was in contact with

Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was

swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry

P a g e | 31 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his

slow, painful way up number four’s garden path.

The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back

inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell, and

watched Aunt Petunia’s outline grow larger and

larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the

front door.

“Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite — quite —

Diddy, what’s the matter?”

Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out

from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed for a

moment on the spot, his face pale green, then he

opened his mouth at last and vomited all over the

doormat.

“DIDDY! Diddy, what’s the matter with you? Vernon?

VERNON!”

Harry’s uncle came galumphing out of the living

room, walrus mustache blowing hither and thither as

it always did when he was agitated. He hurried

forward to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed

Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in

the pool of sick.

“He’s ill, Vernon!”

“What is it, son? What’s happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss

give you something foreign for tea?”

“Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you

been lying on the ground?”

“Hang on — you haven’t been mugged, have you,

son?”

P a g e | 32 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Petunia screamed.

“Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy,

darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?”

In all the kerfuffle, nobody seemed to have noticed

Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip

inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door

and while the Dursleys made their noisy progress

down the hall toward the kitchen, Harry moved

carefully and quietly toward the stairs.

“Who did it, son? Give us names. We’ll get them, don’t

worry.”

“Shh! He’s trying to say something, Vernon! What is

it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!”

Harry’s foot was on the bottommost stair when

Dudley found his voice.

“Him. ”

Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced

for the explosion.

“BOY! COME HERE!”

With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry

removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to

follow the Dursleys.

The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal

glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was

ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green

and clammy looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in

front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through

tiny, narrowed eyes.

P a g e | 33 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“What have you done to my son?” he said in a

menacing growl.

“Nothing,” said Harry, knowing perfectly well that

Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him.

“What did he do to you, Diddy?” Aunt Petunia said in

a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of

Dudley’s leather jacket. “Was it — was it you-know-

what, darling? Did he use — his thing?”

Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.

“I didn’t!” Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out

a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. “I didn’t do

anything to him, it wasn’t me, it was —”

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in

through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the

top of Uncle Vernon’s head, it soared across the

kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was

carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, and turned

gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top

of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off

across the garden.

“OWLS!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in

his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen

window shut. “OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY

MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!”

But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and

pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding

somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that you performed the

Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this

P a g e | 34 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the

presence of a Muggle.

The severity of this breach of the Decree for the

Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has

resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will

be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy

your wand.

As you have already received an official warning for a

previous offense under section 13 of the International

Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret

to inform you that your presence is required at a

disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m.

on August 12th.

Hoping you are well,

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Harry read the letter through twice. He was only

vaguely aware of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia

talking in the vicinity. Inside his head, all was icy and

numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness

like a paralyzing dart. He was expelled from

Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.

He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was

purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; Aunt

Petunia had her arms around Dudley, who was

retching again.

P a g e | 35 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry’s temporarily stupefied brain seemed to

reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at

your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

There was only one thing for it. He would have to run

— now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn’t know,

but he was certain of one thing: At Hogwarts or

outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost

dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to

leave the kitchen.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” yelled Uncle

Vernon. When Harry didn’t reply, he pounded across

the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. “I

haven’t finished with you, boy!”

“Get out of the way,” said Harry quietly.

“You’re going to stay here and explain how my son —”

“If you don’t get out of the way I’m going to jinx you,”

said Harry, raising the wand.

“You can’t pull that one on me!” snarled Uncle

Vernon. “I know you’re not allowed to use it outside

that madhouse you call a school!”

“The madhouse has chucked me out,” said Harry. “So

I can do whatever I like. You’ve got three seconds.

One — two —”

A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen; Aunt Petunia

screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but for

the third time that night Harry was staring for the

source of a disturbance he had not made. He spotted

it at once: A dazed and ruffled-looking barn owl was

sitting outside on the kitchen sill, having just collided

with the closed window.

P a g e | 36 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s anguished yell of “OWLS!”

Harry crossed the room at a run and wrenched the

window open again. The owl stuck out its leg, to

which a small roll of parchment was tied, shook its

feathers, and took off the moment Harry had pulled

off the letter. Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the

second message, which was written very hastily and

blotchily in black ink.

Harry —

Dumbledore’s just arrived at the Ministry, and he’s

trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT

AND UNCLE’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE

MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.

Arthur Weasley

Dumbledore was trying to sort it all out... What did

that mean? How much power did Dumbledore have to

override the Ministry of Magic? Was there a chance

that he might be allowed back to Hogwarts, then? A

small shoot of hope burgeoned in Harry’s chest,

almost immediately strangled by panic — how was he

supposed to refuse to surrender his wand without

doing magic? He’d have to duel with the Ministry

representatives, and if he did that, he’d be lucky to

escape Azkaban, let alone expulsion.

His mind was racing... He could run for it and risk

being captured by the Ministry, or stay put and wait

for them to find him here. He was much more

tempted by the former course, but he knew that Mr.

Weasley had his best interests at heart … and, after

all, Dumbledore had sorted out much worse than this

before...

“Right,” Harry said, “I’ve changed my mind, I’m

staying.”

P a g e | 37 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He flung himself down at the kitchen table and faced

Dudley and Aunt Petunia. The Dursleys appeared

taken aback at his abrupt change of mind. Aunt

Petunia glanced despairingly at Uncle Vernon. The

vein in Uncle Vernon’s purple temple was throbbing

worse than ever.

“Who are all these ruddy owls from?” he growled.

“The first one was from the Ministry of Magic,

expelling me,” said Harry calmly; he was straining his

ears to catch noises outside in case the Ministry

representatives were approaching, and it was easier

and quieter to answer Uncle Vernon’s questions than

to have him start raging and bellowing. “The second

one was from my friend Ron’s dad, he works at the

Ministry.”

“Ministry of Magic?” bellowed Uncle Vernon. “People

like you in government? Oh this explains everything,

everything, no wonder the country’s going to the

dogs...”

When Harry did not respond, Uncle Vernon glared at

him, then spat, “And why have you been expelled?”

“Because I did magic.”

“AHA!” roared Uncle Vernon, slamming his fist down

on the top of the fridge, which sprang open; several of

Dudley’s low-fat snacks toppled out and burst on the

floor. “So you admit it! What did you do to Dudley?”

“Nothing,” said Harry, slightly less calmly. “That

wasn’t me —”

“Was,” muttered Dudley unexpectedly, and Uncle

Vernon and Aunt Petunia instantly made flapping

P a g e | 38 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

gestures at Harry to quiet him while they both bent

low over Dudley.

“Go on, son,” said Uncle Vernon, “what did he do?”

“Tell us, darling,” whispered Aunt Petunia.

“Pointed his wand at me,” Dudley mumbled.

“Yeah, I did, but I didn’t use —” Harry began angrily,

but …

“SHUT UP!” roared Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in

unison. “Go on, son,” repeated Uncle Vernon,

mustache blowing about furiously.

“All dark,” Dudley said hoarsely, shuddering.

“Everything dark. And then I h-heard … things. Inside

m-my head …”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged looks of

utter horror. If their least favorite thing in the world

was magic, closely followed by neighbors who cheated

more than they did on the hosepipe ban, people who

heard voices were definitely in the bottom ten. They

obviously thought Dudley was losing his mind.

“What sort of things did you hear, popkin?” breathed

Aunt Petunia, very white-faced and with tears in her

eyes.

But Dudley seemed incapable of saying. He

shuddered again and shook his large blond head, and

despite the sense of numb dread that had settled on

Harry since the arrival of the first owl, he felt a

certain curiosity. Dementors caused a person to relive

the worst moments of their life... What would spoiled,

pampered, bullying Dudley have been forced to hear?

P a g e | 39 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“How come you fell over, son?” said Uncle Vernon in

an unnaturally quiet voice, the kind of voice he would

adopt at the bedside of a very ill person.

“T-tripped,” said Dudley shakily. “And then —”

He gestured at his massive chest. Harry understood:

Dudley was remembering the clammy cold that filled

the lungs as hope and happiness were sucked out of

you.

“Horrible,” croaked Dudley. “Cold. Really cold.”

“Okay,” said Uncle Vernon in a voice of forced calm,

while Aunt Petunia laid an anxious hand on Dudley’s

forehead to feel his temperature. “What happened

then, Dudders?”

“Felt … felt … felt … as if… as if …”

“As if you’d never be happy again,” Harry supplied

tonelessly.

“Yes,” Dudley whispered, still trembling.

“So,” said Uncle Vernon, voice restored to full and

considerable volume as he straightened up. “So you

put some crackpot spell on my son so he’d hear

voices and believe he was — was doomed to misery,

or something, did you?”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” said Harry,

temper and voice rising together. “It wasn’t me! It was

a couple of dementors!”

“A couple of— what’s this codswallop?”

“De — men — tors,” said Harry slowly and clearly.

“Two of them.”

P a g e | 40 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“And what the ruddy hell are dementors?”

“They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban,” said Aunt

Petunia.

Two seconds’ ringing silence followed these words and

then Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth

as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word.

Uncle Vernon was goggling at her. Harry’s brain

reeled. Mrs. Figg was one thing — but Aunt Petunia?

“How d’you know that?” he asked her, astonished.

Aunt Petunia looked quite appalled with herself. She

glanced at Uncle Vernon in fearful apology, then

lowered her hand slightly to reveal her horsey teeth.

“I heard — that awful boy — telling her about them —

years ago,” she said jerkily.

“If you mean my mum and dad, why don’t you use

their names?” said Harry loudly, but Aunt Petunia

ignored him. She seemed horribly flustered.

Harry was stunned. Except for one outburst years

ago, in the course of which Aunt Petunia had

screamed that Harry’s mother had been a freak, he

had never heard her mention her sister. He was

astounded that she had remembered this scrap of

information about the magical world for so long, when

she usually put all her energies into pretending it

didn’t exist.

Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, closed it again,

opened it once more, shut it, then, apparently

struggling to remember how to talk, opened it for a

third time and croaked, “So — so — they — er — they

— er — they actually exist, do they — er — dementy-

whatsits?”

P a g e | 41 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Petunia nodded.

Uncle Vernon looked from Aunt Petunia to Dudley to

Harry as if hoping somebody was going to shout

“April Fool!” When nobody did, he opened his mouth

yet again, but was spared the struggle to find more

words by the arrival of the third owl of the evening,

which zoomed through the still-open window like a

feathery cannonball and landed with a clatter on the

kitchen table, causing all three of the Dursleys to

jump with fright. Harry tore a second official-looking

envelope from the owl’s beak and ripped it open as

the owl swooped back out into the night.

“Enough — effing — owls …” muttered Uncle Vernon

distractedly, stomping over to the window and

slamming it shut again.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two

minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its

decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may

retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on

12th August, at which time an official decision will be

taken.

Following discussions with the Headmaster of

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the

Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion

will also be decided at that time. You should therefore

consider yourself suspended from school pending

further inquiries.

With best wishes,

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

P a g e | 42 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Harry read this letter through three times in quick

succession. The miserable knot in his chest loosened

slightly at the thought that he was not definitely

expelled, though his fears were by no means

banished. Everything seemed to hang on this hearing

on the twelfth of August.

“Well?” said Uncle Vernon, recalling Harry to his

surroundings. “What now? Have they sentenced you

to anything? Do your lot have the death penalty?” he

added as a hopeful afterthought.

“I’ve got to go to a hearing,” said Harry.

“And they’ll sentence you there?”

“I suppose so.”

“I won’t give up hope, then,” said Uncle Vernon

nastily.

“Well, if that’s all,” said Harry, getting to his feet. He

was desperate to be alone, to think, perhaps to send a

letter to Ron, Hermione, or Sirius.

“NO, IT RUDDY WELL IS NOT ALL!” bellowed Uncle

Vernon. “SIT BACK DOWN!”

“What now?” said Harry impatiently.

“DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon. “I want to know

exactly what happened to my son!”

“FINE!” yelled Harry, and in his temper, red and gold

sparks shot out of the end of his wand, still clutched

P a g e | 43 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

in his hand. All three Dursleys flinched, looking

terrified.

“Dudley and I were in the alleyway between Magnolia

Crescent and Wisteria Walk,” said Harry, speaking

fast, fighting to control his temper. “Dudley thought

he’d be smart with me, I pulled out my wand but

didn’t use it. Then two dementors turned up —”

“But what ARE dementoids?” asked Uncle Vernon

furiously. “What do they DO?”

“I told you — they suck all the happiness out of you,”

said Harry, “and if they get the chance, they kiss you

—”

“Kiss you?” said Uncle Vernon, his eyes popping

slightly. “Kiss you?”

“It’s what they call it when they suck the soul out of

your mouth.”

Aunt Petunia uttered a soft scream.

“His soul? They didn’t take — he’s still got his —”

She seized Dudley by the shoulders and shook him,

as though testing to see whether she could hear his

soul rattling around inside him.

“Of course they didn’t get his soul, you’d know if they

had,” said Harry, exasperated.

“Fought ’em off, did you, son?” said Uncle Vernon

loudly, with the appearance of a man struggling to

bring the conversation back onto a plane he

understood. “Gave ’em the old one-two, did you?”

P a g e | 44 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“You can’t give a dementor the old one-two, ” said Harry through clenched teeth.

“Why’s he all right, then?” blustered Uncle Vernon.

“Why isn’t he all empty, then?”

“Because I used the Patronus —”

WHOOSH. With a clattering, a whirring of wings, and

a soft fall of dust, a fourth owl came shooting out of

the kitchen fireplace.

“FOR GOD’S SAKE!” roared Uncle Vernon, pulling

great clumps of hair out of his mustache, something

he hadn’t been driven to in a long time. “I WILL NOT

HAVE OWLS HERE, I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS, I

TELL YOU!”

But Harry was already pulling a roll of parchment

from the owl’s leg. He was so convinced that this

letter had to be from Dumbledore, explaining

everything — the dementors, Mrs. Figg, what the

Ministry was up to, how he, Dumbledore, intended to

sort everything out — that for the first time in his life

he was disappointed to see Sirius’s handwriting.

Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s ongoing rant about owls and

narrowing his eyes against a second cloud of dust as

the most recent owl took off back up the chimney,

Harry read Sirius’s message.

Arthur’s just told us what’s happened.

Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do.

Harry found this such an inadequate response to

everything that had happened tonight that he turned

the piece of parchment over, looking for the rest of the

letter, but there was nothing there.

P a g e | 45 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

And now his temper was rising again. Wasn’t

anybody going to say “well done” for fighting off two

dementors single-handedly? Both Mr. Weasley and

Sirius were acting as though he’d misbehaved and

they were saving their tellings-off until they could

ascertain how much damage had been done.

“— a peck, I mean, pack of owls shooting in and out

of my house and I won’t have it, boy, I won’t —”

“I can’t stop the owls coming,” Harry snapped,

crushing Sirius’s letter in his fist.

“I want the truth about what happened tonight!”

barked Uncle Vernon. “If it was demenders who hurt

Dudley, how come you’ve been expelled? You did you-

know-what, you’ve admitted it!”

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was

beginning to ache again. He wanted more than

anything to get out of the kitchen, away from the

Dursleys.

“I did the Patronus Charm to get rid of the

dementors,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm.

“It’s the only thing that works against them.”

“But what were dementoids doing in Little Whinging?”

said Uncle Vernon in tones of outrage.

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Harry wearily. “No idea.”

His head was pounding in the glare of the strip

lighting now. His anger was ebbing away. He felt

drained, exhausted. The Dursleys were all staring at

him.

“It’s you,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “It’s got

something to do with you, boy, I know it. Why else

P a g e | 46 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

would they turn up here? Why else would they be

down that alleyway? You’ve got to be the only — the

only —” Evidently he couldn’t bring himself to say the

word “wizard.” “The only you-know-what for miles.”

“I don’t know why they were here...”

But at these words of Uncle Vernon’s, Harry’s

exhausted brain ground back into action. Why had

the dementors come to Little Whinging? How could it

be coincidence that they had arrived in the alleyway

where Harry was? Had they been sent? Had the

Ministry of Magic lost control of the dementors, had

they deserted Azkaban and joined Voldemort, as

Dumbledore had predicted they would?

“These demembers guard some weirdos’ prison?” said

Uncle Vernon, lumbering in the wake of Harry’s train

of thought.

“Yes,” said Harry.

If only his head would stop hurting, if only he could

just leave the kitchen and get to his dark bedroom

and think...

“Oho! They were coming to arrest you!” said Uncle

Vernon, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an

unassailable conclusion. “That’s it, isn’t it, boy?

You’re on the run from the law!”

“Of course I’m not,” said Harry, shaking his head as

though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now.

“Then why — ?”

“He must have sent them,” said Harry quietly, more to

himself than to Uncle Vernon.

P a g e | 47 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“What’s that? Who must have sent them?”

“Lord Voldemort,” said Harry.

He registered dimly how strange it was that the

Dursleys, who flinched, winced, and squawked if they

heard words like “wizard,” “magic,” or “wand,” could

hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time

without the slightest tremor.

“Lord — hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, his face

screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension in his

piggy eyes. “I’ve heard that name … that was the one

who …”

“Murdered my parents, yes,” Harry said.

“But he’s gone,” said Uncle Vernon impatiently,

without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry’s

parents might be a painful topic to anybody. “That

giant bloke said so. He’s gone.”

“He’s back,” said Harry heavily.

It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt

Petunia’s surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-

the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, and

talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon.

The arrival of the dementors in Little Whinging

seemed to have caused a breach in the great, invisible

wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of

Privet Drive and the world beyond. Harry’s two lives

had somehow become fused and everything had been

turned upside down: The Dursleys were asking for

details about the magical world and Mrs. Figg knew

Albus Dumbledore; dementors were soaring around

Little Whinging and he might never go back to

Hogwarts. Harry’s head throbbed more painfully.

P a g e | 48 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Back?” whispered Aunt Petunia.

She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at

him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time

in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia

was his mother’s sister. He could not have said why

this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he

knew was that he was not the only person in the

room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort

being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in

her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale

eyes (so unlike her sister’s) were not narrowed in

dislike or anger: They were wide and fearful. The

furious pretense that Aunt Petunia had maintained

all Harry’s life — that there was no magic and no

world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle

Vernon — seemed to have fallen away.

“Yes,” Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia

now. “He came back a month ago. I saw him.”

Her hands found Dudley’s massive leather-clad

shoulders and clutched them.

“Hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife

to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and

confused by the unprecedented understanding that

seemed to have sprung up between them. “Hang on.

This Lord Voldything’s back, you say.”

“Yes.”

“The one who murdered your parents.”

“Yes.”

“And now he’s sending dismembers after you?”

“Looks like it,” said Harry.

P a g e | 49 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“I see,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white-

faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He

seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching

before Harry’s eyes. “Well, that settles it,” he said, his

shirt front straining as he inflated himself, “you can

get out of this house, boy!”

“What?” said Harry.

“You heard me — OUT!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, and

even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. “OUT! OUT! I

should’ve done it years ago! Owls treating the place

like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge

destroyed, Dudley’s tail, Marge bobbing around on

the ceiling, and that flying Ford Anglia — OUT! OUT!

You’ve had it! You’re history! You’re not staying here if

some loony’s after you, you’re not endangering my

wife and son, you’re not bringing trouble down on us,

if you’re going the same way as your useless parents,

I’ve had it! OUT!”

Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the

Ministry, Mr. Weasley, and Sirius were crushed in his

left hand. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you

do. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S

HOUSE.

“You heard me!” said Uncle Vernon, bending forward

now, so that his massive purple face came closer to

Harry’s, so that Harry actually felt flecks of spit hit

his face. “Get going! You were all keen to leave half an

hour ago! I’m right behind you! Get out and never

darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in

the first place I don’t know. Marge was right, it should

have been the orphanage, we were too damn soft for

our own good, thought we could squash it out of you,

thought we could turn you normal, but you’ve been

rotten from the beginning, and I’ve had enough —

OWLS!”

P a g e | 50 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it

actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again

with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize

the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it

soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt

Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms

over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on

her head, turned, and flew straight up the chimney

again.

Harry darted forward to pick up the letter, but Aunt

Petunia beat him to it.

“You can open it if you like,” said Harry, “but I’ll hear

what it says anyway. That’s a Howler.”

“Let go of it, Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “Don’t

touch it, it could be dangerous!”

“It’s addressed to me,” said Aunt Petunia in a shaking

voice. “It’s addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs.

Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet

Drive —”

She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope

had begun to smoke.

“Open it!” Harry urged her. “Get it over with! It’ll

happen anyway —”

“No —”

Aunt Petunia’s hand was trembling. She looked wildly

around the kitchen as though looking for an escape

route, but too late — the envelope burst into flames.

Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped it.

P a g e | 51 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the

confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the

table.

“REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA.”

Aunt Petunia looked as though she might faint. She

sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her

hands. The remains of the envelope smoldered into

ash in the silence.

“What is this?” Uncle Vernon said hoarsely. “What —

I don’t — Petunia?”

Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring

stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The

silence spiraled horribly. Harry was watching his

aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to

burst.

“Petunia, dear?” said Uncle Vernon timidly. “P-

Petunia?”

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She

swallowed.

“The boy — the boy will have to stay, Vernon,” she

said weakly.

“W-what?”

“He stays,” she said. She was not looking at Harry.

She got to her feet again.

“He … but Petunia …”

“If we throw him out, the neighbors will talk,” she

said. She was regaining her usual brisk, snappish

manner rapidly, though she was still very pale.

P a g e | 52 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“They’ll ask awkward questions, they’ll want to know

where he’s gone. We’ll have to keep him.”

Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tire.

“But Petunia, dear —”

Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry.

“You’re to stay in your room,” she said. “You’re not to

leave the house. Now get to bed.”

Harry didn’t move.

“Who was that Howler from?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Aunt Petunia snapped.

“Are you in touch with wizards?”

“I told you to get to bed!”

“What did it mean? Remember the last what?”

“Go to bed!”

“How come — ?”

“YOU HEARD YOUR AUNT, NOW GET TO BED!”

P a g e | 53 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE ADVANCED GUARD

“I’ ve just been attacked by dementors and I might be

expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what’s going

on and when I’m going to get out of here.”

Harry copied these words onto three separate pieces

of parchment the moment he reached the desk in his

dark bedroom. He addressed the first to Sirius, the

second to Ron, and the third to Hermione. His owl,

Hedwig, was off hunting; her cage stood empty on the

desk. Harry paced the bedroom waiting for her to

come back, his head pounding, his brain too busy for

sleep even though his eyes stung and itched with

tiredness. His back ached from carrying Dudley

home, and the two lumps on his head where the

window and Dudley had hit him were throbbing

painfully.

Up and down he paced, consumed with anger and

frustration, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists,

casting angry looks out at the empty, star-strewn sky

every time he passed the window. Dementors sent to

get him, Mrs. Figg and Mundungus Fletcher tailing

P a g e | 54 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

him in secret, then suspension from Hogwarts and a

hearing at the Ministry of Magic — and still no one

was telling him what was going on.

And what, what, had that Howler been about? Whose

voice had echoed so horribly, so menacingly, through

the kitchen?

Why was he still trapped here without information?

Why was everyone treating him like some naughty

kid? Don’t do any more magic, stay in the house...

He kicked his school trunk as he passed it, but far

from relieving his anger he felt worse, as he now had

a sharp pain in his toe to deal with in addition to the

pain in the rest of his body.

Just as he limped past the window, Hedwig soared

through it with a soft rustle of wings like a small

ghost.

“About time!” Harry snarled, as she landed lightly on

top of her cage. “You can put that down, I’ve got work

for you!”

Hedwig’s large round amber eyes gazed reproachfully

at him over the dead frog clamped in her beak.

“Come here,” said Harry, picking up the three small

rolls of parchment and a leather thong and tying the

scrolls to her scaly leg. “Take these straight to Sirius,

Ron, and Hermione and don’t come back here without

good long replies. Keep pecking them till they’ve

written decent-length answers if you’ve got to.

Understand?”

Hedwig gave a muffled hooting noise, beak still full of

frog.

P a g e | 55 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Get going, then,” said Harry.

She took off immediately. The moment she’d gone,

Harry threw himself down onto his bed without

undressing and stared at the dark ceiling. In addition

to every other miserable feeling, he now felt guilty

that he’d been irritable with Hedwig; she was the only

friend he had at number four, Privet Drive. But he’d

make it up to her when she came back with Sirius’s,

Ron’s, and Hermione’s answers.

They were bound to write back quickly; they couldn’t

possibly ignore a dementor attack. He’d probably

wake up tomorrow to three fat letters full of sympathy

and plans for his immediate removal to the Burrow.

And with that comforting idea, sleep rolled over him,

stifling all further thought.

* * *

But Hedwig didn’t return next morning. Harry spent

the day in his bedroom, leaving it only to go to the

bathroom. Three times that day Aunt Petunia shoved

food into his room through the cat flap Uncle Vernon

had installed three summers ago. Every time Harry

heard her approaching he tried to question her about

the Howler, but he might as well have interrogated

the doorknob for all the answers he got. Otherwise

the Dursleys kept well clear of his bedroom. Harry

couldn’t see the point of forcing his company on

them; another row would achieve nothing except

perhaps making him so angry he’d perform more

illegal magic.

So it went on for three whole days. Harry was filled

alternately with restless energy that made him unable

to settle to anything, during which he paced his

bedroom again, furious at the whole lot of them for

P a g e | 56 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

leaving him to stew in this mess, and with a lethargy

so complete that he could lie on his bed for an hour

at a time, staring dazedly into space, aching with

dread at the thought of the Ministry hearing.

What if they ruled against him? What if he was

expelled and his wand was snapped in half? What

would he do, where would he go? He could not return

to living full-time with the Dursleys, not now that he

knew the other world, the one to which he really

belonged... Was it possible that he might be able to

move into Sirius’s house, as Sirius had suggested a

year ago, before he had been forced to flee from the

Ministry himself? Would he be allowed to live there

alone, given that he was still underage? Or would the

matter of where he went next be decided for him; had

his breach of the International Statute of Secrecy

been severe enough to land him in a cell in Azkaban?

Whenever this thought occurred, Harry invariably slid

off his bed and began pacing again.

On the fourth night after Hedwig’s departure Harry

was lying in one of his apathetic phases, staring at

the ceiling, his exhausted mind quite blank, when his

uncle entered his bedroom. Harry looked slowly

around at him. Uncle Vernon was wearing his best

suit and an expression of enormous smugness.

“We’re going out,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“We — that is to say, your aunt, Dudley, and I — are

going out.”

“Fine,” said Harry dully, looking back at the ceiling.

“You are not to leave your bedroom while we are

away.”

P a g e | 57 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Okay.”

“You are not to touch the television, the stereo, or any

of our possessions.”

“Right.”

“You are not to steal food from the fridge.”

“Okay.”

“I am going to lock your door.”

“You do that.”

Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, clearly suspicious of

this lack of argument, then stomped out of the room

and closed the door behind him. Harry heard the key

turn in the lock and Uncle Vernon’s footsteps walking

heavily down the stairs. A few minutes later he heard

the slamming of car doors, the rumble of an engine,

and the unmistakable sound of the car sweeping out

of the drive.

Harry had no particular feeling about the Dursleys

leaving. It made no difference to him whether they

were in the house or not. He could not even summon

the energy to get up and turn on his bedroom light.

The room grew steadily darker around him as he lay

listening to the night sounds through the window he

kept open all the time, waiting for the blessed

moment when Hedwig returned.

The empty house creaked around him. The pipes

gurgled. Harry lay there in a kind of stupor, thinking

of nothing, suspended in misery.

And then, quite distinctly, he heard a crash in the

kitchen below.

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He sat bolt upright, listening intently. The Dursleys

couldn’t be back, it was much too soon, and in any

case he hadn’t heard their car.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he

heard voices.

Burglars, he thought, sliding off the bed onto his feet

— but a split second later it occurred to him that

burglars would keep their voices down, and whoever

was moving around in the kitchen was certainly not

troubling to do so.

He snatched up his wand from his bedside table and

stood facing his bedroom door, listening with all his

might. Next moment he jumped as the lock gave a

loud click and his door swung open.

Harry stood motionless, staring through the open

door at the dark upstairs landing, straining his ears

for further sounds, but none came. He hesitated for a

moment and then moved swiftly and silently out of

his room to the head of the stairs.

His heart shot upward into his throat. There were

people standing in the shadowy hall below,

silhouetted against the streetlight glowing through

the glass door; eight or nine of them, all, as far as he

could see, looking up at him.

“Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone’s eye

out,” said a low, growling voice.

Harry’s heart was thumping uncontrollably. He knew

that voice, but he did not lower his wand.

“Professor Moody?” he said uncertainly.

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“I don’t know so much about ‘Professor,’ ” growled the voice, “never got round to much teaching, did I? Get

down here, we want to see you properly.”

Harry lowered his wand slightly but did not relax his

grip on it, nor did he move. He had very good reason

to be suspicious. He had recently spent nine months

in what he had thought was Mad-Eye Moody’s

company only to find out that it wasn’t Moody at all,

but an impostor; an impostor, moreover, who had

tried to kill Harry before being unmasked. But before

he could make a decision about what to do next, a

second, slightly hoarse voice floated upstairs.

“It’s all right, Harry. We’ve come to take you away.”

Harry’s heart leapt. He knew that voice too, though he

hadn’t heard it for more than a year.

“P-Professor Lupin?” he said disbelievingly. “Is that

you?”

“Why are we all standing in the dark?” said a third

voice, this one completely unfamiliar, a woman’s.

“Lumos. ”

A wand tip flared, illuminating the hall with magical

light. Harry blinked. The people below were crowded

around the foot of the stairs, gazing intently up at

him, some craning their heads for a better look.

Remus Lupin stood nearest to him. Though still quite

young, Lupin looked tired and rather ill; he had more

gray hair than when Harry had said good-bye to him,

and his robes were more patched and shabbier than

ever. Nevertheless, he was smiling broadly at Harry,

who tried to smile back through his shock.

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“Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would,” said the witch who was holding her lit wand aloft. She looked

the youngest there; she had a pale heart-shaped face,

dark twinkling eyes, and short spiky hair that was a

violent shade of violet. “Wotcher, Harry!”

“Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus,” said a bald

black wizard standing farthest back; he had a deep,

slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear. “He

looks exactly like James.”

“Except the eyes,” said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired

wizard at the back. “Lily’s eyes.”

Mad-Eye Moody, who had long grizzled gray hair and

a large chunk missing from his nose, was squinting

suspiciously at Harry through his mismatched eyes.

One of the eyes was small, dark, and beady, the other

large, round, and electric blue — the magical eye that

could see through walls, doors, and the back of

Moody’s own head.

“Are you quite sure it’s him, Lupin?” he growled. “It’d

be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater

impersonating him. We ought to ask him something

only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone

brought any Veritaserum?”

“Harry, what form does your Patronus take?” said

Lupin.

“A stag,” said Harry nervously.

“That’s him, Mad-Eye,” said Lupin.

Harry descended the stairs, very conscious of

everybody still staring at him, stowing his wand into

the back pocket of his jeans as he came.

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“Don’t put your wand there, boy!” roared Moody.

“What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost

buttocks, you know!”

“Who d’you know who’s lost a buttock?” the violet-

haired woman asked Mad-Eye interestedly.

“Never you mind, you just keep your wand out of your

back pocket!” growled Mad-Eye. “Elementary wand

safety, nobody bothers about it anymore...” He

stumped off toward the kitchen. “And I saw that,” he

added irritably, as the woman rolled her eyes at the

ceiling.

Lupin held out his hand and shook Harry’s.

“How are you?” he asked, looking at Harry closely.

“F-fine …”

Harry could hardly believe this was real. Four weeks

with nothing, not the tiniest hint of a plan to remove

him from Privet Drive, and suddenly a whole bunch of

wizards was standing matter-of-factly in the house as

though this were a long-standing arrangement. He

glanced at the people surrounding Lupin; they were

still gazing avidly at him. He felt very conscious of the

fact that he had not combed his hair for four days.

“I’m — you’re really lucky the Dursleys are out …” he

mumbled.

“Lucky, ha!” said the violet-haired woman. “It was me

that lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by

Muggle post telling them they’d been short-listed for

the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn

Competition. They’re heading off to the prize-giving

right now... Or they think they are.”

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Harry had a fleeting vision of Uncle Vernon’s face

when he realized there was no All-England Best-Kept

Suburban Lawn Competition.

“We are leaving, aren’t we?” he asked. “Soon?”

“Almost at once,” said Lupin, “we’re just waiting for

the all-clear.”

“Where are we going? The Burrow?” Harry asked

hopefully.

“Not the Burrow, no,” said Lupin, motioning Harry

toward the kitchen; the little knot of wizards followed,

all still eyeing Harry curiously. “Too risky. We’ve set

up headquarters somewhere undetectable. It’s taken

a while...”

Mad-Eye Moody was now sitting at the kitchen table

swigging from a hip flask, his magical eye spinning in

all directions, taking in the Dursleys’ many labor-

saving appliances.

“This is Alastor Moody, Harry,” Lupin continued,

pointing toward Moody.

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry uncomfortably; it felt odd

to be introduced to somebody he’d thought he’d

known for a year.

“And this is Nymphadora —”

“Don’t call me Nymphadora, Remus,” said the young

witch with a shudder. “It’s Tonks.”

“— Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by

her surname only,” finished Lupin.

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“So would you if your fool of a mother had called you

‘Nymphadora,’ ” muttered Tonks.

“And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt” — he indicated the

tall black wizard, who bowed — “Elphias Doge” — the

wheezy-voiced wizard nodded — “Dedalus Diggle —”

“We’ve met before,” squeaked the excitable Diggle,

dropping his top hat.

“— Emmeline Vance” — a stately looking witch in an

emerald-green shawl inclined her head — “Sturgis

Podmore” — a square-jawed wizard with thick, straw-

colored hair winked — “and Hestia Jones.” A pink-

cheeked, black-haired witch waved from next to the

toaster.

Harry inclined his head awkwardly at each of them as

they were introduced. He wished they would look at

something other than him; it was as though he had

suddenly been ushered onstage. He also wondered

why so many of them were there.

“A surprising number of people volunteered to come

and get you,” said Lupin, as though he had read

Harry’s mind; the corners of his mouth twitched

slightly.

“Yeah, well, the more the better,” said Moody darkly.

“We’re your guard, Potter.”

“We’re just waiting for the signal to tell us it’s safe to

set off,” said Lupin, glancing out of the kitchen

window. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes.”

“Very clean, aren’t they, these Muggles?” said the

witch called Tonks, who was looking around the

kitchen with great interest. “My dad’s Muggle-born

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and he’s a right old slob. I suppose it varies, just like with wizards?”

“Er — yeah,” said Harry. “Look” — he turned back to

Lupin — “what’s going on, I haven’t heard anything

from anyone, what’s Vol — ?”

Several of the witches and wizards made odd hissing

noises; Dedalus Diggle dropped his hat again, and

Moody growled, “Shut up!”

“What?” said Harry.

“We’re not discussing anything here, it’s too risky,”

said Moody, turning his normal eye on Harry; his

magical eye remained pointing up at the ceiling.

“Damn it, ” he added angrily, putting a hand up to the

magical eye, “it keeps sticking — ever since that scum

wore it —”

And with a nasty squelching sound much like a

plunger being pulled from a sink, he popped out his

eye.

“Mad-Eye, you do know that’s disgusting, don’t you?”

said Tonks conversationally.

“Get me a glass of water, would you, Harry?” asked

Moody.

Harry crossed to the dishwasher, took out a clean

glass, and filled it with water at the sink, still watched

eagerly by the band of wizards. Their relentless

staring was starting to annoy him.

“Cheers,” said Moody, when Harry handed him the

glass. He dropped the magical eyeball into the water

and prodded it up and down; the eye whizzed around,

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staring at them all in turn. “I want three-hundred-

and-sixty degrees visibility on the return journey.”

“How’re we getting — wherever we’re going?” Harry

asked.

“Brooms,” said Lupin. “Only way. You’re too young to

Apparate, they’ll be watching the Floo Network, and

it’s more than our life’s worth to set up an

unauthorized Portkey.”

“Remus says you’re a good flier,” said Kingsley

Shacklebolt in his deep voice.

“He’s excellent,” said Lupin, who was checking his

watch. “Anyway, you’d better go and get packed,

Harry, we want to be ready to go when the signal

comes.”

“I’ll come and help you,” said Tonks brightly.

She followed Harry back into the hall and up the

stairs, looking around with much curiosity and

interest.

“Funny place,” she said, “it’s a bit too clean, d’you

know what I mean? Bit unnatural. Oh, this is better,”

she added, as they entered Harry’s bedroom and he

turned on the light.

His room was certainly much messier than the rest of

the house. Confined to it for four days in a very bad

mood, Harry had not bothered tidying up after

himself. Most of the books he owned were strewn over

the floor where he’d tried to distract himself with each

in turn and thrown it aside. Hedwig’s cage needed

cleaning out and was starting to smell, and his trunk

lay open, revealing a jumbled mixture of Muggle

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clothes and wizard’s robes that had spilled onto the

floor around it.

Harry started picking up books and throwing them

hastily into his trunk. Tonks paused at his open

wardrobe to look critically at her reflection in the

mirror on the inside of the door.

“You know, I don’t think purple’s really my color,” she

said pensively, tugging at a lock of spiky hair. “D’you

think it makes me look a bit peaky?”

“Er —” said Harry, looking up at her over the top of

Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland.

“Yeah, it does,” said Tonks decisively. She screwed up

her eyes in a strained expression as though she were

struggling to remember something. A second later,

her hair had turned bubble-gum pink.

“How did you do that?” said Harry, gaping at her as

she opened her eyes again.

“I’m a Metamorphmagus,” she said, looking back at

her reflection and turning her head so that she could

see her hair from all directions. “It means I can

change my appearance at will,” she added, spotting

Harry’s puzzled expression in the mirror behind her.

“I was born one. I got top marks in Concealment and

Disguise during Auror training without any study at

all, it was great.”

“You’re an Auror?” said Harry, impressed. Being a

Dark wizard catcher was the only career he’d ever

considered after Hogwarts.

“Yeah,” said Tonks, looking proud. “Kingsley is as

well; he’s a bit higher up than I am, though. I only

qualified a year ago. Nearly failed on Stealth and

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Tracking, I’m dead clumsy, did you hear me break

that plate when we arrived downstairs?”

“Can you learn how to be a Metamorphmagus?” Harry

asked her, straightening up, completely forgetting

about packing.

Tonks chuckled.

“Bet you wouldn’t mind hiding that scar sometimes,

eh?”

Her eyes found the lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s

forehead.

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Harry mumbled, turning away.

He did not like people staring at his scar.

“Well, you’ll have to learn the hard way, I’m afraid,”

said Tonks. “Metamorphmagi are really rare, they’re

born, not made. Most wizards need to use a wand or

potions to change their appearance... But we’ve got to

get going, Harry, we’re supposed to be packing,” she

added guiltily, looking around at all the mess on the

floor.

“Oh — yeah,” said Harry, grabbing up a few more

books.

“Don’t be stupid, it’ll be much quicker if I — pack!”

cried Tonks, waving her wand in a long, sweeping

movement over the floor.

Books, clothes, telescope, and scales all soared into

the air and flew pell-mell into the trunk.

“It’s not very neat,” said Tonks, walking over to the

trunk and looking down at the jumble inside. “My

mum’s got this knack of getting stuff to fit itself in

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neatly — she even gets the socks to fold themselves —

but I’ve never mastered how she does it — it’s a kind

of flick —”

She flicked her wand hopefully; one of Harry’s socks

gave a feeble sort of wiggle and flopped back on top of

the mess within.

“Ah, well,” said Tonks, slamming the trunk’s lid shut,

“at least it’s all in. That could do with a bit of

cleaning, too — Scourgify —” She pointed her wand at

Hedwig’s cage; a few feathers and droppings

vanished. “Well, that’s a bit better — I’ve never quite

got the hang of these sort of householdy spells. Right

— got everything? Cauldron? Broom? Wow! A

Firebolt?”

Her eyes widened as they fell on the broomstick in

Harry’s right hand. It was his pride and joy, a gift

from Sirius, an international standard broomstick.

“And I’m still riding a Comet Two Sixty,” said Tonks

enviously. “Ah well … wand still in your jeans? Both

buttocks still on? Okay, let’s go. Locomotor Trunk. ”

Harry’s trunk rose a few inches into the air. Holding

her wand like a conductor’s baton, Tonks made it

hover across the room and out of the door ahead of

them, Hedwig’s cage in her left hand. Harry followed

her down the stairs carrying his broomstick.

Back in the kitchen, Moody had replaced his eye,

which was spinning so fast after its cleaning it made

Harry feel sick. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis

Podmore were examining the microwave and Hestia

Jones was laughing at a potato peeler she had come

across while rummaging in the drawers. Lupin was

sealing a letter addressed to the Dursleys.

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“Excellent,” said Lupin, looking up as Tonks and

Harry entered. “We’ve got about a minute, I think. We

should probably get out into the garden so we’re

ready. Harry, I’ve left a letter telling your aunt and

uncle not to worry —”

“They won’t,” said Harry.

“That you’re safe —”

“That’ll just depress them.”

“— and you’ll see them next summer.”

“Do I have to?”

Lupin smiled but made no answer.

“Come here, boy,” said Moody gruffly, beckoning

Harry toward him with his wand. “I need to

Disillusion you.”

“You need to what?” said Harry nervously.

“Disillusionment Charm,” said Moody, raising his

wand. “Lupin says you’ve got an Invisibility Cloak,

but it won’t stay on while we’re flying; this’ll disguise

you better. Here you go —”

He rapped Harry hard on the top of the head and

Harry felt a curious sensation as though Moody had

just smashed an egg there; cold trickles seemed to be

running down his body from the point the wand had

struck.

“Nice one, Mad-Eye,” said Tonks appreciatively,

staring at Harry’s midriff.

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Harry looked down at his body, or rather, what had

been his body, for it didn’t look anything like his

anymore. It was not invisible; it had simply taken on

the exact color and texture of the kitchen unit behind

him. He seemed to have become a human chameleon.

“Come on,” said Moody, unlocking the back door with

his wand.

They all stepped outside onto Uncle Vernon’s

beautifully kept lawn.

“Clear night,” grunted Moody, his magical eye

scanning the heavens. “Could’ve done with a bit more

cloud cover. Right, you,” he barked at Harry, “we’re

going to be flying in close formation. Tonks’ll be right

in front of you, keep close on her tail. Lupin’ll be

covering you from below. I’m going to be behind you.

The rest’ll be circling us. We don’t break ranks for

anything, got me? If one of us is killed —”

“Is that likely?” Harry asked apprehensively, but

Moody ignored him.

“— the others keep flying, don’t stop, don’t break

ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive,

Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over;

keep flying east and they’ll join you.”

“Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he’ll think we’re not

taking this seriously,” said Tonks, as she strapped

Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage into a harness

hanging from her broom.

“I’m just telling the boy the plan,” growled Moody.

“Our job’s to deliver him safely to headquarters and if

we die in the attempt —”

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“No one’s going to die,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt in

his deep, calming voice.

“Mount your brooms, that’s the first signal!” said

Lupin sharply, pointing into the sky.

Far, far above them, a shower of bright red sparks

had flared among the stars. Harry recognized them at

once as wand sparks. He swung his right leg over his

Firebolt, gripped its handle tightly, and felt it

vibrating very slightly, as though it was as keen as he

was to be up in the air once more.

“Second signal, let’s go!” said Lupin loudly, as more

sparks, green this time, exploded high above them.

Harry kicked off hard from the ground. The cool night

air rushed through his hair as the neat square

gardens of Privet Drive fell away, shrinking rapidly

into a patchwork of dark greens and blacks, and

every thought of the Ministry hearing was swept from

his mind as though the rush of air had blown it out of

his head. He felt as though his heart was going to

explode with pleasure; he was flying again, flying

away from Privet Drive as he’d been fantasizing about

all summer, he was going home... For a few glorious

moments, all his problems seemed to recede into

nothing, insignificant in the vast, starry sky.

“Hard left, hard left, there’s a Muggle looking up!”

shouted Moody from behind him. Tonks swerved and

Harry followed her, watching his trunk swinging

wildly beneath her broom. “We need more height...

Give it another quarter of a mile!”

Harry’s eyes watered in the chill as they soared

upward; he could see nothing below now but tiny

pinpricks of light that were car headlights and

streetlamps. Two of those tiny lights might belong to

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Uncle Vernon’s car... The Dursleys would be heading

back to their empty house right now, full of rage

about the nonexistent lawn competition … and Harry

laughed aloud at the thought, though his voice was

drowned by the flapping of the others’ robes, the

creaking of the harness holding his trunk and the

cage, the whoosh of the wind in their ears as they

sped through the air. He had not felt this alive in a

month, or this happy...

“Bearing south!” shouted Mad-Eye. “Town ahead!”

They soared right, so that they did not pass directly

over the glittering spiderweb of lights below.

“Bear southeast and keep climbing, there’s some low

cloud ahead we can lose ourselves in!” called Moody.

“We’re not going through clouds!” shouted Tonks

angrily. “We’ll get soaked, Mad-Eye!”

Harry was relieved to hear her say this; his hands

were growing numb on the Firebolt’s handle. He

wished he had thought to put on a coat; he was

starting to shiver.

They altered their course every now and then

according to Mad-Eye’s instructions. Harry’s eyes

were screwed up against the rush of icy wind that

was starting to make his ears ache. He could

remember being this cold on a broom only once

before, during the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff

in his third year, which had taken place in a storm.

The guard around him was circling continuously like

giant birds of prey. Harry lost track of time. He

wondered how long they had been flying; it felt like an

hour at least.

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“Turning southwest!” yelled Moody. “We want to avoid

the motorway!”

Harry was now so chilled that he thought longingly

for a moment of the snug, dry interiors of the cars

streaming along below, then, even more longingly, of

traveling by Floo powder; it might be uncomfortable to

spin around in fireplaces but it was at least warm in

the flames... Kingsley Shacklebolt swooped around

him, bald pate and earring gleaming slightly in the

moonlight... Now Emmeline Vance was on his right,

her wand out, her head turning left and right … then

she too swooped over him, to be replaced by Sturgis

Podmore...

“We ought to double back for a bit, just to make sure

we’re not being followed!” Moody shouted.

“ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?” Tonks screamed from

the front. “We’re all frozen to our brooms! If we keep

going off course we’re not going to get there until next

week! We’re nearly there now!”

“Time to start the descent!” came Lupin’s voice.

“Follow Tonks, Harry!”

Harry followed Tonks into a dive. They were heading

for the largest collection of lights he had yet seen, a

huge, sprawling, crisscrossing mass, glittering in lines

and grids, interspersed with patches of deepest black.

Lower and lower they flew, until Harry could see

individual headlights and streetlamps, chimneys, and

television aerials. He wanted to reach the ground very

much, though he felt sure that someone would have

to unfreeze him from his broom.

“Here we go!” called Tonks, and a few seconds later

she had landed.

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Harry touched down right behind her and

dismounted on a patch of unkempt grass in the

middle of a small square. Tonks was already

unbuckling Harry’s trunk. Shivering, Harry looked

around. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses

were not welcoming; some of them had broken

windows, glimmering dully in the light from the

street-lamps, paint was peeling from many of the

doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets

of front steps.

“Where are we?” Harry asked, but Lupin said quietly,

“In a minute.”

Moody was rummaging in his cloak, his gnarled

hands clumsy with cold.

“Got it,” he muttered, raising what looked like a silver

cigarette lighter into the air and clicking it.

The nearest streetlamp went out with a pop. He

clicked the un-lighter again; the next lamp went out.

He kept clicking until every lamp in the square was

extinguished and the only light in the square came

from curtained windows and the sickle moon

overhead.

“Borrowed it from Dumbledore,” growled Moody,

pocketing the Put-Outer. “That’ll take care of any

Muggles looking out of the window, see? Now, come

on, quick.”

He took Harry by the arm and led him from the patch

of grass, across the road, and onto the pavement.

Lupin and Tonks followed, carrying Harry’s trunk

between them, the rest of the guard, all with their

wands out, flanking them.

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The muffled pounding of a stereo was coming from an

upper window in the nearest house. A pungent smell

of rotting rubbish came from the pile of bulging bin-

bags just inside the broken gate.

“Here,” Moody muttered, thrusting a piece of

parchment toward Harry’s Disillusioned hand and

holding his lit wand close to it, so as to illuminate the

writing. “Read quickly and memorize.”

Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow

handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said:

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be

found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

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NUMBER TWELVE, GRIMMAULD

PLACE

“What’s the Order of the — ?” Harry began.

“Not here, boy!” snarled Moody. “Wait till we’re

inside!”

He pulled the piece of parchment out of Harry’s hand

and set fire to it with his wand tip. As the message

curled into flames and floated to the ground, Harry

looked around at the houses again. They were

standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left

and saw number ten; to the right, however, was

number thirteen.

“But where’s — ?”

“Think about what you’ve just memorized,” said Lupin

quietly.

Harry thought, and no sooner had he reached the

part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a

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battered door emerged out of nowhere between

numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty

walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra

house had inflated, pushing those on either side out

of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number

eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside

hadn’t even felt anything.

“Come on, hurry,” growled Moody, prodding Harry in

the back.

Harry walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the

newly materialized door. Its black paint was shabby

and scratched. The silver door knocker was in the

form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or

letterbox.

Lupin pulled out his wand and tapped the door once.

Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what

sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked

open.

“Get in quick, Harry,” Lupin whispered. “But don’t go

far inside and don’t touch anything.”

Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total

darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and

a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of

a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and

saw the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks

carrying his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. Moody was

standing on the top step and releasing the balls of

light the Put-Outer had stolen from the street-lamps;

they flew back to their bulbs and the square beyond

glowed momentarily with orange light before Moody

limped inside and closed the front door, so that the

darkness in the hall became complete.

“Here —”

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He rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand;

Harry felt as though something hot was trickling

down his back this time and knew that the

Disillusionment Charm must have lifted.

“Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light

in here,” Moody whispered.

The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd

feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just

entered the house of a dying person. He heard a soft

hissing noise and then old-fashioned gas lamps

sputtered into life all along the walls, casting a

flickering insubstantial light over the peeling

wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a long, gloomy

hallway, where a cobwebby chandelier glimmered

overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked

on the walls. Harry heard something scuttling behind

the baseboard. Both the chandelier and the

candelabra on a rickety table nearby were shaped like

serpents.

There were hurried footsteps and Ron’s mother, Mrs.

Weasley, emerged from a door at the far end of the

hall. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried

toward them, though Harry noticed that she was

rather thinner and paler than she had been last time

he had seen her.

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to see you!” she whispered,

pulling him into a rib-cracking hug before holding

him at arm’s length and examining him critically.

“You’re looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you’ll

have to wait a bit for dinner, I’m afraid...”

She turned to the gang of wizards behind him and

whispered urgently, “He’s just arrived, the meeting’s

started...”

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The wizards behind Harry all made noises of interest

and excitement and began filing past Harry toward

the door through which Mrs. Weasley had just come;

Harry made to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held

him back.

“No, Harry, the meeting’s only for members of the

Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, you can wait

with them until the meeting’s over and then we’ll have

dinner. And keep your voice down in the hall,” she

added in an urgent whisper.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to wake anything up.”

“What d’you — ?”

“I’ll explain later, I’ve got to hurry, I’m supposed to be

at the meeting — I’ll just show you where you’re

sleeping.”

Pressing her finger to her lips, she led him on tiptoes

past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind

which Harry supposed there must be another door,

and after skirting a large umbrella stand that looked

as though it had been made from a severed troll’s leg,

they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of

shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall. A

closer look showed Harry that the heads belonged to

house-elves. All of them had the same rather

snoutlike nose.

Harry’s bewilderment deepened with every step he

took. What on earth were they doing in a house that

looked as though it belonged to the Darkest of

wizards?

“Mrs. Weasley, why — ?”

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“Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear, I’ve

really got to dash,” Mrs. Weasley whispered

distractedly. “There” — they had reached the second

landing — “you’re the door on the right. I’ll call you

when it’s over.”

And she hurried off downstairs again.

Harry crossed the dingy landing, turned the bedroom

doorknob, which was shaped like a serpent’s head,

and opened the door.

He caught a brief glimpse of a gloomy high-ceilinged,

twin-bedded room, then there was a loud twittering

noise, followed by an even louder shriek, and his

vision was completely obscured by a large quantity of

very bushy hair — Hermione had thrown herself onto

him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat, while

Ron’s tiny owl, Pigwidgeon, zoomed excitedly round

and round their heads.

“HARRY! Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear

you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have

you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our

letters were useless — but we couldn’t tell you

anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t,

oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to

tell us — the dementors! When we heard — and that

Ministry hearing — it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it

all up, they can’t expel you, they just can’t, there’s

provision in the Decree for the Restriction of

Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-

threatening situations —”

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” said Ron, grinning,

closing the door behind Harry. He seemed to have

grown several more inches during their month apart,

making him taller and more gangly looking than ever,

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though the long nose, bright red hair, and freckles

were the same.

Hermione, still beaming, let go of Harry, but before

she could say another word there was a soft

whooshing sound and something white soared from

the top of a dark wardrobe and landed gently on

Harry’s shoulder.

“Hedwig!”

The snowy owl clicked her beak and nibbled his ear

affectionately as Harry stroked her feathers.

“She’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “Pecked us

half to death when she brought your last letters, look

at this —”

He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand,

which sported a half-healed but clearly deep cut.

“Oh yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry about that, but I

wanted answers, you know...”

“We wanted to give them to you, mate,” said Ron.

“Hermione was going spare, she kept saying you’d do

something stupid if you were stuck all on your own

without news, but Dumbledore made us —”

“— swear not to tell me,” said Harry. “Yeah,

Hermione’s already said.”

The warm glow that had flared inside him at the sight

of his two best friends was extinguished as something

icy flooded the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden —

after yearning to see them for a solid month — he felt

he would rather Ron and Hermione left him alone.

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There was a strained silence in which Harry stroked

Hedwig automatically, not looking at either of the

others.

“He seemed to think it was best,” said Hermione

rather breathlessly. “Dumbledore, I mean.”

“Right,” said Harry. He noticed that her hands too

bore the marks of Hedwig’s beak and found that he

was not at all sorry.

“I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles

—” Ron began.

“Yeah?” said Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Have either

of you been attacked by dementors this summer?”

“Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the

Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time —”

Harry felt a great jolt in his guts as though he had

just missed a step going downstairs. So everyone had

known he was being followed except him.

“Didn’t work that well, though, did it?” said Harry,

doing his utmost to keep his voice even. “Had to look

after myself after all, didn’t I?”

“He was so angry,” said Hermione in an almost

awestruck voice. “Dumbledore. We saw him. When he

found out Mundungus had left before his shift had

ended. He was scary.”

“Well, I’m glad he left,” Harry said coldly. “If he

hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done magic and Dumbledore

would probably have left me at Privet Drive all

summer.”

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“Aren’t you … aren’t you worried about the Ministry of Magic hearing?” said Hermione quietly.

“No,” Harry lied defiantly. He walked away from them,

looking around, with Hedwig nestled contentedly on

his shoulder, but this room was not likely to raise his

spirits. It was dank and dark. A blank stretch of

canvas in an ornate picture frame was all that

relieved the bareness of the peeling walls and as

Harry passed it he thought he heard someone lurking

out of sight snigger.

“So why’s Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the

dark?” Harry asked, still trying hard to keep his voice

casual. “Did you — er — bother to ask him at all?”

He glanced up just in time to see them exchanging a

look that told him he was behaving just as they had

feared he would. It did nothing to improve his temper.

“We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was

going on,” said Ron. “We did, mate. But he’s really

busy now, we’ve only seen him twice since we came

here and he didn’t have much time, he just made us

swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote,

he said the owls might be intercepted —”

“He could still’ve kept me informed if he’d wanted to,”

Harry said shortly. “You’re not telling me he doesn’t

know ways to send messages without owls.”

Hermione glanced at Ron and then said, “I thought

that too. But he didn’t want you to know anything. ”

“Maybe he thinks I can’t be trusted,” said Harry,

watching their expressions.

“Don’t be thick,” said Ron, looking highly

disconcerted.

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“Or that I can’t take care of myself —”

“Of course he doesn’t think that!” said Hermione

anxiously.

“So how come I have to stay at the Dursleys’ while

you two get to join in everything that’s going on

here?” said Harry, the words tumbling over one

another in a rush, his voice growing louder with every

word. “How come you two are allowed to know

everything that’s going on — ?”

“We’re not!” Ron interrupted. “Mum won’t let us near

the meetings, she says we’re too young —”

But before he knew it, Harry was shouting.

“SO YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG

DEAL! YOU’VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN’T YOU?

YOU’VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I’VE BEEN

STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS’ FOR A MONTH! AND I’VE

HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO’VE EVER

MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO

SAVED THE SORCERER’S STONE? WHO GOT RID

OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM

THE DEMENTORS?”

Every bitter and resentful thought that Harry had had

in the past month was pouring out of him; his

frustration at the lack of news, the hurt that they had

all been together without him, his fury at being

followed and not told about it: All the feelings he was

half-ashamed of finally burst their boundaries.

Hedwig took fright at the noise and soared off on top

of the wardrobe again; Pigwidgeon twittered in alarm

and zoomed even faster around their heads.

“WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES

AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO

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SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE

FROM HIM? ME!”

Ron was standing there with his mouth half-open,

clearly stunned and at a loss for anything to say,

while Hermione looked on the verge of tears.

“BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON?

WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME

WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?”

“Harry, we wanted to tell you, we really did —”

Hermione began.

“CAN’T’VE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR

YOU’D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT DUMBLEDORE

MADE YOU SWEAR —”

“Well, he did —”

“FOUR WEEKS I’VE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE,

NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND

OUT WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON —”

“We wanted to —”

“I SUPPOSE YOU’VE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH,

HAVEN’T YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER —”

“No, honest —”

“Harry, we’re really sorry!” said Hermione desperately,

her eyes now sparkling with tears. “You’re absolutely

right, Harry — I’d be furious if it was me!”

Harry glared at her, still breathing deeply, then

turned away from them again, pacing up and down.

Hedwig hooted glumly from the top of the wardrobe.

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There was a long pause, broken only by the mournful

creak of the floorboards below Harry’s feet.

“What is this place anyway?” he shot at Ron and

Hermione.

“Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” said Ron

at once.

“Is anyone going to bother telling me what the Order

of the Phoenix — ?”

“It’s a secret society,” said Hermione quickly.

“Dumbledore’s in charge, he founded it. It’s the people

who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”

“Who’s in it?” said Harry, coming to a halt with his

hands in his pockets.

“Quite a few people —”

“— we’ve met about twenty of them,” said Ron, “but

we think there are more...”

Harry glared at them.

“Well?” he demanded, looking from one to the other.

“Er,” said Ron. “Well what?”

“Voldemort!” said Harry furiously, and both Ron and

Hermione winced. “What’s happening? What’s he up

to? Where is he? What are we doing to stop him?”

“We’ve told you, the Order don’t let us in on their

meetings,” said Hermione nervously. “So we don’t

know the details — but we’ve got a general idea —”

she added hastily, seeing the look on Harry’s face.

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“Fred and George have invented Extendable Ears,

see,” said Ron. “They’re really useful.”

“Extendable — ?”

“Ears, yeah. Only we’ve had to stop using them lately

because Mum found out and went berserk. Fred and

George had to hide them all to stop Mum binning

them. But we got a good bit of use out of them before

Mum realized what was going on. We know some of

the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping

tabs on them, you know —”

“— some of them are working on recruiting more

people to the Order —” said Hermione.

“— and some of them are standing guard over

something,” said Ron. “They’re always talking about

guard duty.”

“Couldn’t have been me, could it?” said Harry

sarcastically.

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, with a look of dawning

comprehension.

Harry snorted. He walked around the room again,

looking anywhere but at Ron and Hermione. “So what

have you two been doing, if you’re not allowed in

meetings?” he demanded. “You said you’d been busy.”

“We have,” said Hermione quickly. “We’ve been

decontaminating this house, it’s been empty for ages

and stuff’s been breeding in here. We’ve managed to

clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms, and I

think we’re doing the drawing room tomo — AARGH!”

With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron’s elder

twin brothers, had materialized out of thin air in the

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middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly

than ever and zoomed off to join Hedwig on top of the

wardrobe.

“Stop doing that!” Hermione said weakly to the twins,

who were as vividly red-haired as Ron, though

stockier and slightly shorter.

“Hello, Harry,” said George, beaming at him. “We

thought we heard your dulcet tones.”

“You don’t want to bottle up your anger like that,

Harry, let it all out,” said Fred, also beaming. “There

might be a couple of people fifty miles away who

didn’t hear you.”

“You two passed your Apparation tests, then?” asked

Harry grumpily.

“With distinction,” said Fred, who was holding what

looked like a piece of very long, flesh-colored string.

“It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer

to walk down the stairs,” said Ron.

“Time is Galleons, little brother,” said Fred. “Anyway,

Harry, you’re interfering with reception. Extendable

Ears,” he added in response to Harry’s raised

eyebrows, holding up the string, which Harry now

saw was trailing out onto the landing. “We’re trying to

hear what’s going on downstairs.”

“You want to be careful,” said Ron, staring at the ear.

“If Mum sees one of them again …”

“It’s worth the risk, that’s a major meeting they’re

having,” said Fred.

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The door opened and a long mane of red hair

appeared.

“Oh hello, Harry!” said Ron’s younger sister, Ginny,

brightly. “I thought I heard your voice.”

Turning to Fred and George she said, “It’s no go with

the Extendable Ears, she’s gone and put an

Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door.”

“How d’you know?” said George, looking crestfallen.

“Tonks told me how to find out,” said Ginny. “You just

chuck stuff at the door and if it can’t make contact

the door’s been Imperturbed. I’ve been flicking

Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they

just soar away from it, so there’s no way the

Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.”

Fred heaved a deep sigh. “Shame. I really fancied

finding out what old Snape’s been up to.”

“Snape?” said Harry quickly. “Is he here?”

“Yeah,” said George, carefully closing the door and

sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny

followed. “Giving a report. Top secret.”

“Git,” said Fred idly.

“He’s on our side now,” said Hermione reprovingly.

Ron snorted. “Doesn’t stop him being a git. The way

he looks at us when he sees us...”

“Bill doesn’t like him either,” said Ginny, as though

that settled the matter.

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Harry was not sure his anger had abated yet; but his

thirst for information was now overcoming his urge to

keep shouting. He sank onto the bed opposite the

others.

“Is Bill here?” he asked. “I thought he was working in

Egypt.”

“He applied for a desk job so he could come home and

work for the Order,” said Fred. “He says he misses the

tombs, but,” he smirked, “there are compensations...”

“What d’you mean?”

“Remember old Fleur Delacour?” said George. “She’s

got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ’er Eeenglish —”

“— and Bill’s been giving her a lot of private lessons,”

sniggered Fred.

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” said George, “but he’s

still in Romania, Dumbledore wants as many foreign

wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie’s trying to

make contacts on his days off.”

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asked. The last he

had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in

the Department of International Magical Cooperation

at the Ministry of Magic.

At these words all the Weasleys and Hermione

exchanged darkly significant looks.

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of

Mum and Dad,” Ron told Harry in a tense voice.

“Why not?”

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“Because every time Percy’s name’s mentioned, Dad

breaks whatever he’s holding and Mum starts crying,”

Fred said.

“It’s been awful,” said Ginny sadly.

“I think we’re well shut of him,” said George with an

uncharacteristically ugly look on his face.

“What’s happened?” Harry said.

“Percy and Dad had a row,” said Fred. “I’ve never seen

Dad row with anyone like that. It’s normally Mum

who shouts...”

“It was the first week back after term ended,” said

Ron. “We were about to come and join the Order.

Percy came home and told us he’d been promoted.”

“You’re kidding?” said Harry.

Though he knew perfectly well that Percy was highly

ambitious, Harry’s impression was that Percy had not

made a great success of his first job at the Ministry of

Magic. Percy had committed the fairly large oversight

of failing to notice that his boss was being controlled

by Lord Voldemort (not that the Ministry had believed

that — they all thought that Mr. Crouch had gone

mad).

“Yeah, we were all surprised,” said George, “because

Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there

was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought

to have realized Crouch was off his rocker and

informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left

him in charge, he wasn’t going to complain...”

“So how come they promoted him?”

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“That’s exactly what we wondered,” said Ron, who

seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going

now that Harry had stopped yelling. “He came home

really pleased with himself — even more pleased than

usual if you can imagine that — and told Dad he’d

been offered a position in Fudge’s own office. A really

good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts —

Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to

be all impressed, I think.”

“Only Dad wasn’t,” said Fred grimly.

“Why not?” said Harry.

“Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the

Ministry checking that nobody’s having any contact

with Dumbledore,” said George.

“Dumbledore’s name’s mud with the Ministry these

days, see,” said Fred. “They all think he’s just making

trouble saying You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who’s

in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,”

said George.

“Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he’s

friendly with Dumbledore, and he’s always thought

Dad’s a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle

obsession —”

“But what’s this got to do with Percy?” asked Harry,

confused.

“I’m coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants

Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy

on the family — and Dumbledore.”

Harry let out a low whistle.

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“Bet Percy loved that.”

Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way.

“He went completely berserk. He said — well, he said

loads of terrible stuff. He said he’s been having to

struggle against Dad’s lousy reputation ever since he

joined the Ministry and that Dad’s got no ambition

and that’s why we’ve always been — you know — not

had a lot of money, I mean —”

“What?” said Harry in disbelief, as Ginny made a

noise like an angry cat.

“I know,” said Ron in a low voice. “And it got worse.

He said Dad was an idiot to run around with

Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big

trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and

that he — Percy — knew where his loyalty lay and it

was with the Ministry. And if Mum and Dad were

going to become traitors to the Ministry he was going

to make sure everyone knew he didn’t belong to our

family anymore. And he packed his bags the same

night and left. He’s living here in London now.”

Harry swore under his breath. He had always liked

Percy least of Ron’s brothers, but he had never

imagined he would say such things to Mr. Weasley.

“Mum’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “You know —

crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and

talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I

dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work —

ignores him, I s’pose.”

“But Percy must know Voldemort’s back,” said Harry

slowly. “He’s not stupid, he must know your mum

and dad wouldn’t risk everything without proof —”

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“Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,” said Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. “Percy said the

only evidence was your word and … I dunno … he

didn’t think it was good enough.”

“Percy takes the Daily Prophet seriously,” said

Hermione tartly, and the others all nodded.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, looking

around at them all. They were all regarding him

warily.

“Haven’t — haven’t you been getting the Daily

Prophet?” Hermione asked nervously.

“Yeah, I have!” said Harry.

“Have you — er — been reading it thoroughly?”

Hermione asked still more anxiously.

“Not cover to cover,” said Harry defensively. “If they

were going to report anything about Voldemort it

would be headline news, wouldn’t it!”

The others flinched at the sound of the name.

Hermione hurried on, “Well, you’d need to read it

cover to cover to pick it up, but they — um — they

mention you a couple of times a week.”

“But I’d have seen —”

“Not if you’ve only been reading the front page, you

wouldn’t,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “I’m not

talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like

you’re a standing joke.”

“What d’you — ?”

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“It’s quite nasty, actually,” said Hermione in a voice of forced calm. “They’re just building on Rita’s stuff.”

“But she’s not writing for them anymore, is she?”

“Oh no, she’s kept her promise — not that she’s got

any choice,” Hermione added with satisfaction. “But

she laid the foundation for what they’re trying to do

now.”

“Which is what?” said Harry impatiently.

“Okay, you know she wrote that you were collapsing

all over the place and saying your scar was hurting

and all that?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, who was not likely to forget Rita

Skeeter’s stories about him in a hurry.

“Well, they’re writing about you as though you’re this

deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he’s a

great tragic hero or something,” said Hermione, very

fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry

to hear these facts quickly. “They keep slipping in

snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story

appears they say something like ‘a tale worthy of

Harry Potter’ and if anyone has a funny accident or

anything it’s ‘let’s hope he hasn’t got a scar on his

forehead or we’ll be asked to worship him next —’ ”

“I don’t want anyone to worship —” Harry began

hotly.

“I know you don’t,” said Hermione quickly, looking

frightened. “I know, Harry. But you see what they’re

doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody

will believe. Fudge is behind it, I’ll bet anything. They

want wizards on the street to think you’re just some

stupid boy who’s a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous

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tall stories because he loves being famous and wants

to keep it going.”

“I didn’t ask — I didn’t want — Voldemort killed my

parents!” Harry spluttered. “I got famous because he

murdered my family but couldn’t kill me! Who wants

to be famous for that? Don’t they think I’d rather it’d

never —”

“We know, Harry,” said Ginny earnestly.

“And of course, they didn’t report a word about the

dementors attacking you,” said Hermione. “Someone’s

told them to keep that quiet. That should’ve been a

really big story, out-of-control dementors. They

haven’t even reported that you broke the International

Statute of Secrecy — we thought they would, it would

tie in so well with this image of you as some stupid

show-off — we think they’re biding their time until

you’re expelled, then they’re really going to go to town

— I mean, if you’re expelled, obviously,” she went on

hastily, “you really shouldn’t be, not if they abide by

their own laws, there’s no case against you.”

They were back on the hearing and Harry did not

want to think about it. He cast around for another

change of subject, but was saved the necessity of

finding one by the sound of footsteps coming up the

stairs.

“Uh-oh.”

Fred gave the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there was

another loud crack and he and George vanished.

Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the bedroom

doorway.

“The meeting’s over, you can come down and have

dinner now, everyone’s dying to see you, Harry. And

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who’s left all those Dungbombs outside the kitchen

door?”

“Crookshanks,” said Ginny unblushingly. “He loves

playing with them.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Weasley, “I thought it might have

been Kreacher, he keeps doing odd things like that.

Now don’t forget to keep your voices down in the hall.

Ginny, your hands are filthy, what have you been

doing? Go and wash them before dinner, please...”

Ginny grimaced at the others and followed her mother

out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Ron and

Hermione again. Both of them were watching him

apprehensively, as though they feared that he would

start shouting again now that everyone else had gone.

The sight of them looking so nervous made him feel

slightly ashamed.

“Look …” he muttered, but Ron shook his head, and

Hermione said quietly, “We knew you’d be angry,

Harry, we really don’t blame you, but you’ve got to

understand, we did try and persuade Dumbledore —”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry grudgingly.

He cast around for a topic to change the subject from

Dumbledore — the very thought of him made Harry’s

insides burn with anger again.

“Who’s Kreacher?” he asked.

“The house-elf who lives here,” said Ron. “Nutter.

Never met one like him.”

Hermione frowned at Ron.

“He’s not a nutter, Ron —”

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“His life’s ambition is to have his head cut off and

stuck up on a plaque just like his mother,” said Ron

irritably. “Is that normal, Hermione?”

“Well — well, if he is a bit strange, it’s not his fault —”

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry.

“Hermione still hasn’t given up on spew —”

“It’s not ‘spew’!” said Hermione heatedly. “It’s the

Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and it’s

not just me, Dumbledore says we should be kind to

Kreacher too —”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ron. “C’mon, I’m starving.”

He led the way out of the door and onto the landing,

but before they could descend the stairs — “Hold it!”

Ron breathed, flinging out an arm to stop Harry and

Hermione walking any farther. “They’re still in the

hall, we might be able to hear something —”

The three of them looked cautiously over the

banisters. The gloomy hallway below was packed with

witches and wizards, including all of Harry’s guard.

They were whispering excitedly together. In the very

center of the group Harry saw the dark, greasy-haired

head and prominent nose of his least favorite teacher

at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry leaned farther

over the banisters. He was very interested in what

Snape was doing for the Order of the Phoenix...

A thin piece of flesh-colored string descended in front

of Harry’s eyes. Looking up he saw Fred and George

on the landing above, cautiously lowering the

Extendable Ear toward the dark knot of people below.

A moment later, however, they began to move toward

the front door and out of sight.

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“Dammit,” Harry heard Fred whisper, as he hoisted

the Extendable Ear back up again.

They heard the front door open and then close.

“Snape never eats here,” Ron told Harry quietly.

“Thank God. C’mon.”

“And don’t forget to keep your voice down in the hall,

Harry,” Hermione whispered.

As they passed the row of house-elf heads on the wall

they saw Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks at the front

door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts

behind those who had just left.

“We’re eating down in the kitchen,” Mrs. Weasley

whispered, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs.

“Harry, dear, if you’ll just tiptoe across the hall, it’s

through this door here —”

CRASH.

“Tonks!” cried Mrs. Weasley exasperatedly, turning to

look behind her.

“I’m sorry!” wailed Tonks, who was lying flat on the

floor. “It’s that stupid umbrella stand, that’s the

second time I’ve tripped over —”

But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible,

earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech.

The moth-eaten velvet curtains Harry had passed

earlier had flown apart, but there was no door behind

them. For a split second, Harry thought he was

looking through a window, a window behind which an

old woman in a black cap was screaming and

screaming as though she was being tortured — then

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he realized it was simply a life-size portrait, but the most realistic, and the most unpleasant, he had ever

seen in his life.

The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling,

the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she

screamed, and all along the hall behind them, the

other portraits awoke and began to yell too, so that

Harry actually screwed up his eyes at the noise and

clapped his hands over his ears.

Lupin and Mrs. Weasley darted forward and tried to

tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they

would not close and she screeched louder than ever,

brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at

their faces.

“Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-

breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How

dare you befoul the house of my fathers —”

Tonks apologized over and over again, at the same

time dragging the huge, heavy troll’s leg back off the

floor. Mrs. Weasley abandoned the attempt to close

the curtains and hurried up and down the hall,

Stunning all the other portraits with her wand. Then

a man with long black hair came charging out of a

door facing Harry.

“Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!” he roared,

seizing the curtain Mrs. Weasley had abandoned.

The old woman’s face blanched.

“Yoooou!” she howled, her eyes popping at the sight of

the man. “Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my

flesh!”

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“I said — shut — UP!” roared the man, and with a

stupendous effort he and Lupin managed to force the

curtains closed again.

The old woman’s screeches died and an echoing

silence fell.

Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out

of his eyes, Harry’s godfather, Sirius, turned to face

him.

“Hello, Harry,” he said grimly, “I see you’ve met my

mother.”

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THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

“Your — ?”

“My dear old mum, yeah,” said Sirius. “We’ve been

trying to get her down for a month but we think she

put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the

canvas. Let’s get downstairs, quick, before they all

wake up again.”

“But what’s a portrait of your mother doing here?”

Harry asked, bewildered, as they went through the

door from the hall and led the way down a flight of

narrow stone steps, the others just behind them.

“Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’

house,” said Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s

mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters

— about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.”

Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how

hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded. He followed

his godfather to the bottom of the stairs and through

a door leading into the basement kitchen.

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It was scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a

cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the

light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the

room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle

fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of

heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark

ceiling. Many chairs had been crammed into the room

for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the

middle of the room, littered with rolls of parchment,

goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what

appeared to be rags. Mr. Weasley and his eldest son,

Bill, were talking quietly with their heads together at

the end of the table.

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat. Her husband, a thin,

balding, red-haired man, who wore horn-rimmed

glasses, looked around and jumped to his feet.

“Harry!” Mr. Weasley said, hurrying forward to greet

him and shaking his hand vigorously. “Good to see

you!”

Over his shoulder Harry saw Bill, who still wore his

long hair in a ponytail, hastily rolling up the lengths

of parchment left on the table.

“Journey all right, Harry?” Bill called, trying to gather

up twelve scrolls at once. “Mad-Eye didn’t make you

come via Greenland, then?”

“He tried,” said Tonks, striding over to help Bill and

immediately sending a candle toppling onto the last

piece of parchment. “Oh no — sorry —”

“Here, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding

exasperated, and she repaired the parchment with a

wave of her wand: In the flash of light caused by Mrs.

Weasley’s charm, Harry caught a glimpse of what

looked like the plan of a building.

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Mrs. Weasley had seen him looking. She snatched the

plan off the table and stuffed it into Bill’s heavily

laden arms.

“This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly

at the end of meetings,” she snapped before sweeping

off toward an ancient dresser from which she started

unloading dinner plates.

Bill took out his wand, muttered “Evanesco!” and the

scrolls vanished.

“Sit down, Harry,” said Sirius. “You’ve met

Mundungus, haven’t you?”

The thing Harry had taken to be a pile of rags gave a

prolonged, grunting snore and then jerked awake.

“Some’n say m’ name?” Mundungus mumbled

sleepily. “I ’gree with Sirius...”

He raised a very grubby hand in the air as though

voting, his droopy, bloodshot eyes unfocused. Ginny

giggled.

“The meeting’s over, Dung,” said Sirius, as they all sat

down around him at the table. “Harry’s arrived.”

“Eh?” said Mundungus, peering balefully at Harry

through his matted ginger hair. “Blimey, so ’e ’as.

Yeah … you all right, ’arry?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

Mundungus fumbled nervously in his pockets, still

staring at Harry, and pulled out a grimy black pipe.

He stuck it in his mouth, ignited the end of it with his

wand, and took a deep pull on it. Great billowing

clouds of greenish smoke obscured him in seconds.

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“Owe you a ’pology,” grunted a voice from the middle

of the smelly cloud.

“For the last time, Mundungus,” called Mrs. Weasley,

“will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen,

especially not when we’re about to eat!”

“Ah,” said Mundungus. “Right. Sorry, Molly.”

The cloud of smoke vanished as Mundungus stowed

his pipe back in his pocket, but an acrid smell of

burning socks lingered.

“And if you want dinner before midnight I’ll need a

hand,” Mrs. Weasley said to the room at large. “No,

you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you’ve had a

long journey —”

“What can I do, Molly?” said Tonks enthusiastically,

bounding forward.

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, looking apprehensive.

“Er — no, it’s all right, Tonks, you have a rest too,

you’ve done enough today —”

“No, no, I want to help!” said Tonks brightly, knocking

over a chair as she hurried toward the dresser from

which Ginny was collecting cutlery.

Soon a series of heavy knives were chopping meat

and vegetables of their own accord, supervised by Mr.

Weasley, while Mrs. Weasley stirred a cauldron

dangling over the fire and the others took out plates,

more goblets, and food from the pantry. Harry was

left at the table with Sirius and Mundungus, who was

still blinking mournfully at him.

“Seen old Figgy since?” he asked.

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“No,” said Harry, “I haven’t seen anyone.”

“See, I wouldn’t ’ave left,” said Mundungus, leaning

forward, a pleading note in his voice, “but I ’ad a

business opportunity —”

Harry felt something brush against his knees and

started, but it was only Crookshanks, Hermione’s

bandy-legged ginger cat, who wound himself once

around Harry’s legs, purring, then jumped onto

Sirius’s lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him

absentmindedly behind the ears as he turned, still

grim-faced, to Harry.

“Had a good summer so far?”

“No, it’s been lousy,” said Harry.

For the first time, something like a grin flitted across

Sirius’s face.

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about, myself.”

“What?” said Harry incredulously.

“Personally, I’d have welcomed a dementor attack. A

deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the

monotony nicely. You think you’ve had it bad, at least

you’ve been able to get out and about, stretch your

legs, get into a few fights... I’ve been stuck inside for a

month.”

“How come?” asked Harry, frowning.

“Because the Ministry of Magic’s still after me, and

Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus

by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big

disguise is useless. There’s not much I can do for the

Order of the Phoenix … or so Dumbledore feels.”

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There was something about the slightly flattened tone of voice in which Sirius uttered Dumbledore’s name

that told Harry that Sirius was not very happy with

the headmaster either. Harry felt a sudden upsurge of

affection for his godfather.

“At least you’ve known what’s been going on,” he said

bracingly.

“Oh yeah,” said Sirius sarcastically. “Listening to

Snape’s reports, having to take all his snide hints that

he’s out there risking his life while I’m sat on my

backside here having a nice comfortable time …

asking me how the cleaning’s going —”

“What cleaning?” asked Harry.

“Trying to make this place fit for human habitation,”

said Sirius, waving a hand around the dismal

kitchen. “No one’s lived here for ten years, not since

my dear mother died, unless you count her old

house-elf, and he’s gone round the twist, hasn’t

cleaned anything in ages —”

“Sirius?” said Mundungus, who did not appear to

have paid any attention to this conversation, but had

been minutely examining an empty goblet. “This solid

silver, mate?”

“Yes,” said Sirius, surveying it with distaste. “Finest

fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed

with the Black family crest.”

“That’d come off, though,” muttered Mundungus,

polishing it with his cuff.

“Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!” Mrs.

Weasley shrieked.

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Harry, Sirius, and Mundungus looked around and, a

split second later, dived away from the table. Fred

and George had bewitched a large cauldron of stew,

an iron flagon of butterbeer, and a heavy wooden

breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through

the air toward them. The stew skidded the length of

the table and came to a halt just before the end,

leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface, the

flagon of butterbeer fell with a crash, spilling its

contents everywhere, and the bread knife slipped off

the board and landed, point down and quivering

ominously, exactly where Sirius’s right hand had

been seconds before.

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” screamed Mrs. Weasley.

“THERE WAS NO NEED — I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF

THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE ALLOWED TO USE

MAGIC NOW YOU DON’T HAVE TO WHIP YOUR

WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY LITTLE THING!”

“We were just trying to save a bit of time!” said Fred,

hurrying forward and wrenching the bread knife out

of the table. “Sorry Sirius, mate — didn’t mean to —”

Harry and Sirius were both laughing. Mundungus,

who had toppled backward off his chair, was swearing

as he got to his feet. Crookshanks had given an angry

hiss and shot off under the dresser, from whence his

large yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.

“Boys,” Mr. Weasley said, lifting the stew back into

the middle of the table, “your mother’s right, you’re

supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you’ve

come of age —”

“— none of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!”

Mrs. Weasley raged at the twins, slamming a fresh

flagon of butterbeer onto the table and spilling almost

as much again. “Bill didn’t feel the need to Apparate

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every few feet! Charlie didn’t Charm everything he

met! Percy —”

She stopped dead, catching her breath with a

frightened look at her husband, whose expression

was suddenly wooden.

“Let’s eat,” said Bill quickly.

“It looks wonderful, Molly,” said Lupin, ladling stew

onto a plate for her and handing it across the table.

For a few minutes there was silence but for the chink

of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as

everyone settled down to their food. Then Mrs.

Weasley turned to Sirius and said, “I’ve been meaning

to tell you, there’s something trapped in that writing

desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and

shaking. Of course, it could just be a boggart, but I

thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it

before we let it out.”

“Whatever you like,” said Sirius indifferently.

“The curtains in there are full of doxies too,” Mrs.

Weasley went on. “I thought we might try and tackle

them tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” said Sirius. Harry heard the

sarcasm in his voice, but he was not sure that anyone

else did.

Opposite Harry, Tonks was entertaining Hermione

and Ginny by transforming her nose between

mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with the

same pained expression she had worn back in Harry’s

bedroom, her nose swelled to a beaklike protuberance

like Snape’s, shrank to something resembling a

button mushroom, and then sprouted a great deal of

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hair from each nostril. Apparently this was a regular mealtime entertainment, because after a while

Hermione and Ginny started requesting their favorite

noses.

“Do that one like a pig snout, Tonks …”

Tonks obliged, and Harry, looking up, had the fleeting

impression that a female Dudley was grinning at him

from across the table.

Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Lupin were having an intense

discussion about goblins.

“They’re not giving anything away yet,” said Bill. “I

still can’t work out whether they believe he’s back or

not. ’Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all.

Keep out of it.”

“I’m sure they’d never go over to You-Know-Who,”

said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head. “They’ve suffered

losses too. Remember that goblin family he murdered

last time, somewhere near Nottingham?”

“I think it depends what they’re offered,” said Lupin.

“And I’m not talking about gold; if they’re offered

freedoms we’ve been denying them for centuries

they’re going to be tempted. Have you still not had

any luck with Ragnok, Bill?”

“He’s feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment,” said

Bill. “He hasn’t stopped raging about the Bagman

business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up,

those goblins never got their gold from him, you know

—”

A gale of laughter from the middle of the table

drowned the rest of Bill’s words. Fred, George, Ron,

and Mundungus were rolling around in their seats.

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“… and then,” choked Mundungus, tears running

down his face, “and then, if you’ll believe it, ’e says to

me, ’e says, ‘’ere, Dung, where didja get all them toads

from? ’Cos some son of a Bludger’s gone and nicked

all mine!’ And I says, ‘Nicked all your toads, Will,

what next? So you’ll be wanting some more, then?’

And if you’ll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle

buys all ’is own toads back orf me for twice what ’e

paid in the first place —”

“I don’t think we need to hear any more of your

business dealings, thank you very much,

Mundungus,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Ron

slumped forward onto the table, howling with

laughter.

“Beg pardon, Molly,” said Mundungus at once, wiping

his eyes and winking at Harry. “But, you know, Will

nicked ’em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I

wasn’t really doing nothing wrong —”

“I don’t know where you learned about right and

wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a

few crucial lessons,” said Mrs. Weasley coldly.

Fred and George buried their faces in their goblets of

butterbeer; George was hiccuping. For some reason,

Mrs. Weasley threw a very nasty look at Sirius before

getting to her feet and going to fetch a large rhubarb

crumble for pudding. Harry looked round at his

godfather.

“Molly doesn’t approve of Mundungus,” said Sirius in

an undertone.

“How come he’s in the Order?” Harry said very

quietly.

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“He’s useful,” Sirius muttered. “Knows all the crooks

— well, he would, seeing as he’s one himself. But he’s

also very loyal to Dumbledore, who helped him out of

a tight spot once. It pays to have someone like Dung

around, he hears things we don’t. But Molly thinks

inviting him to stay for dinner is going too far. She

hasn’t forgiven him for slipping off duty when he was

supposed to be tailing you.”

Three helpings of rhubarb crumble and custard later

and the waistband on Harry’s jeans was feeling

uncomfortably tight (which was saying something, as

the jeans had once been Dudley’s). He lay down his

spoon in a lull in the general conversation. Mr.

Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete

and relaxed, Tonks was yawning widely, her nose now

back to normal, and Ginny, who had lured

Crookshanks out from under the dresser, was sitting

cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for

him to chase.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” said Mrs. Weasley on a

yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” said Sirius, pushing away his

empty plate and turning to look at Harry. “You know,

I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do

when you got here would be to start asking questions

about Voldemort.”

The atmosphere in the room changed with the

rapidity Harry associated with the arrival of

dementors. Where seconds before it had been sleepily

relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. A frisson had

gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort’s

name. Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of

wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary.

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“I did!” said Harry indignantly. “I asked Ron and

Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the

Order, so —”

“And they’re quite right,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’re

too young.”

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists

clenched upon its arms, every trace of drowsiness

gone.

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order of

the Phoenix to ask questions?” asked Sirius. “Harry’s

been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s

got the right to know what’s been happen —”

“Hang on!” interrupted George loudly.

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” said

Fred angrily.

“We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month

and you haven’t told us a single stinking thing!” said

George.

“ ‘ You’re too young, you’re not in the Order, ’ ” said

Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounded uncannily

like his mother’s. “Harry’s not even of age!”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the

Order’s doing,” said Sirius calmly. “That’s your

parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand —”

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!”

said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kindly face

looked dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what

Dumbledore said, I suppose?”

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“Which bit?” Sirius asked politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight.

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs

to know, ” said Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy

emphasis on the last three words.

Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George’s heads turned from

Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though following a tennis

rally. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned

butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her

mouth slightly open. Lupin’s eyes were fixed on

Sirius.

“I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to

know, Molly,” said Sirius. “But as he was the one who

saw Voldemort come back” (again, there was a

collective shudder around the table at the name), “he

has more right than most to —”

“He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!” said

Mrs. Weasley. “He’s only fifteen and —”

“— and he’s dealt with as much as most in the

Order,” said Sirius, “and more than some —”

“No one’s denying what he’s done!” said Mrs. Weasley,

her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her

chair. “But he’s still —”

“He’s not a child!” said Sirius impatiently.

“He’s not an adult either!” said Mrs. Weasley, the

color rising in her cheeks. “He’s not James, Sirius!”

“I’m perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,” said

Sirius coldly.

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“I’m not sure you are!” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s as

though you think you’ve got your best friend back!”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Harry.

“What’s wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father,

however much you might look like him!” said Mrs.

Weasley, her eyes still boring into Sirius. “You are still

at school and adults responsible for you should not

forget it!”

“Meaning I’m an irresponsible godfather?” demanded

Sirius, his voice rising.

“Meaning you’ve been known to act rashly, Sirius,

which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to

stay at home and —”

“We’ll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of

this, if you please!” said Sirius loudly.

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley, rounding on her

husband. “Arthur, back me up!”

Mr. Weasley did not speak at once. He took off his

glasses and cleaned them slowly on his robes, not

looking at his wife. Only when he had replaced them

carefully on his nose did he say, “Dumbledore knows

the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that

Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now

that he is staying at headquarters —”

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and

inviting him to ask whatever he likes!”

“Personally,” said Lupin quietly, looking away from

Sirius at last, as Mrs. Weasley turned quickly to him,

hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally, “I

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think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather

than a garbled version from … others.”

His expression was mild, but Harry felt sure that

Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had

survived Mrs. Weasley’s purge.

“Well,” said Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and

looking around the table for support that did not

come, “well … I can see I’m going to be overruled. I’ll

just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons

for not wanting Harry to know too much, and

speaking as someone who has got Harry’s best

interests at heart —”

“He’s not your son,” said Sirius quietly.

“He’s as good as,” said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. “Who

else has he got?”

“He’s got me!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley, her lip curling. “The thing

is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him

while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?”

Sirius started to rise from his chair.

“Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who

cares about Harry,” said Lupin sharply. “Sirius, sit

down. ”

Mrs. Weasley’s lower lip was trembling. Sirius sank

slowly back into his chair, his face white.

“I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,”

Lupin continued. “He’s old enough to decide for

himself.”

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“I want to know what’s been going on,” Harry said at

once.

He did not look at Mrs. Weasley. He had been touched

by what she had said about his being as good as a

son, but he was also impatient at her mollycoddling...

Sirius was right, he was not a child.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Weasley, her voice cracking.

“Ginny — Ron — Hermione — Fred — George — I

want you out of this kitchen, now.”

There was instant uproar.

“We’re of age!” Fred and George bellowed together.

“If Harry’s allowed, why can’t I?” shouted Ron.

“Mum, I want to!” wailed Ginny.

“NO!” shouted Mrs. Weasley, standing up, her eyes

overbright. “I absolutely forbid —”

“Molly, you can’t stop Fred and George,” said Mr.

Weasley wearily. “They are of age —”

“They’re still at school —”

“But they’re legally adults now,” said Mr. Weasley in

the same tired voice.

Mrs. Weasley was now scarlet in the face.

“I — oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but

Ron —”

“Harry’ll tell me and Hermione everything you say

anyway!” said Ron hotly. “Won’t — won’t you?” he

added uncertainly, meeting Harry’s eyes.

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For a split second, Harry considered telling Ron that he wouldn’t tell him a single word, that he could try a

taste of being kept in the dark and see how he liked

it. But the nasty impulse vanished as they looked at

each other.

“ ’Course I will,” Harry said. Ron and Hermione

beamed.

“Fine!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Fine! Ginny — BED!”

Ginny did not go quietly. They could hear her raging

and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs,

and when she reached the hall Mrs. Black’s

earsplitting shrieks were added to the din. Lupin

hurried off to the portrait to restore calm. It was only

after he had returned, closing the kitchen door

behind him and taking his seat at the table again,

that Sirius spoke.

“Okay, Harry … what do you want to know?”

Harry took a deep breath and asked the question that

had been obsessing him for a month.

“Where’s Voldemort? What’s he doing? I’ve been trying

to watch the Muggle news,” he said, ignoring the

renewed shudders and winces at the name, “and

there hasn’t been anything that looks like him yet, no

funny deaths or anything —”

“That’s because there haven’t been any suspicious

deaths yet,” said Sirius, “not as far as we know,

anyway... And we know quite a lot.”

“More than he thinks we do anyway,” said Lupin.

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“How come he’s stopped killing people?” Harry asked.

He knew that Voldemort had murdered more than

once in the last year alone.

“Because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself

at the moment,” said Sirius. “It would be dangerous

for him. His comeback didn’t come off quite the way

he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up.”

“Or rather, you messed it up for him,” said Lupin with

a satisfied smile.

“How?” Harry asked perplexedly.

“You weren’t supposed to survive!” said Sirius.

“Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to

know he’d come back. But you survived to bear

witness.”

“And the very last person he wanted alerted to his

return the moment he got back was Dumbledore,”

said Lupin. “And you made sure Dumbledore knew at

once.”

“How has that helped?” Harry asked.

“Are you kidding?” said Bill incredulously.

“Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was

ever scared of!”

“Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the

Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort

returned,” said Sirius.

“So what’s the Order been doing?” said Harry, looking

around at them all.

“Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort

can’t carry out his plans,” said Sirius.

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“How d’you know what his plans are?” Harry asked

quickly.

“Dumbledore’s got a shrewd idea,” said Lupin, “and

Dumbledore’s shrewd ideas normally turn out to be

accurate.”

“So what does Dumbledore reckon he’s planning?”

“Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again,”

said Sirius. “In the old days he had huge numbers at

his command; witches and wizards he’d bullied or

bewitched into following him, his faithful Death

Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard

him planning to recruit the giants; well, they’ll be just

one group he’s after. He’s certainly not going to try

and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen

Death Eaters.”

“So you’re trying to stop him getting more followers?”

“We’re doing our best,” said Lupin.

“How?”

“Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many

people as possible that You-Know-Who really has

returned, to put them on their guard,” said Bill. “It’s

proving tricky, though.”

“Why?”

“Because of the Ministry’s attitude,” said Tonks. “You

saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back,

Harry. Well, he hasn’t shifted his position at all. He’s

absolutely refusing to believe it’s happened.”

“But why?” said Harry desperately. “Why’s he being

so stupid? If Dumbledore —”

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“Ah, well, you’ve put your finger on the problem,” said Mr. Weasley with a wry smile. “Dumbledore. ”

“Fudge is frightened of him, you see,” said Tonks

sadly.

“Frightened of Dumbledore?” said Harry

incredulously.

“Frightened of what he’s up to,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You see, Fudge thinks Dumbledore’s plotting to

overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be

Minister of Magic.”

“But Dumbledore doesn’t want —”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Mr. Weasley. “He’s never

wanted the Minister’s job, even though a lot of people

wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired.

Fudge came to power instead, but he’s never quite

forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore

had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the

job.”

“Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore’s much

cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard,

and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever

asking Dumbledore for help and advice,” said Lupin.

“But it seems that he’s become fond of power now,

and much more confident. He loves being Minister of

Magic, and he’s managed to convince himself that

he’s the clever one and Dumbledore’s simply stirring

up trouble for the sake of it.”

“How can he think that?” said Harry angrily. “How

can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up —

that I’d make it all up?”

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“Because accepting that Voldemort’s back would

mean trouble like the Ministry hasn’t had to cope

with for nearly fourteen years,” said Sirius bitterly.

“Fudge just can’t bring himself to face it. It’s so much

more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore’s

lying to destabilize him.”

“You see the problem,” said Lupin. “While the

Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from

Voldemort, it’s hard to convince people he’s back,

especially as they really don’t want to believe it in the

first place. What’s more, the Ministry’s leaning heavily

on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they’re

calling Dumbledore’s rumormongering, so most of the

Wizarding community are completely unaware

anything’s happened, and that makes them easy

targets for the Death Eaters if they’re using the

Imperius Curse.”

“But you’re telling people, aren’t you?” said Harry,

looking around at Mr. Weasley, Sirius, Bill,

Mundungus, Lupin, and Tonks. “You’re letting people

know he’s back?”

They all smiled humorlessly.

“Well, as everyone thinks I’m a mad mass murderer

and the Ministry’s put a ten-thousand-Galleon price

on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start

handing out leaflets, can I?” said Sirius restlessly.

“And I’m not a very popular dinner guest with most of

the community,” said Lupin. “It’s an occupational

hazard of being a werewolf.”

“Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the

Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off,”

said Sirius, “and it’s very important for us to have

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spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet

Voldemort will have them.”

“We’ve managed to convince a couple of people,

though,” said Mr. Weasley. “Tonks here, for one —

she’s too young to have been in the Order of the

Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a

huge advantage — Kingsley Shacklebolt’s been a real

asset too. He’s in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he’s

been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in

Tibet.”

“But if none of you’s putting the news out that

Voldemort’s back —” Harry began.

“Who said none of us was putting the news out?” said

Sirius. “Why d’you think Dumbledore’s in such

trouble?”

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked.

“They’re trying to discredit him,” said Lupin. “Didn’t

you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported

that he’d been voted out of the Chairmanship of the

International Confederation of Wizards because he’s

getting old and losing his grip, but it’s not true, he

was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a

speech announcing Voldemort’s return. They’ve

demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot

— that’s the Wizard High Court — and they’re talking

about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class,

too.”

“But Dumbledore says he doesn’t care what they do

as long as they don’t take him off the Chocolate Frog

cards,” said Bill, grinning.

“It’s no laughing matter,” said Mr. Weasley shortly. “If

he carries on defying the Ministry like this, he could

P a g e | 124 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

end up in Azkaban and the last thing we want is

Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows

Dumbledore’s out there and wise to what he’s up to,

he’s going to go cautiously for a while. If

Dumbledore’s out of the way — well, You-Know-Who

will have a clear field.”

“But if Voldemort’s trying to recruit more Death

Eaters, it’s bound to get out that he’s come back, isn’t

it?” asked Harry desperately.

“Voldemort doesn’t march up to people’s houses and

bang on their front doors, Harry,” said Sirius. “He

tricks, jinxes, and blackmails them. He’s well-

practiced at operating in secrecy. In any case,

gathering followers is only one thing he’s interested

in, he’s got other plans too, plans he can put into

operation very quietly indeed, and he’s concentrating

on them at the moment.”

“What’s he after apart from followers?” Harry asked

swiftly.

He thought he saw Sirius and Lupin exchange the

most fleeting of looks before Sirius said, “Stuff he can

only get by stealth.”

When Harry continued to look puzzled, Sirius said,

“Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.”

“When he was powerful before?”

“Yes.”

“Like what kind of weapon?” said Harry. “Something

worse than the Avada Kedavra — ?”

“That’s enough.”

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Mrs. Weasley spoke from the shadows beside the

door. Harry had not noticed her return from taking

Ginny upstairs. Her arms were crossed and she

looked furious.

“I want you in bed, now. All of you,” she added,

looking around at Fred, George, Ron, and Hermione.

“You can’t boss us —” Fred began.

“Watch me,” snarled Mrs. Weasley. She was trembling

slightly as she looked at Sirius. “You’ve given Harry

plenty of information. Any more and you might just

as well induct him into the Order straightaway.”

“Why not?” said Harry quickly. “I’ll join, I want to join,

I want to fight —”

“No.”

It was not Mrs. Weasley who spoke this time, but

Lupin.

“The Order is comprised only of overage wizards,” he

said. “Wizards who have left school,” he added, as

Fred and George opened their mouths. “There are

dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any

of you … I think Molly’s right, Sirius. We’ve said

enough.”

Sirius half-shrugged but did not argue. Mrs. Weasley

beckoned imperiously to her sons and Hermione. One

by one they stood up and Harry, recognizing defeat,

followed suit.

P a g e | 126 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT

HOUSE OF BLACK

Mrs. Weasley followed them upstairs looking grim.

“I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking,” she

said as they reached the first landing. “We’ve got a

busy day tomorrow. I expect Ginny’s asleep,” she

added to Hermione, “so try not to wake her up.”

“Asleep, yeah, right,” said Fred in an undertone, after

Hermione bade them good night and they were

climbing to the next floor. “If Ginny’s not lying awake

waiting for Hermione to tell her everything they said

downstairs, then I’m a flobberworm...”

“All right, Ron, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley on the

second landing, pointing them into their bedroom.

“Off to bed with you.”

“ ’Night,” Harry and Ron said to the twins.

“Sleep tight,” said Fred, winking.

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Mrs. Weasley closed the door behind Harry with a

sharp snap. The bedroom looked, if anything, even

danker and gloomier than it had on first sight. The

blank picture on the wall was now breathing very

slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant

was asleep. Harry put on his pajamas, took off his

glasses, and climbed into his chilly bed while Ron

threw Owl Treats up on top of the wardrobe to pacify

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, who were clattering around

and rustling their wings restlessly.

“We can’t let them out to hunt every night,” Ron

explained as he pulled on his maroon pajamas.

“Dumbledore doesn’t want too many owls swooping

around the square, thinks it’ll look suspicious. Oh

yeah … I forgot...”

He crossed to the door and bolted it.

“What’re you doing that for?”

“Kreacher,” said Ron as he turned off the light. “First

night I was here he came wandering in at three in the

morning. Trust me, you don’t want to wake up and

find him prowling around your room. Anyway …” He

got into his bed, settled down under the covers, then

turned to look at Harry in the darkness. Harry could

see his outline by the moonlight filtering in through

the grimy window. “What d’you reckon?”

Harry didn’t need to ask what Ron meant.

“Well, they didn’t tell us much we couldn’t have

guessed, did they?” he said, thinking of all that had

been said downstairs. “I mean, all they’ve really said

is that the Order’s trying to stop people joining Vol —”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ron.

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“— demort, ” said Harry firmly. “When are you going to start using his name? Sirius and Lupin do.”

Ron ignored this last comment. “Yeah, you’re right,”

he said. “We already knew nearly everything they told

us, from using the Extendable Ears. The only new bit

was —”

Crack.

“OUCH!”

“Keep your voice down, Ron, or Mum’ll be back up

here.”

“You two just Apparated on my knees!”

“Yeah, well, it’s harder in the dark —”

Harry saw the blurred outlines of Fred and George

leaping down from Ron’s bed. There was a groan of

bedsprings and Harry’s mattress descended a few

inches as George sat down near his feet.

“So, got there yet?” said George eagerly.

“The weapon Sirius mentioned?” said Harry.

“Let slip, more like,” said Fred with relish, now sitting

next to Ron. “We didn’t hear about that on the old

Extendables, did we?”

“What d’you reckon it is?” said Harry.

“Could be anything,” said Fred.

“But there can’t be anything worse than the Avada

Kedavra curse, can there?” said Ron. “What’s worse

than death?”

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“Maybe it’s something that can kill loads of people at once,” suggested George.

“Maybe it’s some particularly painful way of killing

people,” said Ron fearfully.

“He’s got the Cruciatus Curse for causing pain,” said

Harry. “He doesn’t need anything more efficient than

that.”

There was a pause and Harry knew that the others,

like him, were wondering what horrors this weapon

could perpetrate.

“So who d’you thinks got it now?” asked George.

“I hope it’s our side,” said Ron, sounding slightly

nervous.

“If it is, Dumbledore’s probably keeping it,” said Fred.

“Where?” said Ron quickly. “Hogwarts?”

“Bet it is!” said George. “That’s where he hid the

Sorcerer’s Stone!”

“A weapon’s going to be a lot bigger than the Stone,

though!” said Ron.

“Not necessarily,” said Fred.

“Yeah, size is no guarantee of power,” said George.

“Look at Ginny.”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry.

“You’ve never been on the receiving end of one of her

Bat-Bogey Hexes, have you?”

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“Shhh!” said Fred, half-rising from the bed. “Listen!”

They fell silent. Footsteps were coming up the stairs

again.

“Mum,” said George, and without further ado there

was a loud crack and Harry felt the weight vanish

from the end of his bed. A few seconds later and they

heard the floorboard creak outside their door; Mrs.

Weasley was plainly listening to see whether they

were talking or not.

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon hooted dolefully. The

floorboard creaked again and they heard her heading

upstairs to check on Fred and George.

“She doesn’t trust us at all, you know,” said Ron

regretfully.

Harry was sure he would not be able to fall asleep;

the evening had been so packed with things to think

about that he fully expected to lie awake for hours

mulling it all over. He wanted to continue talking to

Ron, but Mrs. Weasley was now creaking back

downstairs again, and once she had gone he distinctly

heard others making their way upstairs... In fact,

many-legged creatures were cantering softly up and

down outside the bedroom door, and Hagrid, the Care

of Magical Creatures teacher, was saying, “Beauties,

aren’ they, eh, Harry? We’ll be studyin’ weapons this

term... ” And Harry saw that the creatures had

cannons for heads and were wheeling to face him...

He ducked...

The next thing he knew, he was curled in a warm ball

under his bedclothes, and George’s loud voice was

filling the room.

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“Mum says get up, your breakfast is in the kitchen

and then she needs you in the drawing room, there

are loads more doxies than she thought and she’s

found a nest of dead puffskeins under the sofa.”

Half an hour later, Harry and Ron, who had dressed

and breakfasted quickly, entered the drawing room, a

long, high-ceilinged room on the first floor with olive-

green walls covered in dirty tapestries. The carpet

exhaled little clouds of dust every time someone put

their foot on it and the long, moss-green velvet

curtains were buzzing as though swarming with

invisible bees. It was around these that Mrs. Weasley,

Hermione, Ginny, Fred, and George were grouped, all

looking rather peculiar, as they had tied cloths over

their noses and mouths. Each of them was also

holding a large bottle of black liquid with a nozzle at

the end.

“Cover your faces and take a spray,” Mrs. Weasley

said to Harry and Ron the moment she saw them,

pointing to two more bottles of black liquid standing

on a spindle-legged table. “It’s Doxycide. I’ve never

seen an infestation this bad — what that house-elf’s

been doing for the last ten years —”

Hermione’s face was half concealed by a tea towel but

Harry distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at

Mrs. Weasley at these words.

“Kreacher’s really old, he probably couldn’t manage —

”

“You’d be surprised what Kreacher can manage when

he wants to, Hermione,” said Sirius, who had just

entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what

appeared to be dead rats. “I’ve just been feeding

Buckbeak,” he added, in reply to Harry’s inquiring

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look. “I keep him upstairs in my mother’s bedroom.

Anyway … this writing desk …”

He dropped the bag of rats onto an armchair, then

bent over to examine the locked cabinet which, Harry

now noticed for the first time, was shaking slightly.

“Well, Molly, I’m pretty sure this is a boggart,” said

Sirius, peering through the keyhole, “but perhaps we

ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it

out — knowing my mother it could be something

much worse.”

“Right you are, Sirius,” said Mrs. Weasley.

They were both speaking in carefully light, polite

voices that told Harry quite plainly that neither had

forgotten their disagreement of the night before.

A loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs,

followed at once by the cacophony of screams and

wails that had been triggered the previous night by

Tonks knocking over the umbrella stand.

“I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!” said

Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying back out of the room.

They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs.

Black’s screeches echoed up through the house once

more: “Stains of dishonor, filthy half-breeds, blood

traitors, children of filth …”

“Close the door, please, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry took as much time as he dared to close the

drawing room door; he wanted to listen to what was

going on downstairs. Sirius had obviously managed to

shut the curtains over his mother’s portrait because

she had stopped screaming. He heard Sirius walking

down the hall, then the clattering of the chain on the

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front door, and then a deep voice he recognized as

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s saying, “Hestia’s just relieved

me, so she’s got Moody’s cloak now, thought I’d leave

a report for Dumbledore...”

Feeling Mrs. Weasley’s eyes on the back of his head,

Harry regretfully closed the drawing room door and

rejoined the doxy party.

Mrs. Weasley was bending over to check the page on

doxies in Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household

Pests, which was lying open on the sofa.

“Right, you lot, you need to be careful, because doxies

bite and their teeth are poisonous. I’ve got a bottle of

antidote here, but I’d rather nobody needed it.”

She straightened up, positioned herself squarely in

front of the curtains, and beckoned them all forward.

“When I say the word, start spraying immediately,”

she said. “They’ll come flying out at us, I expect, but it

says on the sprays one good squirt will paralyze them.

When they’re immobilized, just throw them in this

bucket.”

She stepped carefully out of their line of fire and

raised her own spray. “All right — squirt!”

Harry had been spraying only a few seconds when a

fully grown doxy came soaring out of a fold in the

material, shiny beetlelike wings whirring, tiny needle-

sharp teeth bared, its fairylike body covered with

thick black hair and its four tiny fists clenched with

fury. Harry caught it full in the face with a blast of

Doxycide; it froze in midair and fell, with a

surprisingly loud thunk, onto the worn carpet below.

Harry picked it up and threw it in the bucket.

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“Fred, what are you doing?” said Mrs. Weasley

sharply. “Spray that at once and throw it away!”

Harry looked around. Fred was holding a struggling

doxy between his forefinger and thumb.

“Right-o,” Fred said brightly, spraying the doxy

quickly in the face so that it fainted, but the moment

Mrs. Weasley’s back was turned he pocketed it with a

wink.

“We want to experiment with doxy venom for our

Skiving Snack-boxes,” George told Harry under his

breath.

Deftly spraying two doxies at once as they soared

straight for his nose, Harry moved closer to George

and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “What

are Skiving Snackboxes?”

“Range of sweets to make you ill,” George whispered,

keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Weasley’s back. “Not

seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a

class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been

developing them this summer. They’re double-ended,

color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the

Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you’ve been

rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you

swallow the purple half —”

“ ‘— which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to

pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during

an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to

unprofitable boredom.’ That’s what we’re putting in

the adverts, anyway,” whispered Fred, who had edged

over out of Mrs. Weasley’s line of vision and was now

sweeping a few stray doxies from the floor and adding

them to his pocket. “But they still need a bit of work.

At the moment our testers are having a bit of trouble

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stopping puking long enough to swallow the purple

end.”

“Testers?”

“Us,” said Fred. “We take it in turns. George did the

Fainting Fancies — we both tried the Nosebleed

Nougat —”

“Mum thought we’d been dueling,” said George.

“Joke shop still on, then?” Harry muttered,

pretending to be adjusting the nozzle on his spray.

“Well, we haven’t had a chance to get premises yet,”

said Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Mrs.

Weasley mopped her brow with her scarf before

returning to the attack, “so we’re running it as a mail-

order service at the moment. We put advertisements

in the Daily Prophet last week.”

“All thanks to you, mate,” said George. “But don’t

worry … Mum hasn’t got a clue. She won’t read the

Daily Prophet anymore, ’cause of it telling lies about

you and Dumbledore.”

Harry grinned. He had forced the Weasley twins to

take the thousand-Galleon prize money he had won

in the Triwizard Tournament to help them realize

their ambition to open a joke shop, but he was still

glad to know that his part in furthering their plans

was unknown to Mrs. Weasley, who did not think that

running a joke shop was a suitable career for two of

her sons.

The de-doxying of the curtains took most of the

morning. It was past midday when Mrs. Weasley

finally removed her protective scarf, sank into a

sagging armchair, and sprang up again with a cry of

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disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The

curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and

damp from the intensive spraying; unconscious

doxies lay crammed in the bucket at the foot of them

beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which

Crookshanks was now sniffing and Fred and George

were shooting covetous looks.

“I think we’ll tackle those after lunch.”

Mrs. Weasley pointed at the dusty glass-fronted

cabinets standing on either side of the mantelpiece.

They were crammed with an odd assortment of

objects: a selection of rusty daggers, claws, a coiled

snakeskin, a number of tarnished silver boxes

inscribed with languages Harry could not understand

and, least pleasant of all, an ornate crystal bottle with

a large opal set into the stopper, full of what Harry

was quite sure was blood.

The clanging doorbell rang again. Everyone looked at

Mrs. Weasley.

“Stay here,” she said firmly, snatching up the bag of

rats as Mrs. Blacks screeches started up again from

down below. “I’ll bring up some sandwiches.”

She left the room, closing the door carefully behind

her. At once, everyone dashed over to the window to

look down onto the doorstep. They could see the top

of an unkempt gingery head and a stack of

precariously balanced cauldrons.

“Mundungus!” said Hermione. “What’s he brought all

those cauldrons for?”

“Probably looking for a safe place to keep them,” said

Harry. “Isn’t that what he was doing the night he was

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supposed to be tailing me? Picking up dodgy

cauldrons?”

“Yeah, you’re right!” said Fred, as the front door

opened; Mundungus heaved his cauldrons through it

and disappeared from view. “Blimey, Mum won’t like

that...”

He and George crossed to the door and stood beside

it, listening intently. Mrs. Black’s screaming had

stopped again.

“Mundungus is talking to Sirius and Kingsley,” Fred

muttered, frowning with concentration. “Can’t hear

properly … d’you reckon we can risk the Extendable

Ears?”

“Might be worth it,” said George. “I could sneak

upstairs and get a pair —”

But at that precise moment there was an explosion of

sound from downstairs that rendered Extendable

Ears quite unnecessary. All of them could hear

exactly what Mrs. Weasley was shouting at the top of

her voice.

“WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN

GOODS!”

“I love hearing Mum shouting at someone else,” said

Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face as he opened

the door an inch or so to allow Mrs. Weasley’s voice to

permeate the room better. “It makes such a nice

change.”

“— COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE

HAVEN’T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT

WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN CAULDRONS

INTO THE HOUSE —”

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“The idiots are letting her get into her stride,” said George, shaking his head. “You’ve got to head her off

early, otherwise she builds up a head of steam and

goes on for hours. And she’s been dying to have a go

at Mundungus ever since he sneaked off when he was

supposed to be following you, Harry — and there goes

Sirius’s mum again —”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice was lost amid fresh shrieks and

screams from the portraits in the hall. George made

to shut the door to drown the noise, but before he

could do so, a house-elf edged into the room.

Except for the filthy rag tied like a loincloth around

its middle, it was completely naked. It looked very old.

Its skin seemed to be several times too big for it and

though it was bald like all house-elves, there was a

quantity of white hair growing out of its large, batlike

ears. Its eyes were a bloodshot and watery gray, and

its fleshy nose was large and rather snoutlike.

The elf took absolutely no notice of Harry and the

rest. Acting as though it could not see them, it

shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly, toward

the far end of the room, muttering under its breath all

the while in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog’s, “…

Smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she’s

no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats

messing up my Mistress’s house, oh my poor

Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they’ve let

in her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh

the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and

traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he

do...”

“Hello, Kreacher,” said Fred very loudly, closing the

door with a snap.

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The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, and then gave a very pronounced and very

unconvincing start of surprise.

“Kreacher did not see Young Master,” he said, turning

around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he

added, perfectly audibly, “Nasty little brat of a blood

traitor it is.”

“Sorry?” said George. “Didn’t catch that last bit.”

“Kreacher said nothing,” said the elf, with a second

bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, “and

there’s its twin, unnatural little beasts they are.”

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not. The elf

straightened up, eyeing them all very malevolently,

and apparently convinced that they could not hear

him as he continued to mutter.

“… and there’s the Mudblood, standing there bold as

brass, oh if my Mistress knew, oh how she’d cry, and

there’s a new boy, Kreacher doesn’t know his name,

what is he doing here, Kreacher doesn’t know …”

“This is Harry, Kreacher,” said Hermione tentatively.

“Harry Potter.”

Kreacher’s pale eyes widened and he muttered faster

and more furiously than ever.

“The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she

is my friend, if Kreacher’s Mistress saw him in such

company, oh what would she say —”

“Don’t call her a Mudblood!” said Ron and Ginny

together, very angrily.

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“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione whispered, “he’s not in his right mind, he doesn’t know what he’s —”

“Don’t kid yourself, Hermione, he knows exactly what

he’s saying,” said Fred, eyeing Kreacher with great

dislike.

Kreacher was still muttering, his eyes on Harry.

“Is it true? Is it Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the

scar, it must be true, that’s that boy who stopped the

Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it —”

“Don’t we all, Kreacher?” said Fred.

“What do you want anyway?” George asked.

Kreacher’s huge eyes darted onto George.

“Kreacher is cleaning,” he said evasively.

“A likely story,” said a voice behind Harry.

Sirius had come back; he was glowering at the elf

from the doorway. The noise in the hall had abated;

perhaps Mrs. Weasley and Mundungus had moved

their argument down into the kitchen. At the sight of

Sirius, Kreacher flung himself into a ridiculously low

bow that flattened his snoutlike nose on the floor.

“Stand up straight,” said Sirius impatiently. “Now,

what are you up to?”

“Kreacher is cleaning,” the elf repeated. “Kreacher

lives to serve the noble house of Black —”

“— and it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy,” said

Sirius.

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“Master always liked his little joke,” said Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone,

“Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his

mother’s heart —”

“My mother didn’t have a heart, Kreacher,” Sirius

snapped. “She kept herself alive out of pure spite.”

Kreacher bowed again and said, “Whatever Master

says,” then muttered furiously, “Master is not fit to

wipe slime from his mother’s boots, oh my poor

Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher

serving him, how she hated him, what a

disappointment he was —”

“I asked you what you were up to,” said Sirius coldly.

“Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning,

you sneak something off to your room so we can’t

throw it out.”

“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper

place in Master’s house,” said the elf, then muttered

very fast, “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if

the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it’s been

in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not

let Master and the blood traitors and the brats

destroy it —”

“I thought it might be that,” said Sirius, casting a

disdainful look at the opposite wall. “She’ll have put

another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it,

I don’t doubt, but if I can get rid of it I certainly will.

Now go away, Kreacher.”

It seemed that Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct

order; nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he

shuffled out past him was redolent of deepest loathing

and he muttered all the way out of the room.

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“— comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher

around, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if

she saw the house now, scum living in it, her

treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of

hers and he’s back, they say he’s a murderer too —”

“Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!” said Sirius

irritably, and he slammed the door shut on the elf.

“Sirius, he’s not right in the head,” said Hermione

pleadingly, “I don’t think he realizes we can hear

him.”

“He’s been alone too long,” said Sirius, “taking mad

orders from my mother’s portrait and talking to

himself, but he was always a foul little —”

“If you just set him free,” said Hermione hopefully,

“maybe —”

“We can’t set him free, he knows too much about the

Order,” said Sirius curtly. “And anyway, the shock

would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this

house, see how he takes it.”

Sirius walked across the room, where the tapestry

Kreacher had been trying to protect hung the length

of the wall. Harry and the others followed.

The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded and

looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places;

nevertheless, the golden thread with which it was

embroidered still glinted brightly enough to show

them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as

Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at

the very top of the tapestry read:

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK

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“TOUJOURS PUR”

“You’re not on here!” said Harry, after scanning the

bottom of the tree.

“I used to be there,” said Sirius, pointing at a small,

round, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a

cigarette burn. “My sweet old mother blasted me off

after I ran away from home — Kreacher’s quite fond of

muttering the story under his breath.”

“You ran away from home?”

“When I was about sixteen,” said Sirius. “I’d had

enough.”

“Where did you go?” asked Harry, staring at him.

“Your dad’s place,” said Sirius. “Your grandparents

were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a

second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad’s during

the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen I

got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me

a decent bit of gold — he’s been wiped off here too,

that’s probably why — anyway, after that I looked

after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs.

Potter’s for Sunday lunch, though.”

“But … why did you … ?”

“Leave?” Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand

through his long, unkempt hair. “Because I hated the

whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood

mania, convinced that to be a Black made you

practically royal … my idiot brother, soft enough to

believe them … that’s him.”

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Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name REGULUS BLACK. A date of death (some

fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.

“He was younger than me,” said Sirius, “and a much

better son, as I was constantly reminded.”

“But he died,” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “Stupid idiot … he joined the

Death Eaters.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Come on, Harry, haven’t you seen enough of this

house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?”

said Sirius testily.

“Were — were your parents Death Eaters as well?”

“No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had

the right idea, they were all for the purification of the

Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and

having purebloods in charge. They weren’t alone

either, there were quite a few people, before

Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he

had the right idea about things... They got cold feet

when they saw what he was prepared to do to get

power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus

was a right little hero for joining up at first.”

“Was he killed by an Auror?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Oh no,” said Sirius. “No, he was murdered by

Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely, I

doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed

by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after

he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he

was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you

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don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It’s a lifetime of service or death.”

“Lunch,” said Mrs. Weasley’s voice.

She was holding her wand high in front of her,

balancing a huge tray loaded with sandwiches and

cake on its tip. She was very red in the face and still

looked angry. The others moved over to her, eager for

some food, but Harry remained with Sirius, who had

bent closer to the tapestry.

“I haven’t looked at this for years. There’s Phineas

Nigellus … my great-great-grandfather, see? Least

popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had … and

Araminta Meliflua … cousin of my mother’s … tried to

force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting

legal … and dear Aunt Elladora … she started the

family tradition of beheading house-elves when they

got too old to carry tea trays … of course, anytime the

family produced someone halfway decent they were

disowned. I see Tonks isn’t on here. Maybe that’s why

Kreacher won’t take orders from her — he’s supposed

to do whatever anyone in the family asks him...”

“You and Tonks are related?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Oh yeah, her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite

cousin,” said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully.

“No, Andromeda’s not on here either, look —”

He pointed to another small round burn mark

between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

“Andromeda’s sisters are still here because they made

lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but

Andromeda married a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks, so —”

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Sirius mimed blasting the tapestry with a wand and

laughed sourly. Harry, however, did not laugh; he was

too busy staring at the names to the right of

Andromeda’s burn mark. A double line of gold

embroidery linked Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy,

and a single vertical gold line from their names led to

the name Draco.

“You’re related to the Malfoys!”

“The pure-blood families are all interrelated,” said

Sirius. “If you’re only going to let your sons and

daughters marry purebloods your choice is very

limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are

cousins by marriage and Arthur’s something like my

second cousin once removed. But there’s no point

looking for them on here — if ever a family was a

bunch of blood traitors it’s the Weasleys.”

But Harry was now looking at the name to the left of

Andromeda’s burn: Bellatrix Black, which was

connected by a double line to Rodolphus Lestrange.

“Lestrange …” Harry said aloud. The name had

stirred something in his memory; he knew it from

somewhere, but for a moment he couldn’t think

where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation

in the pit of his stomach.

“They’re in Azkaban,” said Sirius shortly.

Harry looked at him curiously.

“Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with

Barty Crouch, Junior,” said Sirius in the same

brusque voice. “Rodolphus’s brother, Rabastan, was

with them too.”

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And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix

Lestrange inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the strange

device in which thoughts and memories could be

stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes,

who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her

continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride

that she had tried to find him after his downfall and

her conviction that she would one day be rewarded

for her loyalty.

“You never said she was your —”

“Does it matter if she’s my cousin?” snapped Sirius.

“As far as I’m concerned, they’re not my family. She’s

certainly not my family. I haven’t seen her since I was

your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in

to Azkaban. D’you think I’m proud of having relatives

like her?”

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly, “I didn’t mean — I was

just surprised, that’s all —”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t apologize,” Sirius mumbled at

once. He turned away from the tapestry, his hands

deep in his pockets. “I don’t like being back here,” he

said, staring across the drawing room. “I never

thought I’d be stuck in this house again.”

Harry understood completely. He knew how he would

feel if forced, when he was grown up and thought he

was free of the place forever, to return and live at

number four, Privet Drive.

“It’s ideal for headquarters, of course,” Sirius said.

“My father put every security measure known to

Wizard-kind on it when he lived here. It’s Unplottable,

so Muggles could never come and call — as if they’d

have wanted to — and now Dumbledore’s added his

protection, you’d be hard put to find a safer house

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anywhere. Dumbledore’s Secret-Keeper for the Order,

you know — nobody can find headquarters unless he

tells them personally where it is — that note Moody

showed you last night, that was from Dumbledore...”

Sirius gave a short, barklike laugh. “If my parents

could see the use it was being put to now … well, my

mother’s portrait should give you some idea...”

He scowled for a moment, then sighed.

“I wouldn’t mind if I could just get out occasionally

and do something useful. I’ve asked Dumbledore

whether I can escort you to your hearing — as

Snuffles, obviously — so I can give you a bit of moral

support, what d’you think?”

Harry felt as though his stomach had sunk through

the dusty carpet. He had not thought about the

hearing once since dinner the previous evening; in the

excitement of being back with the people he liked

best, of hearing everything that was going on, it had

completely flown his mind. At Sirius’s words,

however, the crushing sense of dread returned to

him. He stared at Hermione and the Weasleys, all

tucking into their sandwiches, and thought how he

would feel if they went back to Hogwarts without him.

“Don’t worry,” Sirius said. Harry looked up and

realized that Sirius had been watching him. “I’m sure

they’re going to clear you, there’s definitely something

in the International Statute of Secrecy about being

allowed to use magic to save your own life.”

“But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I

come back here and live with you?”

Sirius smiled sadly.

“We’ll see.”

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“I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him.

“They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said

Sirius gloomily.

“Hurry up, you two, or there won’t be any food left,”

Mrs. Weasley called.

Sirius heaved another great sigh, cast a dark look at

the tapestry, and he and Harry went to join the

others.

Harry tried his best not to think about the hearing

while they emptied the glass cabinets that afternoon.

Fortunately for him, it was a job that required a lot of

concentration, as many of the objects in there seemed

very reluctant to leave their dusty shelves. Sirius

sustained a bad bite from a silver snuffbox; within

seconds, his bitten hand had developed an

unpleasant crusty covering like a tough brown glove.

“It’s okay,” he said, examining the hand with interest

before tapping it lightly with his wand and restoring

its skin to normal, “must be Wartcap powder in

there.”

He threw the box aside into the sack where they were

depositing the debris from the cabinets; Harry saw

George wrap his own hand carefully in a cloth

moments later and sneak the box into his already

doxy-filled pocket.

They found an unpleasant-looking silver instrument,

something like a many-legged pair of tweezers, which

scuttled up Harry’s arm like a spider when he picked

it up, and attempted to puncture his skin; Sirius

seized it and smashed it with a heavy book entitled

Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. There was a

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musical box that emitted a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and they all found themselves

becoming curiously weak and sleepy until Ginny had

the sense to slam the lid shut; also a heavy locket

that none of them could open, a number of ancient

seals and, in a dusty box, an Order of Merlin, First

Class, that had been awarded to Sirius’s grandfather

for “Services to the Ministry.”

“It means he gave them a load of gold,” said Sirius

contemptuously, throwing the medal into the rubbish

sack.

Several times, Kreacher sidled into the room and

attempted to smuggle things away under his

loincloth, muttering horrible curses every time they

caught him at it. When Sirius wrested a large golden

ring bearing the Black crest from his grip Kreacher

actually burst into furious tears and left the room

sobbing under his breath and calling Sirius names

Harry had never heard before.

“It was my father’s,” said Sirius, throwing the ring

into the sack. “Kreacher wasn’t quite as devoted to

him as to my mother, but I still caught him snogging

a pair of my father’s old trousers last week.”

Mrs. Weasley kept them all working very hard over

the next few days. The drawing room took three days

to decontaminate; finally the only undesirable things

left in it were the tapestry of the Black family tree,

which resisted all their attempts to remove it from the

wall, and the rattling writing desk; Moody had not

dropped by headquarters yet, so they could not be

sure what was inside it.

They moved from the drawing room to a dining room

on the ground floor where they found spiders large as

saucers lurking in the dresser (Ron left the room

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hurriedly to make a cup of tea and did not return for an hour and a half). The china, which bore the Black

crest and motto, was all thrown unceremoniously into

a sack by Sirius, and the same fate met a set of old

photographs in tarnished silver frames, all of whose

occupants squealed shrilly as the glass covering them

smashed.

Snape might refer to their work as “cleaning,” but in

Harry’s opinion they were really waging war on the

house, which was putting up a very good fight, aided

and abetted by Kreacher. The house-elf kept

appearing wherever they were congregated, his

muttering becoming more and more offensive as he

attempted to remove anything he could from the

rubbish sacks. Sirius went as far as to threaten him

with clothes, but Kreacher fixed him with a watery

stare and said, “Master must do as Master wishes,”

before turning away and muttering very loudly, “but

Master will not turn Kreacher away, no, because

Kreacher knows what they are up to, oh yes, he is

plotting against the Dark Lord, yes, with these

Mudbloods and traitors and scum...”

At which Sirius, ignoring Hermione’s protests, seized

Kreacher by the back of his loincloth and threw him

bodily from the room.

The doorbell rang several times a day, which was the

cue for Sirius’s mother to start shrieking again, and

for Harry and the others to attempt to eavesdrop on

the visitor, though they gleaned very little from the

brief glimpses and snatches of conversation they were

able to sneak before Mrs. Weasley recalled them to

their tasks. Snape flitted in and out of the house

several times more, though to Harry’s relief they never

came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his

Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall,

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looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though

she also seemed too busy to linger.

Sometimes, however, the visitors stayed to help;

Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in

which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in

an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who was staying in the

house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do

mysterious work for the Order, helped them repair a

grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant

habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby.

Mundungus redeemed himself slightly in Mrs.

Weasley’s eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of

purple robes that had tried to strangle him when he

removed them from their wardrobe.

Despite the fact that he was still sleeping badly, still

having dreams about corridors and locked doors that

made his scar prickle, Harry was managing to have

fun for the first time all summer. As long as he was

busy he was happy; when the action abated, however,

whenever he dropped his guard, or lay exhausted in

bed watching blurred shadows move across the

ceiling, the thought of the looming Ministry hearing

returned to him. Fear jabbed at his insides like

needles as he wondered what was going to happen to

him if he was expelled. The idea was so terrible that

he did not dare voice it aloud, not even to Ron and

Hermione, who, though he often saw them whispering

together and casting anxious looks in his direction,

followed his lead in not mentioning it. Sometimes he

could not prevent his imagination showing him a

faceless Ministry official who was snapping his wand

in two and ordering him back to the Dursleys’ … but

he would not go. He was determined on that. He

would come back here to Grimmauld Place and live

with Sirius.

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He felt as though a brick had dropped into his

stomach when Mrs. Weasley turned to him during

dinner on Wednesday evening and said quietly, “I’ve

ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning,

Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too.

A good first impression can work wonders.”

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny all stopped

talking and looked over at him. Harry nodded and

tried to keep eating his chops, but his mouth had

become so dry he could not chew.

“How am I getting there?” he asked Mrs. Weasley,

trying to sound unconcerned.

“Arthur’s taking you to work with him,” said Mrs.

Weasley gently.

Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the

table.

“You can wait in my office until it’s time for the

hearing,” he said.

Harry looked over at Sirius, but before he could ask

the question, Mrs. Weasley had answered it.

“Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think it’s a good idea

for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I —”

“— think he’s quite right, ” said Sirius through

clenched teeth.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.

“When did Dumbledore tell you that?” Harry said,

staring at Sirius.

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“He came last night, when you were in bed,” said Mr.

Weasley.

Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork.

Harry dropped his own eyes to his plate. The thought

that Dumbledore had been in the house on the eve of

his hearing and not asked to see him made him feel,

if that were possible, even worse.

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THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Harry awoke at half-past five the next morning as

abruptly and completely as if somebody had yelled in

his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the

prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his

brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and

put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his

freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his

bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on

the wall sniggered again.

Ron was lying sprawled on his back with his mouth

wide open, fast asleep. He did not stir as Harry

crossed the room, stepped out onto the landing, and

closed the door softly behind him. Trying not to think

of the next time he would see Ron, when they might

no longer be fellow students at Hogwarts, Harry

walked quietly down the stairs, past the heads of

Kreacher’s ancestors, and into the kitchen.

He had expected it to be empty, but it was not. When

he reached the door he heard the soft rumble of

voices on the other side and when he pushed it open

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he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, and

Tonks sitting there almost as though they were

waiting for him. All were fully dressed except Mrs.

Weasley, who was wearing a quilted, purple dressing

gown. She leapt to her feet the moment he entered.

“Breakfast,” she said as she pulled out her wand and

hurried over to the fire.

“M-m-morning, Harry,” yawned Tonks. Her hair was

blonde and curly this morning. “Sleep all right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“I’ve b-b-been up all night,” she said, with another

shuddering yawn. “Come and sit down...”

She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it

in the process.

“What do you want, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley called.

“Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs?

Toast?”

“Just — just toast, thanks,” said Harry.

Lupin glanced at Harry, then said to Tonks, “What

were you saying about Scrimgeour?”

“Oh … yeah … well, we need to be a bit more careful,

he’s been asking Kingsley and me funny questions...”

Harry felt vaguely grateful that he was not required to

join in the conversation. His insides were squirming.

Mrs. Weasley placed a couple of pieces of toast and

marmalade in front of him; he tried to eat, but it was

like chewing carpet. Mrs. Weasley sat down on his

other side and started fussing with his T-shirt,

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tucking in the label and smoothing out creases across the shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t.

“… and I’ll have to tell Dumbledore I can’t do night

duty tomorrow, I’m just t-t-too tired,” Tonks finished,

yawning hugely again.

“I’ll cover for you,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’m okay, I’ve

got a report to finish anyway...”

Mr. Weasley was not wearing wizard’s robes but a

pair of pinstriped trousers and an old bomber jacket.

He turned from Tonks to Harry.

“How are you feeling?”

Harry shrugged.

“It’ll all be over soon,” Mr. Weasley said bracingly. “In

a few hours’ time you’ll be cleared.”

Harry said nothing.

“The hearing’s on my floor, in Amelia Bones’s office.

She’s Head of the Department of Magical Law

Enforcement and she’s the one who’ll be questioning

you.”

“Amelia Bones is okay, Harry,” said Tonks earnestly.

“She’s fair, she’ll hear you out.”

Harry nodded, still unable to think of anything to say.

“Don’t lose your temper,” said Sirius abruptly. “Be

polite and stick to the facts.”

Harry nodded again.

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“The law’s on your side,” said Lupin quietly. “Even

underage wizards are allowed to use magic in life-

threatening situations.”

Something very cold trickled down the back of Harry’s

neck; for a moment he thought someone was putting

a Disillusionment Charm on him again, then he

realized that Mrs. Weasley was attacking his hair with

a wet comb. She pressed hard on the top of his head.

“Doesn’t it ever lie flat?” she said desperately.

Harry shook his head.

Mr. Weasley checked his watch and looked up at

Harry.

“I think we’ll go now,” he said. “We’re a bit early, but I

think you’ll be better off there than hanging around

here.”

“Okay,” said Harry automatically, dropping his toast

and getting to his feet.

“You’ll be all right, Harry,” said Tonks, patting him on

the arm.

“Good luck,” said Lupin. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“And if it’s not,” said Sirius grimly, “I’ll see to Amelia

Bones for you...”

Harry smiled weakly. Mrs. Weasley hugged him.

“We’ve all got our fingers crossed,” she said.

“Right,” said Harry. “Well … see you later then.”

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He followed Mr. Weasley upstairs and along the hall.

He could hear Sirius’s mother grunting in her sleep

behind her curtains. Mr. Weasley unbolted the door

and they stepped out into the cold, gray dawn.

“You don’t normally walk to work, do you?” Harry

asked him, as they set off briskly around the square.

“No, I usually Apparate,” said Mr. Weasley, “but

obviously you can’t, and I think it’s best we arrive in a

thoroughly non-magical fashion … makes a better

impression, given what you’re being disciplined for...”

Mr. Weasley kept his hand inside his jacket as they

walked. Harry knew it was clenched around his wand.

The run-down streets were almost deserted, but when

they arrived at the miserable little Underground

station they found it already full of early morning

commuters. As ever when he found himself in close

proximity to Muggles going about their daily business,

Mr. Weasley was hard put to contain his enthusiasm.

“Simply fabulous,” he whispered, indicating the

automatic ticket machines. “Wonderfully ingenious.”

“They’re out of order,” said Harry, pointing at the

sign.

“Yes, but even so …” said Mr. Weasley, beaming

fondly at them.

They bought their tickets instead from a sleepy-

looking guard (Harry handled the transaction, as Mr.

Weasley was not very good with Muggle money) and

five minutes later they were boarding an Underground

train that rattled them off toward the center of

London. Mr. Weasley kept anxiously checking and

rechecking the Underground map above the windows.

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“Four stops, Harry … three stops left now … two

stops to go, Harry …”

They got off at a station in the very heart of London,

swept from the train in a tide of besuited men and

women carrying briefcases. Up the escalator they

went, through the ticket barrier (Mr. Weasley

delighted with the way the stile swallowed his ticket),

and emerged onto a broad street lined with imposing-

looking buildings, already full of traffic.

“Where are we?” said Mr. Weasley blankly, and for

one heart-stopping moment Harry thought they had

gotten off at the wrong station despite Mr. Weasley’s

continual references to the map; but a second later he

said, “Ah yes … this way, Harry,” and led him down a

side road.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I never come by train and it all

looks rather different from a Muggle perspective. As a

matter of fact I’ve never even used the visitor’s

entrance before.”

The farther they walked, the smaller and less

imposing the buildings became, until finally they

reached a street that contained several rather

shabby-looking offices, a pub, and an overflowing

dumpster. Harry had expected a rather more

impressive location for the Ministry of Magic.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Weasley brightly, pointing at

an old red telephone box, which was missing several

panes of glass and stood before a heavily graffittied

wall. “After you, Harry.”

He opened the telephone box door.

Harry stepped inside, wondering what on earth this

was about. Mr. Weasley folded himself in beside Harry

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and closed the door. It was a tight fit; Harry was

jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was

hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal

had tried to rip it off. Mr. Weasley reached past Harry

for the receiver.

“Mr. Weasley, I think this might be out of order too,”

Harry said.

“No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Mr. Weasley, holding

the receiver above his head and peering at the dial.

“Let’s see … six …” he dialed the number, “two … four

… and another four … and another two …”

As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool

female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not

from the receiver in Mr. Weasley’s hand, but as loudly

and plainly as though an invisible woman were

standing right beside them.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your

name and business.”

“Er …” said Mr. Weasley, clearly uncertain whether he

should talk into the receiver or not; he compromised

by holding the mouthpiece to his ear, “Arthur

Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, here to

escort Harry Potter, who has been asked to attend a

disciplinary hearing...”

“Thank you,” said the cool female voice. “Visitor,

please take the badge and attach it to the front of

your robes.”

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw

something slide out of the metal chute where

returned coins usually appeared. He picked it up: It

was a square silver badge with Harry Potter,

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Disciplinary Hearing on it. He pinned it to the front of his T-shirt as the female voice spoke again.

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to

a search and present your wand for registration at the

security desk, which is located at the far end of the

Atrium.”

The floor of the telephone box shuddered. They were

sinking slowly into the ground. Harry watched

apprehensively as the pavement rose up past the

glass windows of the telephone box until darkness

closed over their heads. Then he could see nothing at

all; he could only hear a dull grinding noise as the

telephone box made its way down through the earth.

After about a minute, though it felt much longer to

Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet

and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in

the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes from

watering.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,”

said the woman’s voice.

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr.

Weasley stepped out of it, followed by Harry, whose

mouth had fallen open.

They were standing at one end of a very long and

splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor.

The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming

golden symbols that were continually moving and

changing like some enormous heavenly notice board.

The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark

wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them.

Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge

from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft

whoosh; on the right-hand side, short queues of

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wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.

Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of

golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the

middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a

noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight

up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful

witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. The last

three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and

wizard. Glittering jets of water were flying from the

ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur’s

arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and each of the

house-elf’s ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling

water was added to the pops and cracks of

Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of

witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing

glum, early-morning looks, strode toward a set of

golden gates at the far end of the hall.

“This way,” said Mr. Weasley.

They joined the throng, wending their way between

the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying

tottering piles of parchment, others battered

briefcases, still others reading the Daily Prophet as

they walked. As they passed the fountain Harry saw

silver Sickles and bronze Knuts glinting up at him

from the bottom of the pool. A small, smudged sign

beside it read:

All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will be given to

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

If I’m not expelled from Hogwarts, I’ll put in ten Galleons, Harry found himself thinking desperately.

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“Over here, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they

stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees

heading for the golden gates, toward a desk on the

left, over which hung a sign saying SECURITY. A

badly shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up

as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet.

“I’m escorting a visitor,” said Mr. Weasley, gesturing

toward Harry.

“Step over here,” said the wizard in a bored voice.

Harry walked closer to him and the wizard held up a

long golden rod, thin and flexible as a car aerial, and

passed it up and down Harry’s front and back.

“Wand,” grunted the security wizard at Harry, putting

down the golden instrument and holding out his

hand.

Harry produced his wand. The wizard dropped it onto

a strange brass instrument, which looked something

like a set of scales with only one dish. It began to

vibrate. A narrow strip of parchment came speeding

out of a slit in the base. The wizard tore this off and

read the writing upon it.

“Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use four

years. That correct?”

“Yes,” said Harry nervously.

“I keep this,” said the wizard, impaling the slip of

parchment on a small brass spike. “You get this

back,” he added, thrusting the wand at Harry.

“Thank you.”

“Hang on...” said the wizard slowly.

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His eyes had darted from the silver visitor’s badge on Harry’s chest to his forehead.

“Thank you, Eric,” said Mr. Weasley firmly, and

grasping Harry by the shoulder, he steered him away

from the desk and back into the stream of wizards

and witches walking through the golden gates.

Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr.

Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall

beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind

wrought golden grilles. Harry and Mr. Weasley joined

the crowd around one of them. A big, bearded wizard

holding a large cardboard box stood nearby. The box

was emitting rasping noises.

“All right, Arthur?” said the wizard, nodding at Mr.

Weasley.

“What’ve you got there, Bob?” asked Mr. Weasley,

looking at the box.

“We’re not sure,” said the wizard seriously. “We

thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started

breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban

on Experimental Breeding to me.”

With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in

front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry

and Mr. Weasley moved inside it with the rest of the

crowd. Harry found himself jammed against the back

wall of the lift. Several witches and wizards were

looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid

catching anyone’s eye, flattening his fringe as he did

so. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift

ascended slowly, chains rattling all the while, while

the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the

telephone box rang out again.

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“Level seven, Department of Magical Games and

Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch

League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and

Ludicrous Patents Office.”

The lift doors opened; Harry glimpsed an untidy-

looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch

teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls; one of the

wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of

broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and

disappeared down the corridor. The doors closed, the

lift juddered upward again, and the woman’s voice

said, “Level six, Department of Magical Transport,

incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom

Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation

Test Center.”

Once again the lift doors opened and four or five

witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several

paper airplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up

at them as they flapped idly around above his head;

they were a pale violet color and he could see

MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edges of

their wings.

“Just Interdepartmental memos,” Mr. Weasley

muttered to him. “We used to use owls, but the mess

was unbelievable … droppings all over the desks …”

As they clattered upward again, the memos flapped

around the swaying lamp in the lift’s ceiling.

“Level five, Department of International Magical

Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical

Trading Standards Body, the International Magical

Office of Law, and the International Confederation of

Wizards, British Seats.”

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When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed

out with a few more witches and wizards, but several

more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the

lamp in the ceiling flickered and flashed as they

darted around it.

“Level four, Department for the Regulation and

Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast,

Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and

Pest Advisory Bureau.”

“ ’S’cuse,” said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing

chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of

memos. The doors clanged shut yet again.

“Level three, Department of Magical Accidents and

Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic

Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and

Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.”

Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr.

Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an

extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing

on the ground. The remaining memos continued to

soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upward

again, and then the doors opened and the voice said,

“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement,

including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror

Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration

Services.”

“This is us, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they

followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined

with doors. “My office is on the other side of the floor.”

“Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, as they passed a window

through which sunlight was streaming, “aren’t we

underground?”

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“Yes, we are,” said Mr. Weasley, “those are enchanted windows; Magical Maintenance decide what weather

we’re getting every day. We had two months of

hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay

raise... Just round here, Harry.”

They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy

oak doors, and emerged in a cluttered, open area

divided into cubicles, which were buzzing with talk

and laughter. Memos were zooming in and out of

cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the

nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS.

Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as

they passed. The Aurors had covered their cubicle

walls with everything from pictures of wanted wizards

and photographs of their families, to posters of their

favorite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily

Prophet. A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer

than Bill’s was sitting with his boots up on his desk,

dictating a report to his quill. A little farther along, a

witch with a patch over her eye was talking over the

top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Morning, Weasley,” said Kingsley carelessly, as they

drew nearer. “I’ve been wanting a word with you, have

you got a second?”

“Yes, if it really is a second,” said Mr. Weasley, “I’m in

rather a hurry.”

They were talking to each other as though they hardly

knew each other, and when Harry opened his mouth

to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasley stood on his

foot. They followed Kingsley along the row and into

the very last cubicle.

Harry received a slight shock; Sirius’s face was

blinking down at him from every direction. Newspaper

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cuttings and old photographs — even the one of

Sirius being best man at the Potters’ wedding —

papered the walls. The only Sirius-free space was a

map of the world in which little red pins were glowing

like jewels.

“Here,” said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley,

shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand, “I need

as much information as possible on flying Muggle

vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We’ve

received information that Black might still be using

his old motorcycle.”

Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added,

in a whisper, “Give him the magazine, he might find it

interesting.” Then he said in normal tones, “And don’t

take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs

report held our investigation up for a month.”

“If you had read my report you would know that the

term is ‘firearms,’ ” said Mr. Weasley coolly. “And I’m

afraid you’ll have to wait for information on

motorcycles, we’re extremely busy at the moment.” He

dropped his voice and said, “If you can get away

before seven, Molly’s making meatballs.”

He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley’s

cubicle, through a second set of oak doors, into

another passage, turned left, marched along another

corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly

shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end,

where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom

cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished

brass plaque reading MISUSE OF MUGGLE

ARTIFACTS.

Mr. Weasley’s dingy office seemed to be slightly

smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had

been crammed inside it and there was barely room to

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move around them because of all the overflowing

filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were

tottering piles of files. The little wall space available

bore witness to Mr. Weasley’s obsessions; there were

several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled

engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to

have cut out of Muggle children’s books, and a

diagram showing how to wire a plug.

Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley’s overflowing in-tray was

an old toaster that was hiccuping in a disconsolate

way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were

twiddling their thumbs. A photograph of the Weasley

family stood beside the in-tray. Harry noticed that

Percy appeared to have walked out of it.

“We haven’t got a window,” said Mr. Weasley

apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and

placing it on the back of his chair. “We’ve asked, but

they don’t seem to think we need one. Have a seat,

Harry, doesn’t look as if Perkins is in yet.”

Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind

Perkins’s desk while Mr. Weasley rifled through the

sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given

him.

“Ah,” he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a

magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, “yes

…” He flicked through it. “Yes, he’s right, I’m sure

Sirius will find that very amusing — oh dear, what’s

this now?”

A memo had just zoomed in through the open door

and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccuping toaster.

Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, “ ‘Third

regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green,

kindly investigate immediately.’ This is getting

ridiculous...”

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“A regurgitating toilet?”

“Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning.

“We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in

Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush

and instead of everything disappearing — well, you

can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those —

those pumbles, I think they’re called — you know, the

ones who mend pipes and things —”

“Plumbers?”

“— exactly, yes, but of course they’re flummoxed. I

only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.”

“Will it be Aurors who catch them?”

“Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it’ll be the

ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol — ah,

Harry, this is Perkins.”

A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white

hair had just entered the room, panting.

“Oh Arthur!” he said desperately, without looking at

Harry. “Thank goodness, I didn’t know what to do for

the best, whether to wait here for you or not, I’ve just

sent an owl to your home but you’ve obviously missed

it — an urgent message came ten minutes ago —”

“I know about the regurgitating toilet,” said Mr.

Weasley.

“No, no, it’s not the toilet, it’s the Potter boy’s hearing

— they’ve changed the time and venue — it starts at

eight o’clock now and it’s down in old Courtroom Ten

—”

“Down in old — but they told me — Merlin’s beard —”

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Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp, and

leapt from his chair.

“Quick, Harry, we should have been there five

minutes ago!”

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as

Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry on his

heels.

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry said

breathlessly as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles;

people poked out their heads and stared as they

streaked past. Harry felt as though he had left all his

insides back at Perkins’s desk.

“I’ve no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early,

if you’d missed it it would have been catastrophic!”

Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and

jabbed impatiently at the down button.

“Come ON!”

The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside.

Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed furiously

and pummelled the number nine button.

“Those courtrooms haven’t been used in years,” said

Mr. Weasley angrily. “I can’t think why they’re doing it

down there — unless — but no …”

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the

lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did not

elaborate.

“The Atrium,” said the cool female voice and the

golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant

glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The

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plump witch got out and a sallow-skinned wizard with

a very mournful face got in.

“Morning, Arthur,” he said in a sepulchral voice as

the lift began to descend. “Don’t often see you down

here...”

“Urgent business, Bode,” said Mr. Weasley, who was

bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing

anxious looks over at Harry.

“Ah, yes,” said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly.

“Of course.”

Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his

unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more

comfortable.

“Department of Mysteries,” said the cool female voice,

and left it at that.

“Quick, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors

rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was

quite different from those above. The walls were bare;

there were no windows and no doors apart from a

plain black one set at the very end of the corridor.

Harry expected them to go through it, but instead Mr.

Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to

the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight

of steps.

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking

two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even come down

this far … why they’re doing it there …”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along

yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance

to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts,

with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The

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doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with

iron bolts and keyholes.

“Courtroom … ten … I think … we’re nearly … yes.”

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark

door with an immense iron lock and slumped against

the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest.

“Go on,” he panted, pointing his thumb at the door.

“Get in there.”

“Aren’t — aren’t you coming with — ?”

“No, no, I’m not allowed. Good luck!”

Harry’s heart was beating a violent tattoo against his

Adam’s apple. He swallowed hard, turned the heavy

iron door handle, and stepped inside the courtroom.

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THE HEARING

Harry gasped; he could not help himself. The large

dungeon he had entered was horribly familiar. He had

not only seen it before, he had been here before: This

was the place he had visited inside Dumbledore’s

Pensieve, the place where he had watched the

Lestranges sentenced to life imprisonment in

Azkaban.

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by

torches. Empty benches rose on either side of him,

but ahead, in the highest benches of all, were many

shadowy figures. They had been talking in low voices,

but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry an

ominous silence fell.

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” said Harry nervously. “I-I didn’t know the

time had changed.”

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“That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,” said the voice.

“An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your

seat.”

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of

the room, the arms of which were covered in chains.

He had seen those chains spring to life and bind

whoever sat between them. His footsteps echoed

loudly as he walked across the stone floor. When he

sat gingerly on the edge of the chair the chains

clinked rather threateningly but did not bind him.

Feeling rather sick he looked up at the people seated

at the bench above.

There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could

see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately

worked silver W on the left-hand side of the chest and

all staring down their noses at him, some with very

austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity.

In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius

Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Fudge was a portly man

who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though

today he had dispensed with it; he had dispensed too

with the indulgent smile he had once worn when he

spoke to Harry. A broad, square-jawed witch with

very short gray hair sat on Fudge’s left; she wore a

monocle and looked forbidding. On Fudge’s right was

another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the

bench that her face was in shadow.

“Very well,” said Fudge. “The accused being present

— finally — let us begin. Are you ready?” he called

down the row.

“Yes, sir,” said an eager voice Harry knew. Ron’s

brother Percy was sitting at the very end of the front

bench. Harry looked at Percy, expecting some sign of

recognition from him, but none came. Percy’s eyes,

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behind his horn-rimmed glasses, were fixed on his

parchment, a quill poised in his hand.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said

Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy began taking

notes at once, “into offenses committed under the

Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage

Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by

Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet

Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of

Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department

of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge,

Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe,

Percy Ignatius Weasley —”

“— Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric

Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice from behind

Harry, who turned his head so fast he cricked his

neck.

Dumbledore was striding serenely across the room

wearing long midnight-blue robes and a perfectly

calm expression. His long silver beard and hair

gleamed in the torchlight as he drew level with Harry

and looked up at Fudge through the half-moon

spectacles that rested halfway down his very crooked

nose.

The members of the Wizengamot were muttering. All

eyes were now on Dumbledore. Some looked annoyed,

others slightly frightened; two elderly witches in the

back row, however, raised their hands and waved in

welcome.

A powerful emotion had risen in Harry’s chest at the

sight of Dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful feeling rather

like that which phoenix song gave him. He wanted to

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catch Dumbledore’s eye, but Dumbledore was not

looking his way; he was continuing to look up at the

obviously flustered Fudge.

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly

disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You — er — got our

— er — message that the time and — er — place of

the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

“However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the

Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

“Yes — well — I suppose we’ll need another chair — I

— Weasley, could you — ?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore

pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick,

and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of

nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the

tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge

over them with an expression of polite interest. The

Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting

restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they

settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well,

then. So. The charges. Yes.”

He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile

before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The

charges against the accused are as follows: That he

did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of

the illegality of his actions, having received a previous

written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a

similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a

Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle,

on August the second at twenty-three minutes past

nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C

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of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of

Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section

thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’

Statute of Secrecy.

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet

Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at

Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for

using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes, but —”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the

second of August?” said Fudge.

“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic

outside school while you are under the age of

seventeen?”

“Yes, but —”

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?”

“Yes, but —”

“Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a

Muggle at the time?

“Yes, ” said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because

we were —”

The witch with the monocle on Fudge’s left cut across

him in a booming voice.

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“You produced a fully fledged Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “because —”

“A corporeal Patronus?”

“A — what?” said Harry.

“Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to

say, it was more than vapor or smoke?”

“Yes,” said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly

desperate, “it’s a stag, it’s always a stag.”

“Always?” boomed Madam Bones. “You have

produced a Patronus before now?”

“Yes, ” said Harry, “I’ve been doing it for over a year —

”

“And you are fifteen years old?”

“Yes, and —”

“You learned this at school?”

“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year,

because of the —”

“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at

him, “a true Patronus at that age … very impressive

indeed.”

Some of the wizards and witches around her were

muttering again; a few nodded, but others were

frowning and shaking their heads.

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,”

said Fudge in a testy voice. “In fact, the more

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impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!”

Those who had been frowning now murmured in

agreement, but it was the sight of Percy’s

sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into

speech.

“I did it because of the dementors!” he said loudly,

before anyone could interrupt him again.

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that

fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.

“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment,

raising her thick eyebrows so that her monocle looked

in danger of falling out. “What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway

and they went for me and my cousin!”

“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he

looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting

them to share the joke. “Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be

hearing something like this.”

“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said

in tones of great surprise. “I don’t understand —”

“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking. “Let

me explain. He’s been thinking it through and decided

dementors would make a very nice little cover story,

very nice indeed. Muggles can’t see dementors, can

they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient … so

it’s just your word and no witnesses...”

“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another

outbreak of muttering from the court. “There were two

of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley,

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everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt

them and ran for it —”

“Enough, enough!” said Fudge with a very

supercilious look on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt

what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed

story —”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell

silent again.

“We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of

dementors in that alleyway,” he said, “other than

Dudley Dursley, I mean.”

Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though

somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at

Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the

appearance of a man pulling himself back together,

said, “We haven’t got time to listen to more

taradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt

with quickly —”

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I

am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of

Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses

for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the

Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam

Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the

monocle.

“True,” said Madam Bones. “Perfectly true.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge. “Where is

this person?”

“I brought her with me,” said Dumbledore. “She’s just

outside the door. Should I — ?”

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“No — Weasley, you go,” Fudge barked at Percy, who

got up at once, hurried down the stone steps from the

judge’s balcony, and hastened past Dumbledore and

Harry without glancing at them.

A moment later, Percy returned, followed by Mrs.

Figg. She looked scared and more batty than ever.

Harry wished she had thought to change out of her

carpet slippers.

Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair,

conjuring a second one for himself.

“Full name?” said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had

perched herself nervously on the very edge of her

seat.

“Arabella Doreen Figg,” said Mrs. Figg in her quavery

voice.

“And who exactly are you?” said Fudge, in a bored

and lofty voice.

“I’m a resident of Little Whinging, close to where

Harry Potter lives,” said Mrs. Figg.

“We have no record of any witch or wizard living in

Little Whinging other than Harry Potter,” said Madam

Bones at once. “That situation has always been

closely monitored, given … given past events.”

“I’m a Squib,” said Mrs. Figg. “So you wouldn’t have

me registered, would you?”

“A Squib, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing her suspiciously.

“We’ll be checking that. You’ll leave details of your

parentage with my assistant, Weasley. Incidentally,

can Squibs see dementors?” he added, looking left

and right along the bench where he sat.

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“Yes, we can!” said Mrs. Figg indignantly.

Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Very well,” he said coolly. “What is your story?”

“I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop

at the end of Wisteria Walk, shortly after nine on the

evening of the second of August,” gabbled Mrs. Figg at

once, as though she had learned what she was saying

by heart, “when I heard a disturbance down the

alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria

Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I

saw dementors running —”

“Running?” said Madam Bones sharply. “Dementors

don’t run, they glide.”

“That’s what I meant to say,” said Mrs. Figg quickly,

patches of pink appearing in her withered cheeks.

“Gliding along the alley toward what looked like two

boys.”

“What did they look like?” said Madam Bones,

narrowing her eyes so that the monocle’s edges

disappeared into her flesh.

“Well, one was very large and the other one rather

skinny —”

“No, no,” said Madam Bones impatiently, “the

dementors … describe them.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Figg, the pink flush creeping up her

neck now. “They were big. Big and wearing cloaks.”

Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever Mrs. Figg said to the contrary, it sounded to

him as though the most she had ever seen was a

picture of a dementor, and a picture could never

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convey the truth of what these beings were like: the

eerie way they moved, hovering inches over the

ground, or the rotting smell of them, or that terrible,

rattling noise they made as they sucked on the

surrounding air … A dumpy wizard with a large black

mustache in the second row leaned close to his

neighbor, a frizzy-haired witch, and whispered

something in her ear. She smirked and nodded.

“Big and wearing cloaks,” repeated Madam Bones

coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively. “I see. Anything

else?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Figg. “I felt them. Everything went

cold, and this was a very warm summer’s night, mark

you. And I felt … as though all happiness had gone

from the world … and I remembered … dreadful

things...”

Her voice shook and died.

Madam Bones’ eyes widened slightly. Harry could see

red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had

dug into it.

“What did the dementors do?” she asked, and Harry

felt a rush of hope.

“They went for the boys,” said Mrs. Figg, her voice

stronger and more confident now, the pink flush

ebbing away from her face. “One of them had fallen.

The other was backing away, trying to repel the

dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and

produced silver vapor. On the third attempt, he

produced a Patronus, which charged down the first

dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased

away the second from his cousin. And that … that

was what happened,” Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat

lamely.

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Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence;

Fudge was not looking at her at all, but fidgeting with

his papers. Finally he raised his eyes and said, rather

aggressively “That’s what you saw, is it?”

“That was what happened,” Mrs. Figg repeated.

“Very well,” said Fudge. “You may go.”

Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to

Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off toward the

door again. Harry heard it thud shut behind her.

“Not a very convincing witness,” said Fudge loftily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madam Bones in her

booming voice. “She certainly described the effects of

a dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t

imagine why she would say they were there if they

weren’t —”

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and

just happening to come across a wizard?” snorted

Fudge. “The odds on that must be very, very long,

even Bagman wouldn’t have bet —”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors

were there by coincidence,” said Dumbledore lightly.

The witch sitting to the right of Fudge with her face in

shadow moved slightly, but everyone else was quite

still and silent.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” asked Fudge

icily.

“It means that I think they were ordered there,” said

Dumbledore.

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“I think we might have a record of it if someone had

ordered a pair of dementors to go strolling through

Little Whinging!” barked Fudge.

“Not if the dementors are taking orders from someone

other than the Ministry of Magic these days,” said

Dumbledore calmly. “I have already given you my

views on this matter, Cornelius.”

“Yes, you have,” said Fudge forcefully, “and I have no

reason to believe that your views are anything other

than bilge, Dumbledore. The dementors remain in

place in Azkaban and are doing everything we ask

them to.”

“Then,” said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, “we

must ask ourselves why somebody within the

Ministry ordered a pair of dementors into that

alleyway on the second of August.”

In the complete silence that greeted these words, the

witch to the right of Fudge leaned forward so that

Harry saw her for the first time.

He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She

was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little

neck as Uncle Vernon, and a very wide, slack mouth.

Her eyes were large, round, and slightly bulging. Even

the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short

curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was

about to catch on a long sticky tongue.

“The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior

Undersecretary to the Minister,” said Fudge.

The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched

voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a

croak.

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“I’m sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor

Dumbledore,” she said with a simper that left her big,

round eyes as cold as ever. “So silly of me. But it

sounded for a teensy moment as though you were

suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an

attack on this boy!”

She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the

back of Harry’s neck stand up. A few other members

of the Wizengamot laughed with her. It could not have

been plainer that not one of them was really amused.

“If it is true that the dementors are taking orders only

from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also true that two

dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago,

then it follows logically that somebody at the Ministry

might have ordered the attacks,” said Dumbledore

politely. “Of course, these particular dementors may

have been outside Ministry control —”

“There are no dementors outside Ministry control!”

snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red.

Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow.

“Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full

inquiry into why two dementors were so very far from

Azkaban and why they attacked without

authorization.”

“It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic

does or does not do, Dumbledore!” snapped Fudge,

now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would

have been proud.

“Of course it isn’t,” said Dumbledore mildly. “I was

merely expressing my confidence that this matter will

not go uninvestigated.”

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He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her

monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly.

“I would remind everybody that the behavior of these

dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this

boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!”

said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s

offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable

Restriction of Underage Sorcery!”

“Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the

presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly

relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic

may be used before Muggles in exceptional

circumstances, and as those exceptional

circumstances include situations that threaten the

life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards,

or Muggles present at the time of the —”

“We are familiar with clause seven, thank you very

much!” snarled Fudge.

“Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously.

“Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the

Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls

precisely into the category of exceptional

circumstances it describes?”

“If there were dementors, which I doubt —”

“You have heard from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore

interrupted. “If you still doubt her truthfulness, call

her back, question her again. I am sure she would not

object.”

“I — that — not —” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the

papers before him. “It’s — I want this over with today,

Dumbledore!”

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“But naturally, you would not care how many times

you heard from a witness, if the alternative was a

serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore.

“Serious miscarriage, my hat!” said Fudge at the top

of his voice. “Have you ever bothered to tot up the

number of cock-and-bull stories this boy has come

out with, Dumbledore, while trying to cover up his

flagrant misuse of magic out of school? I suppose

you’ve forgotten the Hover Charm he used three years

ago —”

“That wasn’t me, it was a house-elf!” said Harry.

“YOU SEE?” roared Fudge, gesturing flamboyantly in

Harry’s direction. “A house-elf! In a Muggle house! I

ask you —”

“The house-elf in question is currently in the employ

of Hogwarts School,” said Dumbledore. “I can

summon him here in an instant to give evidence if

you wish.”

“I — not — I haven’t got time to listen to house-elves!

Anyway, that’s not the only — he blew up his aunt,

for God’s sake!” Fudge shouted, banging his fist on

the judge’s bench and upsetting a bottle of ink.

“And you very kindly did not press charges on that

occasion, accepting, I presume, that even the best

wizards cannot always control their emotions,” said

Dumbledore calmly, as Fudge attempted to scrub the

ink off his notes.

“And I haven’t even started on what he gets up to at

school —”

“— but as the Ministry has no authority to punish

Hogwarts students for misdemeanors at school,

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Harry’s behavior there is not relevant to this inquiry,”

said Dumbledore, politely as ever, but now with a

suggestion of coolness behind his words.

“Oho!” said Fudge. “Not our business what he does at

school, eh? You think so?”

“The Ministry does not have the power to expel

Hogwarts students, Cornelius, as I reminded you on

the night of the second of August,” said Dumbledore.

“Nor does it have the right to confiscate wands until

charges have been successfully proven, again, as I

reminded you on the night of the second of August. In

your admirable haste to ensure that the law is

upheld, you appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have

overlooked a few laws yourself.”

“Laws can be changed,” said Fudge savagely.

“Of course they can,” said Dumbledore, inclining his

head. “And you certainly seem to be making many

changes, Cornelius. Why, in the few short weeks

since I was asked to leave the Wizengamot, it has

already become the practice to hold a full criminal

trial to deal with a simple matter of underage magic!”

A few of the wizards above them shifted

uncomfortably in their seats. Fudge turned a slightly

deeper shade of puce. The toadlike witch on his right,

however, merely gazed at Dumbledore, her face quite

expressionless.

“As far as I am aware, however,” Dumbledore

continued, “there is no law yet in place that says this

court’s job is to punish Harry for every bit of magic he

has ever performed. He has been charged with a

specific offense and he has presented his defense. All

he and I can do now is to await your verdict.”

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Dumbledore put his fingertips together again and said no more. Fudge glared at him, evidently incensed.

Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, seeking

reassurance; he was not at all sure that Dumbledore

was right in telling the Wizengamot, in effect, that it

was about time they made a decision. Again, however,

Dumbledore seemed oblivious to Harry’s attempt to

catch his eye. He continued to look up at the benches

where the entire Wizengamot had fallen into urgent,

whispered conversations.

Harry looked at his feet. His heart, which seemed to

have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping

loudly under his ribs. He had expected the hearing to

last longer than this. He was not at all sure that he

had made a good impression. He had not really said

very much. He ought to have explained more fully

about the dementors, about how he had fallen over,

about how both he and Dudley had nearly been

kissed...

Twice he looked up at Fudge and opened his mouth to

speak, but his swollen heart was now constricting his

air passages and both times he merely took a deep

breath and looked back at his shoes.

Then the whispering stopped. Harry wanted to look

up at the judges, but found that it was really much,

much easier to keep examining his laces.

“Those in favor of clearing the accused of all

charges?” said Madam Bones’s booming voice.

Harry’s head jerked upward. There were hands in the

air, many of them … more than half! Breathing very

fast, he tried to count, but before he could finish

Madam Bones had said, “And those in favor of

conviction?”

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Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others,

including the witch on his right and the heavily

mustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the

second row.

Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though

there was something large stuck in his throat, then

lowered his own hand. He took two deep breaths and

then said, in a voice distorted by suppressed rage,

“Very well, very well … cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore briskly, springing to his

feet, pulling out his wand, and causing the two chintz

armchairs to vanish. “Well, I must be getting along.

Good day to you all.”

And without looking once at Harry, he swept from the

dungeon.

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THE WOES OF MRS. WEASLEY

Dumbledore’s abrupt departure took Harry

completely by surprise. He remained sitting where he

was in the chained chair, struggling with his feelings

of shock and relief. The Wizengamot were all getting

to their feet, talking, and gathering up their papers

and packing them away. Harry stood up. Nobody

seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention

except the toadlike witch on Fudge’s right, who was

now gazing down at him instead of at Dumbledore.

Ignoring her, he tried to catch Fudge’s eye, or Madam

Bones’s, wanting to ask whether he was free to go,

but Fudge seemed quite determined not to notice

Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her

briefcase, so he took a few tentative steps toward the

exit and when nobody called him back, broke into a

very fast walk.

He took the last few steps at a run, wrenched open

the door, and almost collided with Mr. Weasley, who

was standing right outside, looking pale and

apprehensive.

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“Dumbledore didn’t say —”

“Cleared,” Harry said, pulling the door closed behind

him, “of all charges!”

Beaming, Mr. Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders.

“Harry, that’s wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn’t

have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even

so, I can’t pretend I wasn’t —”

But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom

door had just opened again. The Wizengamot were

filing out.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Mr. Weasley wonderingly,

pulling Harry aside to let them all pass, “you were

tried by the full court?”

“I think so,” said Harry quietly.

One or two of the passing wizards nodded to Harry as

they passed and a few, including Madam Bones, said,

“Morning, Arthur,” to Mr. Weasley, but most averted

their eyes. Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike witch

were almost the last to leave the dungeon. Fudge

acted as though Mr. Weasley and Harry were part of

the wall, but again, the witch looked almost

appraisingly at Harry as she passed. Last of all to

pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely ignored his

father and Harry; he marched past clutching a large

roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his

back rigid and his nose in the air. The lines around

Mr. Weasley’s mouth tightened slightly, but other

than this he gave no sign that he had noticed his

third son.

“I’m going to take you straight back so you can tell

the others the good news,” he said, beckoning Harry

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forward as Percy’s heels disappeared up the stairs to the ninth level. I’ll drop you off on the way to that

toilet in Bethnal Green. Come on...”

“So what will you have to do about the toilet?” Harry

asked, grinning. Everything suddenly seemed five

times funnier than usual. It was starting to sink in:

He was cleared, he was going back to Hogwarts.

“Oh, it’s a simple enough anti-jinx,” said Mr. Weasley

as they mounted the stairs, “but it’s not so much

having to repair the damage, it’s more the attitude

behind the vandalism, Harry. Muggle-baiting might

strike some wizards as funny, but it’s an expression

of something much deeper and nastier, and I for one

—”

Mr. Weasley broke off in mid-sentence. They had just

reached the ninth-level corridor, and Cornelius Fudge

was standing a few feet away from them, talking

quietly to a tall man with sleek blond hair and a

pointed, pale face.

The second man turned at the sound of their

footsteps. He too broke off in mid-conversation, his

cold gray eyes narrowed and fixed upon Harry’s face.

“Well, well, well … Patronus Potter,” said Lucius

Malfoy coolly.

Harry felt winded, as though he had just walked into

something heavy. He had last seen those cool gray

eyes through slits in a Death Eater’s hood, and last

heard that man’s voice jeering in a dark graveyard

while Lord Voldemort tortured him. He could not

believe that Lucius Malfoy dared look him in the face;

he could not believe that he was here, in the Ministry

of Magic, or that Cornelius Fudge was talking to him,

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when Harry had told Fudge mere weeks ago that

Malfoy was a Death Eater.

“The Minister was just telling me about your lucky

escape, Potter,” drawled Mr. Malfoy. “Quite

astonishing, the way you continue to wriggle out of

very tight holes... Snakelike, in fact …”

Mr. Weasley gripped Harry’s shoulder in warning.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “yeah, I’m good at escaping...”

Lucius Malfoy raised his eyes to Mr. Weasley’s face.

“And Arthur Weasley too! What are you doing here,

Arthur?”

“I work here,” said Mr. Weasley shortly.

“Not here, surely?” said Mr. Malfoy, raising his

eyebrows and glancing toward the door over Mr.

Weasley’s shoulder. “I thought you were up on the

second floor... Don’t you do something that involves

sneaking Muggle artifacts home and bewitching

them?”

“No,” said Mr. Weasley curtly, his fingers now biting

into Harry’s shoulder.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Harry asked

Lucius Malfoy.

“I don’t think private matters between myself and the

Minister are any concern of yours, Potter,” said

Malfoy, smoothing the front of his robes; Harry

distinctly heard the gentle clinking of what sounded

like a full pocket of gold. “Really, just because you are

Dumbledore’s favorite boy, you must not expect the

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same indulgence from the rest of us... Shall we go up to your office, then, Minister?”

“Certainly,” said Fudge, turning his back on Harry

and Mr. Weasley. “This way, Lucius.”

They strode off together, talking in low voices. Mr.

Weasley did not let go of Harry’s shoulder until they

had disappeared into the lift.

“Why wasn’t he waiting outside Fudge’s office if

they’ve got business to do together?” Harry burst out

furiously. “What was he doing down here?”

“Trying to sneak down to the courtroom, if you ask

me,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely agitated as

he glanced over his shoulder as though making sure

they could not be overheard. “Trying to find out

whether you’d been expelled or not. I’ll leave a note

for Dumbledore when I drop you off, he ought to

know Malfoy’s been talking to Fudge again.”

“What private business have they got together

anyway?”

“Gold, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley angrily. “Malfoy’s

been giving generously to all sorts of things for

years... Gets him in with the right people … then he

can ask favors … delay laws he doesn’t want passed

… Oh, he’s very well connected, Lucius Malfoy...”

The lift arrived; it was empty except for a flock of

memos that flapped around Mr. Weasley’s head as he

pressed the button for the Atrium and the doors

clanged shut; he waved them away irritably.

“Mr. Weasley,” said Harry slowly, “if Fudge is meeting

Death Eaters like Malfoy, if he’s seeing them alone,

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how do we know they haven’t put the Imperius Curse

on him?”

“Don’t think it hadn’t occurred to us, Harry,”

muttered Mr. Weasley. “But Dumbledore thinks

Fudge is acting of his own accord at the moment —

which, as Dumbledore says, is not a lot of comfort...

Best not talk about it anymore just now, Harry...”

The doors slid open and they stepped out into the

now almost-deserted Atrium. Eric the security man

was hidden behind his Daily Prophet again. They had

walked straight past the golden fountain before Harry

remembered.

“Wait...” he told Mr. Weasley, and pulling his money

bag from his pocket, he turned back to the fountain.

He looked up into the handsome wizard’s face, but up

close, Harry thought he looked rather weak and

foolish. The witch was wearing a vapid smile like a

beauty contestant, and from what Harry knew of

goblins and centaurs, they were most unlikely to be

caught staring this soppily at humans of any

description. Only the house-elf’s attitude of creeping

servility looked convincing. With a grin at the thought

of what Hermione would say if she could see the

statue of the elf, Harry turned his money bag upside

down and emptied not just ten Galleons, but the

whole contents into the pool at the statues’ feet.

“I knew it!” yelled Ron, punching the air. “You always

get away with stuff!”

“They were bound to clear you,” said Hermione, who

had looked positively faint with anxiety when Harry

had entered the kitchen and was now holding a

shaking hand over her eyes. “There was no case

against you, none at all...”

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“Everyone seems quite relieved, though, considering

they all knew I’d get off,” said Harry, smiling.

Mrs. Weasley was wiping her face on her apron, and

Fred, George, and Ginny were doing a kind of war

dance to a chant that went “He got off, he got off, he

got off —”

“That’s enough, settle down!” shouted Mr. Weasley,

though he too was smiling. “Listen, Sirius, Lucius

Malfoy was at the Ministry —”

“What?” said Sirius sharply.

“He got off, he got off, he got off —”

“Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to

Fudge on level nine, then they went up to Fudge’s

office together. Dumbledore ought to know.”

“Absolutely,” said Sirius. “We’ll tell him, don’t worry.”

“Well, I’d better get going, there’s a vomiting toilet in

Bethnal Green waiting for me. Molly, I’ll be late, I’m

covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in

for dinner —”

“He got off, he got off, he got off —”

“That’s enough — Fred — George — Ginny!” said Mrs.

Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen. “Harry dear,

come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate

breakfast...”

Ron and Hermione sat themselves down opposite him

looking happier than they had done since he had first

arrived at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and

Harry’s feeling of giddy relief, which had been

somewhat dented by his encounter with Lucius

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Malfoy, swelled again. The gloomy house seemed

warmer and more welcoming all of a sudden; even

Kreacher looked less ugly as he poked his snoutlike

nose into the kitchen to investigate the source of all

the noise.

“ ’Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side,

there was no way they were going to convict you,”

said Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of

mashed potatoes onto everyone’s plates.

“Yeah, he swung it for me,” said Harry. He felt that it

would sound highly ungrateful, not to mention

childish, to say, “I wish he’d talked to me, though. Or

even looked at me.”

And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead

burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it.

“What’s up?” said Hermione, looking alarmed.

“Scar,” Harry mumbled. “But it’s nothing... It happens

all the time now...”

None of the others had noticed a thing; all of them

were now helping themselves to food while gloating

over Harry’s narrow escape; Fred, George, and Ginny

were still singing. Hermione looked rather anxious,

but before she could say anything, Ron said happily,

“I bet Dumbledore turns up this evening to celebrate

with us, you know.”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley,

setting a huge plate of roast chicken down in front of

Harry. “He’s really very busy at the moment.”

“HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF —”

“SHUT UP!” roared Mrs. Weasley.

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Over the next few days Harry could not help noticing

that there was one person within number twelve,

Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed

that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Sirius had

put up a very good show of happiness on first hearing

the news, wringing Harry’s hand and beaming just

like the rest of them; soon, however, he was moodier

and surlier than before, talking less to everybody,

even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time

shut up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak.

“Don’t you go feeling guilty!” said Hermione sternly,

after Harry had confided some of his feelings to her

and Ron while they scrubbed out a moldy cupboard

on the third floor a few days later. “You belong at

Hogwarts and Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he’s

being selfish.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as

he attempted to prize off a bit of mold that had

attached itself firmly to his finger, “you wouldn’t want

to be stuck inside this house without company.”

“He’ll have company!” said Hermione. “It’s

headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn’t it? He

just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to

live here with him.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Harry, wringing out

his cloth. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer

when I asked him if I could.”

“He just didn’t want to get his own hopes up even

more,” said Hermione wisely. “And he probably felt a

bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was

really hoping you’d be expelled. Then you’d both be

outcasts together.”

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“Come off it!” said Harry and Ron together, but

Hermione merely shrugged.

“Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron’s mum’s

right, and Sirius gets confused about whether you’re

you or your father, Harry.”

“So you think he’s touched in the head?” said Harry

heatedly.

“No, I just think he’s been very lonely for a long time,”

said Hermione simply.

At this point Mrs. Weasley entered the bedroom

behind them.

“Still not finished?” she said, poking her head into the

cupboard.

“I thought you might be here to tell us to have a

break!” said Ron bitterly. “D’you know how much

mold we’ve got rid of since we arrived here?”

“You were so keen to help the Order,” said Mrs.

Weasley, “you can do your bit by making

headquarters fit to live in.”

“I feel like a house-elf,” grumbled Ron.

“Well, now that you understand what dreadful lives

they lead, perhaps you’ll be a bit more active in

S.P.E.W.!” said Hermione hopefully, as Mrs. Weasley

left them to it again. “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be

a bad idea to show people exactly how horrible it is to

clean all the time — we could do a sponsored scrub of

Gryffindor common room, all proceeds to S.P.E.W., it

would raise awareness as well as funds —”

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“I’ll sponsor you to shut up about spew, ” Ron muttered irritably, but only so Harry could hear him.

Harry found himself daydreaming about Hogwarts

more and more as the end of the holidays

approached; he could not wait to see Hagrid again, to

play Quidditch, even to stroll across the vegetable

patches to the Herbology greenhouses. It would be a

treat just to leave this dusty, musty house, where half

of the cupboards were still bolted shut and Kreacher

wheezed insults out of the shadows as you passed,

though Harry was careful not to say any of this within

earshot of Sirius.

The fact was that living at the headquarters of the

anti-Voldemort movement was not nearly as

interesting or exciting as Harry would have expected

before he’d experienced it. Though members of the

Order of the Phoenix came and went regularly,

sometimes staying for meals, sometimes only for a few

minutes’ whispered conversation, Mrs. Weasley made

sure that Harry and the others were kept well out of

earshot (whether Extendable or normal) and nobody,

not even Sirius, seemed to feel that Harry needed to

know anything more than he had heard on the night

of his arrival.

On the very last day of the holidays Harry was

sweeping up Hedwig’s owl droppings from the top of

the wardrobe when Ron entered their bedroom

carrying a couple of envelopes.

“Booklists have arrived,” he said, throwing one of the

envelopes up to Harry, who was standing on a chair.

“About time, I thought they’d forgotten, they usually

come much earlier than this...”

Harry swept the last of the droppings into a rubbish

bag and threw the bag over Ron’s head into the

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wastepaper basket in the corner, which swallowed it

and belched loudly. He then opened his letter: It

contained two pieces of parchment, one the usual

reminder that term started on the first of September,

the other telling him which books he would need for

the coming year.

“Only two new ones,” he said, reading the list. “The

Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by Miranda

Goshawk and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert

Slinkhard.”

Crack.

Fred and George Apparated right beside Harry. He

was so used to them doing this by now that he didn’t

even fall off his chair.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard

book,” said Fred conversationally.

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new

Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said George.

“And about time too,” said Fred.

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked, jumping down

beside them.

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the

Extendable Ears a few weeks back,” Fred told Harry,

“and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was

having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this

year.”

“Not surprising, is it, when you look at what’s

happened to the last four?” said George.

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“One sacked, one dead, one’s memory removed, and

one locked in a trunk for nine months,” said Harry,

counting them off on his fingers. “Yeah, I see what

you mean.”

“What’s up with you, Ron?” asked Fred.

Ron did not answer. Harry looked around. Ron was

standing very still with his mouth slightly open,

gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.

“What’s the matter?” said Fred impatiently, moving

around Ron to look over his shoulder at the

parchment.

Fred’s mouth fell open too.

“Prefect?” he said, staring incredulously at the letter.

“Prefect?”

George leapt forward, seized the envelope in Ron’s

other hand, and turned it upside down. Harry saw

something scarlet and gold fall into George’s palm.

“No way,” said George in a hushed voice.

“There’s been a mistake,” said Fred, snatching the

letter out of Ron’s grasp and holding it up to the light

as though checking for a watermark. “No one in their

right mind would make Ron a prefect...”

The twins’ heads turned in unison and both of them

stared at Harry.

“We thought you were a cert!” said Fred in a tone that

suggested Harry had tricked them in some way.

“We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!”

said George indignantly.

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“Winning the Triwizard and everything!” said Fred.

“I suppose all the mad stuff must’ve counted against

him,” said George to Fred.

“Yeah,” said Fred slowly. “Yeah, you’ve caused too

much trouble, mate. Well, at least one of you’s got

their priorities right.”

He strode over to Harry and clapped him on the back

while giving Ron a scathing look.

“Prefect … ickle Ronnie the prefect …”

“Oh, Mum’s going to be revolting,” groaned George,

thrusting the prefect badge back at Ron as though it

might contaminate him.

Ron, who still had not said a word, took the badge,

stared at it for a moment, and then held it out to

Harry as though asking mutely for confirmation that

it was genuine. Harry took it. A large P was

superimposed on the Gryffindor lion. He had seen a

badge just like this on Percy’s chest on his very first

day at Hogwarts.

The door banged open. Hermione came tearing into

the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair flying.

There was an envelope in her hand.

“Did you — did you get — ?”

She spotted the badge in Harry’s hand and let out a

shriek.

“I knew it!” she said excitedly, brandishing her letter.

“Me too, Harry, me too!”

P a g e | 208 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“No,” said Harry quickly, pushing the badge back into Ron’s hand. “It’s Ron, not me.”

“It — what?”

“Ron’s prefect, not me,” Harry said.

“Ron?” said Hermione, her jaw dropping. “But … are

you sure? I mean —”

She turned red as Ron looked around at her with a

defiant expression on his face.

“It’s my name on the letter,” he said.

“I …” said Hermione, looking thoroughly bewildered.

“I … well … wow! Well done, Ron! That’s really —”

“Unexpected,” said George, nodding.

“No,” said Hermione, blushing harder than ever, “no,

it’s not … Ron’s done loads of … he’s really …”

The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs.

Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of

freshly laundered robes.

“Ginny said the booklists had come at last,” she said,

glancing around at all the envelopes as she made her

way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into

two piles. “If you give them to me I’ll take them over to

Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while

you’re packing. Ron, I’ll have to get you more

pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I

can’t believe how fast you’re growing … what color

would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” said

George, smirking.

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“Match his what?” said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron’s

pile.

“His badge, ” said Fred, with the air of getting the

worst over quickly. “His lovely shiny new prefect’s

badge. ”

Fred’s words took a moment to penetrate Mrs.

Weasley’s preoccupation about pajamas.

“His … but … Ron, you’re not… ?”

Ron held up his badge.

Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione’s.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how

wonderful! A prefect! That’s everyone in the family!”

“What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?” said

George indignantly, as his mother pushed him aside

and flung her arms around her youngest son.

“Wait until your father hears! Ron, I’m so proud of

you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head

Boy just like Bill and Percy, it’s the first step! Oh,

what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry,

I’m just thrilled, oh Ronnie —”

Fred and George were both making loud retching

noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not

notice; arms tight around Ron’s neck, she was kissing

him all over his face, which had turned a brighter

scarlet than his badge.

“Mum … don’t … Mum, get a grip...” he muttered,

trying to push her away.

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She let go of him and said breathlessly, “Well, what

will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you’ve already

got one, of course.”

“W-what do you mean?” said Ron, looking as though

he did not dare believe his ears.

“You’ve got to have a reward for this!” said Mrs.

Weasley fondly. “How about a nice new set of dress

robes?”

“We’ve already bought him some,” said Fred sourly,

who looked as though he sincerely regretted this

generosity.

“Or a new cauldron, Charlie’s old one’s rusting

through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers —”

“Mum,” said Ron hopefully, “can I have a new

broom?”

Mrs. Weasley’s face fell slightly; broomsticks were

expensive.

“Not a really good one!” Ron hastened to add. “Just —

just a new one for a change …”

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.

“Of course you can... Well, I’d better get going if I’ve

got a broom to buy too. I’ll see you all later... Little

Ronnie, a prefect! And don’t forget to pack your

trunks... A prefect … Oh, I’m all of a dither!”

She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed

loudly, and bustled from the room.

Fred and George exchanged looks.

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“You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?”

said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.

“We could curtsy, if you like,” said George.

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron, scowling at them.

“Or what?” said Fred, an evil grin spreading across

his face. “Going to put us in detention?”

“I’d love to see him try,” sniggered George.

“He could if you don’t watch out!” said Hermione

angrily, at which Fred and George burst out laughing

and Ron muttered, “Drop it, Hermione.”

“We’re going to have to watch our step, George,” said

Fred, pretending to tremble, “with these two on our

case...”

“Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally

over,” said George, shaking his head.

And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.

“Those two!” said Hermione furiously, staring up at

the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred

and George roaring with laughter in the room

upstairs. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Ron,

they’re only jealous!”

“I don’t think they are,” said Ron doubtfully, also

looking up at the ceiling. “They’ve always said only

prats become prefects... Still,” he added on a happier

note, “they’ve never had new brooms! I wish I could go

with Mum and choose... She’ll never be able to afford

a Nimbus, but there’s the new Cleansweep out, that’d

be great... Yeah, I think I’ll go and tell her I like the

Cleansweep, just so she knows...”

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He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and

Hermione alone.

For some reason, Harry found that he did not want to

look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the

pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid upon it, and

crossed the room to his trunk.

“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively.

“Well done,” said Harry, so heartily it did not sound

like his voice at all, and still not looking at her.

“Brilliant. Prefect. Great.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione. “Erm — Harry — could I

borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They’ll be

really pleased — I mean, prefect is something they

can understand —”

“Yeah, no problem,” said Harry, still in the horrible

hearty voice that did not belong to him. “Take her!”

He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the

bottom of it, and pretended to be rummaging for

something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe

and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed;

Harry heard the door close but remained bent double,

listening; the only sounds he could hear were the

blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the

wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl

droppings.

He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione

and Hedwig had gone. Harry returned slowly to his

bed and sank onto it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of

the wardrobe.

He had forgotten completely about prefects being

chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious

P a g e | 213 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

about the possibility of being expelled to spare a

thought for the fact that badges must be winging their

way toward certain people. But if he had remembered

… if he had thought about it … what would he have

expected?

Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his

head.

Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands.

He could not lie to himself; if he had known the

prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected

it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as

arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself

superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was

better than Ron?

No, said the small voice defiantly.

Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing

his own feelings.

I’m better at Quidditch, said the voice. But I’m not

better at anything else.

That was definitely true, Harry thought; he was no

better than Ron in lessons. But what about outside

lessons? What about those adventures he, Ron, and

Hermione had had together since they had started at

Hogwarts, often risking much worse than expulsion?

Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the

time, said the voice in Harry’s head.

Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself.

They didn’t fight Quirrell with me. They didn’t take on

Riddle and the basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those

dementors the night Sirius escaped. They weren’t in

that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned...

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And the same feeling of ill usage that had

overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose

again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought

indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them!

But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe

Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because they’ve

got themselves into a load of dangerous situations...

Maybe he chooses them for other reasons... Ron must

have something you don’t...

Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers

at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering what Fred

had said.

“No one in their right mind would make Ron a

prefect...”

Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later

he felt sickened with himself.

Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the

prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he,

Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk

because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with the twins

behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the

first time, he had beaten Harry at something?

At this point Harry heard Ron’s footsteps on the stairs

again. He stood up, straightened his glasses, and

hitched a grin onto his face as Ron bounded back

through the door.

“Just caught her!” he said happily. “She says she’ll

get the Cleansweep if she can.”

“Cool,” Harry said, and he was relieved to hear that

his voice had stopped sounding hearty. “Listen — Ron

— well done, mate.”

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The smile faded off Ron’s face.

“I never thought it would be me!” he said, shaking his

head, “I thought it would be you!”

“Nah, I’ve caused too much trouble,” Harry said,

echoing Fred.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “yeah, I suppose... Well, we’d better

get our trunks packed, hadn’t we?”

It was odd how widely their possessions seemed to

have scattered themselves since they had arrived. It

took them most of the afternoon to retrieve their

books and belongings from all over the house and

stow them back inside their school trunks. Harry

noticed that Ron kept moving his prefect’s badge

around, first placing it on his bedside table, then

putting it into his jeans pocket, then taking it out and

laying it on his folded robes, as though to see the

effect of the red on the black. Only when Fred and

George dropped in and offered to attach it to his

forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm did he

wrap it tenderly in his maroon socks and lock it in his

trunk.

Mrs. Weasley returned from Diagon Alley around six

o’clock, laden with books and carrying a long package

wrapped in thick brown paper that Ron took from her

with a moan of longing.

“Never mind unwrapping it now, people are arriving

for dinner, I want you all downstairs,” she said, but

the moment she was out of sight Ron ripped off the

paper in a frenzy and examined every inch of his new

broom, an ecstatic expression on his face.

Down in the basement Mrs. Weasley had hung a

scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner table,

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which read CONGRATULATIONS RON AND

HERMIONE — NEW PREFECTS. She looked in a

better mood than Harry had seen her all holiday.

“I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down

dinner,” she told Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George,

and Ginny as they entered the room. “Your father and

Bill are on their way, Ron, I’ve sent them both owls

and they’re thrilled, ” she added, beaming.

Fred rolled his eyes.

Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt were

already there and Mad-Eye Moody stumped in shortly

after Harry had got himself a butterbeer.

“Oh, Alastor, I am glad you’re here,” said Mrs.

Weasley brightly, as Mad-Eye shrugged off his

traveling cloak. “We’ve been wanting to ask you for

ages — could you have a look in the writing desk in

the drawing room and tell us what’s inside it? We

haven’t wanted to open it just in case it’s something

really nasty.”

“No problem, Molly …”

Moody’s electric-blue eye swiveled upward and stared

fixedly through the ceiling of the kitchen.

“Drawing room …” he growled, as the pupil

contracted. “Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it... Yeah,

it’s a boggart... Want me to go up and get rid of it,

Molly?”

“No, no, I’ll do it myself later,” beamed Mrs. Weasley.

“You have your drink. We’re having a little bit of a

celebration, actually...” She gestured at the scarlet

banner. “Fourth prefect in the family!” she said

fondly, ruffling Ron’s hair.

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“Prefect, eh?” growled Moody, his normal eye on Ron

and his magical eye swiveling around to gaze into the

side of his head. Harry had the very uncomfortable

feeling it was looking at him and moved away toward

Sirius and Lupin.

“Well, congratulations,” said Moody, still glaring at

Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures always

attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you

can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have

appointed you...”

Ron looked rather startled at this view of the matter

but was saved the trouble of responding by the arrival

of his father and eldest brother. Mrs. Weasley was in

such a good mood she did not even complain that

they had brought Mundungus with them too; he was

wearing a long overcoat that seemed oddly lumpy in

unlikely places and declined the offer to remove it and

put it with Moody’s traveling cloak.

“Well, I think a toast is in order,” said Mr. Weasley,

when everyone had a drink. He raised his goblet. “To

Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!”

Ron and Hermione beamed as everyone drank to

them and then applauded.

“I was never a prefect myself,” said Tonks brightly

from behind Harry as everybody moved toward the

table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato-

red and waist length today; she looked like Ginny’s

older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain

necessary qualities.”

“Like what?” said Ginny, who was choosing a baked

potato.

“Like the ability to behave myself,” said Tonks.

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Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did

not know whether to smile or not and compromised

by taking an extra large gulp of butterbeer and

choking on it.

“What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asked, thumping

Hermione on the back.

Sirius, who was right beside Harry, let out his usual

barklike laugh.

“No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too

much time in detention with James. Lupin was the

good boy, he got the badge.”

“I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would

be able to exercise some control over my best friends,”

said Lupin. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

Harry’s mood suddenly lifted. His father had not been

a prefect either. All at once the party seemed much

more enjoyable; he loaded up his plate, feeling

unusually fond of everyone in the room.

Ron was rhapsodizing about his new broom to

anybody who would listen.

“… naught to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it?

When you think the Comet Two Ninety’s only naught

to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to

Which Broomstick?”

Hermione was talking very earnestly to Lupin about

her view of elf rights.

“I mean, it’s the same kind of nonsense as werewolf

segregation, isn’t it? It all stems from this horrible

thing wizards have of thinking they’re superior to

other creatures...”

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Mrs. Weasley and Bill were having their usual

argument about Bill’s hair.

“… getting really out of hand, and you’re so good-

looking, it would look much better shorter, wouldn’t

it, Harry?”

“Oh — I dunno —” said Harry, slightly alarmed at

being asked his opinion; he slid away from them in

the direction of Fred and George, who were huddled

in a corner with Mundungus.

Mundungus stopped talking when he saw Harry, but

Fred winked and beckoned Harry closer.

“It’s okay,” he told Mundungus, “we can trust Harry,

he’s our financial backer.”

“Look what Dung’s gotten us,” said George, holding

out his hand to Harry. It was full of what looked like

shriveled black pods. A faint rattling noise was

coming from them, even though they were completely

stationary.

“Venomous Tentacula seeds,” said George. “We need

them for the Skiving Snackboxes but they’re a Class

C Non-Tradeable Substance so we’ve been having a

bit of trouble getting hold of them.”

“Ten Galleons the lot, then, Dung?” said Fred.

“Wiv all the trouble I went to to get ’em?” said

Mundungus, his saggy, bloodshot eyes stretching

even wider. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m not taking a Knut

under twenty.”

“Dung likes his little joke,” Fred said to Harry.

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“Yeah, his best one so far has been six Sickles for a bag of knarl quills,” said George.

“Be careful,” Harry warned them quietly.

“What?” said Fred. “Mum’s busy cooing over Prefect

Ron, we’re okay.”

“But Moody could have his eye on you,” Harry pointed

out.

Mundungus looked nervously over his shoulder.

“Good point, that,” he grunted. “All right, lads, ten it

is, if you’ll take ’em quick.”

“Cheers, Harry!” said Fred delightedly, when

Mundungus had emptied his pockets into the twins’

outstretched hands and scuttled off toward the food.

“We’d better get these upstairs...”

Harry watched them go, feeling slightly uneasy. It had

just occurred to him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would

want to know how Fred and George were financing

their joke shop business when, as was inevitable,

they finally found out about it. Giving the twins his

Tri-wizard winnings had seemed a simple thing to do

at the time, but what if it led to another family row

and a Percy-like estrangement? Would Mrs. Weasley

still feel that Harry was as good as her son if she

found out he had made it possible for Fred and

George to start a career she thought quite

unsuitable?

Standing where the twins had left him with nothing

but a guilty weight in the pit of his stomach for

company, Harry caught the sound of his own name.

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice was audible even

over the surrounding chatter.

P a g e | 221 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“… why Dumbledore didn’t make Potter a prefect?”

said Kingsley.

“He’ll have had his reasons,” replied Lupin.

“But it would’ve shown confidence in him. It’s what

I’d’ve done,” persisted Kingsley, “ ’specially with the

Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days...”

Harry did not look around; he did not want Lupin or

Kingsley to know he had heard. He followed

Mundungus back toward the table, though not

remotely hungry. His pleasure in the party had

evaporated as quickly as it had come; he wished he

were upstairs in bed.

Mad-Eye Moody was sniffing at a chicken leg with

what remained of his nose; evidently he could not

detect any trace of poison, because he then tore a

strip off it with his teeth.

“… the handle’s made of Spanish oak with anti-jinx

varnish and in-built vibration control —” Ron was

saying to Tonks.

Mrs. Weasley yawned widely.

“Well, I think I’ll sort out that boggart before I turn

in... Arthur, I don’t want this lot up too late, all right?

’Night, Harry, dear.”

She left the kitchen. Harry set down his plate and

wondered whether he could follow her without

attracting attention.

“You all right, Potter?” grunted Moody.

“Yeah, fine,” lied Harry.

P a g e | 222 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Moody took a swig from his hip flask, his electric blue eye staring sideways at Harry.

“Come here, I’ve got something that might interest

you,” he said.

From an inner pocket of his robes Moody pulled a

very tattered old Wizarding photograph.

“Original Order of the Phoenix,” growled Moody.

“Found it last night when I was looking for my spare

Invisibility Cloak, seeing as Podmore hasn’t had the

manners to return my best one... Thought people

might like to see it.”

Harry took the photograph. A small crowd of people,

some waving at him, others lifting their glasses,

looked back up at him.

“There’s me,” said Moody unnecessarily, pointing at

himself. The Moody in the picture was unmistakable,

though his hair was slightly less gray and his nose

was intact. “And there’s Dumbledore beside me,

Dedalus Diggle on the other side … That’s Marlene

McKinnon, she was killed two weeks after this was

taken, they got her whole family. That’s Frank and

Alice Longbottom —”

Harry’s stomach, already uncomfortable, clenched as

he looked at Alice Longbottom; he knew her round,

friendly face very well, even though he had never met

her, because she was the image of her son, Neville.

“Poor devils,” growled Moody. “Better dead than what

happened to them … and that’s Emmeline Vance,

you’ve met her, and that there’s Lupin, obviously …

Benjy Fenwick, he copped it too, we only ever found

bits of him … shift aside there,” he added, poking the

picture, and the little photographic people edged

P a g e | 223 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

sideways, so that those who were partially obscured

could move to the front.

“That’s Edgar Bones … brother of Amelia Bones, they

got him and his family too, he was a great wizard …

Sturgis Podmore, blimey, he looks young … Caradoc

Dearborn, vanished six months after this, we never

found his body … Hagrid, of course, looks exactly the

same as ever … Elphias Doge, you’ve met him, I’d

forgotten he used to wear that stupid hat … Gideon

Prewett, it took five Death Eaters to kill him and his

brother Fabian, they fought like heroes … budge

along, budge along …”

The little people in the photograph jostled among

themselves, and those hidden right at the back

appeared at the forefront of the picture.

“That’s Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, only time I

ever met him, strange bloke … That’s Dorcas

Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally … Sirius,

when he still had short hair … and … there you go,

thought that would interest you!”

Harry’s heart turned over. His mother and father were

beaming up at him, sitting on either side of a small,

watery-eyed man Harry recognized at once as

Wormtail: He was the one who had betrayed their

whereabouts to Voldemort and so helped bring about

their deaths.

“Eh?” said Moody.

Harry looked up into Moody’s heavily scarred and

pitted face. Evidently Moody was under the

impression he had just given Harry a bit of a treat.

“Yeah,” said Harry, attempting to grin again. “Er …

listen, I’ve just remembered, I haven’t packed my …”

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He was spared the trouble of inventing an object he

had not packed; Sirius had just said, “What’s that

you’ve got there, Mad-Eye?” and Moody had turned

toward him. Harry crossed the kitchen, slipped

through the door and up the stairs before anyone

could call him back.

He did not know why he had received such a shock;

he had seen his parents’ pictures before, after all, and

he had met Wormtail … but to have them sprung on

him like that, when he was least expecting it … No

one would like that, he thought angrily...

And then, to see them surrounded by all those other

happy faces … Benjy Fenwick, who had been found in

bits, and Gideon Prewett, who had died like a hero,

and the Longbottoms, who had been tortured into

madness … all waving happily out of the photograph

forevermore, not knowing that they were doomed...

Well, Moody might find that interesting … he, Harry,

found it disturbing...

Harry tiptoed up the stairs in the hall past the stuffed

elf heads, glad to be on his own again, but as he

approached the first landing he heard noises.

Someone was sobbing in the drawing room.

“Hello?” Harry said.

There was no answer but the sobbing continued. He

climbed the remaining stairs two at a time, walked

across the landing, and opened the drawing-room

door.

Someone was cowering against the dark wall, her

wand in her hand, her whole body shaking with sobs.

Sprawled on the dusty old carpet in a patch of

moonlight, clearly dead, was Ron.

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All the air seemed to vanish from Harry’s lungs; he

felt as though he were falling through the floor; his

brain turned icy cold — Ron dead, no, it couldn’t be

—

But wait a moment, it couldn’t be — Ron was

downstairs —

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry croaked.

“R-r-riddikulus!’’ Mrs. Weasley sobbed, pointing her

shaking wand at Ron’s body.

Crack.

Ron’s body turned into Bill’s, spread-eagled on his

back, his eyes wide open and empty. Mrs. Weasley

sobbed harder than ever.

“R-riddikulus!” she sobbed again.

Crack.

Mr. Weasley’s body replaced Bill’s, his glasses askew,

a trickle of blood running down his face.

“No!” Mrs. Weasley moaned. “No … riddikulus!

Riddikulus! RIDDIKULUS!”

Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Harry …

“Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!” shouted Harry,

staring down at his own dead body on the floor. “Let

someone else —”

“What’s going on?”

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Lupin had come running into the room, closely

followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind

them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead

Harry on the floor and seemed to understand in an

instant. Pulling out his own wand he said, very firmly

and clearly, “Riddikulus!”

Harry’s body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air

over the spot where it had lain. Lupin waved his wand

once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Oh — oh — oh!” gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke

into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.

“Molly,” said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her,

“Molly, don’t …”

Next second she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin’s

shoulder.

“Molly, it was just a boggart,” he said soothingly,

patting her on the head. “Just a stupid boggart …”

“I see them d-d-dead all the time!” Mrs. Weasley

moaned into his shoulder. “All the t-t-time! I d-d-

dream about it …”

Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the

boggart, pretending to be Harry’s body, had lain.

Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He

had a funny feeling Moody’s magical eye had followed

him all the way out of the kitchen.

“D-d-don’t tell Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley was gulping

now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. “I d-

d-don’t want him to know... Being silly …”

Lupin handed her a handkerchief and she blew her

nose.

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“Harry, I’m so sorry, what must you think of me?” she said shakily. “Not even able to get rid of a boggart …”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Harry, trying to smile.

“I’m just s-s-so worried,” she said, tears spilling out of

her eyes again. “Half the f-f-family’s in the Order, it’ll

b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this... and P-

P-Percy’s not talking to us... What if something d-d-

dreadful happens and we had never m-m-made up?

And what’s going to happen if Arthur and I get killed,

who’s g-g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?”

“Molly, that’s enough,” said Lupin firmly. “This isn’t

like last time. The Order is better prepared, we’ve got

a head start, we know what Voldemort’s up to —”

Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the

sound of the name.

“Oh, Molly, come on, it’s about time you got used to

hearing it — look, I can’t promise no one’s going to get

hurt, nobody can promise that, but we’re much better

off than we were last time, you weren’t in the Order

then, you don’t understand, last time we were

outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and

they were picking us off one by one...”

Harry thought of the photograph again, of his parents’

beaming faces. He knew Moody was still watching

him.

“Don’t worry about Percy,” said Sirius abruptly. “He’ll

come round. It’s a matter of time before Voldemort

moves into the open; once he does, the whole

Ministry’s going to be begging us to forgive them. And

I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,” he added

bitterly.

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“And as for who’s going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died,” said Lupin, smiling slightly,

“what do you think we’d do, let them starve?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled tremulously.

“Being silly,” she muttered again, mopping her eyes.

But Harry, closing his bedroom door behind him

some ten minutes later, could not think Mrs. Weasley

silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him

from the tattered old photograph, unaware that their

lives, like so many of those around them, were

drawing to a close. The image of the boggart posing as

the corpse of each member of Mrs. Weasley’s family in

turn kept flashing before his eyes.

Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared

with pain again and his stomach churned horribly.

“Cut it out,” he said firmly, rubbing the scar as the

pain receded again.

“First sign of madness, talking to your own head,”

said a sly voice from the empty picture on the wall.

Harry ignored it. He felt older than he had ever felt in

his life, and it seemed extraordinary to him that

barely an hour ago he had been worried about a joke

shop and who had gotten a prefect’s badge.

P a g e | 229 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

LUNA LOVEGOOD

Harry had a troubled night’s sleep. His parents wove

in and out of his dreams, never speaking; Mrs.

Weasley sobbed over Kreacher’s dead body watched

by Ron and Hermione, who were wearing crowns, and

yet again Harry found himself walking down a

corridor ending in a locked door. He awoke abruptly

with his scar prickling to find Ron already dressed

and talking to him.

“… better hurry up, Mum’s going ballistic, she says

we’re going to miss the train...”

There was a lot of commotion in the house. From

what he heard as he dressed at top speed, Harry

gathered that Fred and George had bewitched their

trunks to fly downstairs to save the bother of carrying

them, with the result that they had hurtled straight

into Ginny and knocked her down two flights of stairs

into the hall; Mrs. Black and Mrs. Weasley were both

screaming at the top of their voices.

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“— COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY,

YOU IDIOTS —”

“— FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BESMIRCHING THE

HOUSE OF MY FATHERS —”

Hermione came hurrying into the room looking

flustered just as Harry was putting on his trainers;

Hedwig was swaying on her shoulder, and she was

carrying a squirming Crookshanks in her arms.

“Mum and Dad just sent Hedwig back” — the owl

fluttered obligingly over and perched on top of her

cage — “are you ready yet?”

“Nearly — Ginny all right?” Harry asked, shoving on

his glasses.

“Mrs. Weasley’s patched her up,” said Hermione. “But

now Mad-Eye’s complaining that we can’t leave unless

Sturgis Podmore’s here, otherwise the guard will be

one short.”

“Guard?” said Harry. “We have to go to King’s Cross

with a guard?”

“You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,”

Hermione corrected him.

“Why?” said Harry irritably. “I thought Voldemort was

supposed to be lying low, or are you telling me he’s

going to jump out from behind a dustbin to try and do

me in?”

“I don’t know, it’s just what Mad-Eye says,” said

Hermione distractedly, looking at her watch. “But if

we don’t leave soon we’re definitely going to miss the

train...”

P a g e | 231 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!”

Mrs. Weasley bellowed and Hermione jumped as

though scalded and hurried out of the room. Harry

seized Hedwig, stuffed her unceremoniously into her

cage, and set off downstairs after Hermione, dragging

his trunk.

Mrs. Black’s portrait was howling with rage but

nobody was bothering to close the curtains over her;

all the noise in the hall was bound to rouse her again

anyway.

“Harry, you’re to come with me and Tonks,” shouted

Mrs. Weasley over the repeated screeches of

“MUDBLOODS! SCUM! CREATURES OF DIRT!” “Leave

your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with

the luggage... Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sirius,

Dumbledore said no!”

A bearlike black dog had appeared at Harry’s side as

Harry clambered over the various trunks cluttering

the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh honestly …” said Mrs. Weasley despairingly,

“well, on your own head be it!”

She wrenched open the front door and stepped out

into the weak September sunlight. Harry and the dog

followed her. The door slammed behind them and

Mrs. Black’s screeches were cut off instantly.

“Where’s Tonks?” Harry said, looking around as they

went down the stone steps of number twelve, which

vanished the moment they reached the pavement.

“She’s waiting for us just up here,” said Mrs. Weasley

stiffly, averting her eyes from the lolloping black dog

beside Harry.

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An old woman greeted them on the corner. She had

tightly curled gray hair and wore a purple hat shaped

like a porkpie.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, winking. “Better hurry up,

hadn’t we, Molly?” she added, checking her watch.

“I know, I know,” moaned Mrs. Weasley, lengthening

her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted to wait for Sturgis...

If only Arthur could have got us cars from the

Ministry again … but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow

so much as an empty ink bottle these days... How

Muggles can stand traveling without magic …”

But the great black dog gave a joyful bark and

gamboled around them, snapping at pigeons, and

chasing its own tail. Harry couldn’t help laughing.

Sirius had been trapped inside for a very long time.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips in an almost Aunt

Petunia-ish way.

It took them twenty minutes to reach King’s Cross by

foot and nothing more eventful happened during that

time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry’s

entertainment. Once inside the station they lingered

casually beside the barrier between platforms nine

and ten until the coast was clear, then each of them

leaned against it in turn and fell easily through onto

platform nine and three quarters, where the Hogwarts

Express stood belching sooty steam over a platform

packed with departing students and their families.

Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his spirits

soar... He was really going back...

“I hope the others make it in time,” said Mrs. Weasley

anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron

arch spanning the platform, through which new

arrivals would come.

P a g e | 233 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Nice dog, Harry!” called a tall boy with dreadlocks.

“Thanks, Lee,” said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged

his tail frantically.

“Oh good,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved,

“here’s Alastor with the luggage, look …”

A porter’s cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes,

Moody came limping through the archway pushing a

cart full of their trunks.

“All okay,” he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks.

“Don’t think we were followed...”

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged onto the platform

with Ron and Hermione. They had almost unloaded

Moody’s luggage cart when Fred, George, and Ginny

turned up with Lupin.

“No trouble?” growled Moody.

“Nothing,” said Lupin.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” said

Moody. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in

a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” said Lupin, shaking

hands all round. He reached Harry last and gave him

a clap on the shoulder. “You too, Harry. Be careful.”

“Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,”

said Moody, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t

forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If

in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

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“It’s been great meeting all of you,” said Tonks,

hugging Hermione and Ginny. “We’ll see you soon, I

expect.”

A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the

platform started hurrying onto the train.

“Quick, quick,” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly,

hugging them at random and catching Harry twice.

“Write... Be good... If you’ve forgotten anything we’ll

send it on... Onto the train, now, hurry...”

For one brief moment, the great black dog reared onto

its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry’s

shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away

toward the train door hissing, “For heaven’s sake act

more like a dog, Sirius!”

“See you!” Harry called out of the open window as the

train began to move, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny

waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin,

Moody, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shrank rapidly but

the black dog was bounding alongside the window,

wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform were

laughing to see it chasing the train, and then they

turned the corner, and Sirius was gone.

“He shouldn’t have come with us,” said Hermione in a

worried voice.

“Oh lighten up,” said Ron, “he hasn’t seen daylight for

months, poor bloke.”

“Well,” said Fred, clapping his hands together, “can’t

stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to

discuss with Lee. See you later,” and he and George

disappeared down the corridor to the right.

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The train was gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flashed past and they

swayed where they stood.

“Shall we go and find a compartment, then?” Harry

asked Ron and Hermione.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

“Er,” said Ron.

“We’re — well — Ron and I are supposed to go into

the prefect carriage,” Hermione said awkwardly.

Ron wasn’t looking at Harry; he seemed to have

become intensely interested in the fingernails on his

left hand.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right. Fine.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to stay there all journey,” said

Hermione quickly. “Our letters said we just get

instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then

patrol the corridors from time to time.”

“Fine,” said Harry again. “Well, I-I might see you later,

then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious

look at Harry. “It’s a pain having to go down there, I’d

rather — but we have to — I mean, I’m not enjoying

it, I’m not Percy,” he finished defiantly.

“I know you’re not,” said Harry and he grinned. But

as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks,

Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off toward the

engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of

loss. He had never traveled on the Hogwarts Express

without Ron.

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“Come on,” Ginny told him, “if we get a move on we’ll be able to save them places.”

“Right,” said Harry, picking up Hedwig’s cage in one

hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They

struggled off down the corridor, peering through the

glass-paneled doors into the compartments they

passed, which were already full. Harry could not help

noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with

great interest and that several of them nudged their

neighbors and pointed him out. After he had met this

behavior in five consecutive carriages he remembered

that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all

summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered

bleakly whether the people now staring and

whispering believed the stories.

In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom,

Harry’s fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face

shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and

maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad,

Trevor.

“Hi, Harry,” he panted. “Hi, Ginny... Everywhere’s

full... I can’t find a seat...”

“What are you talking about?” said Ginny, who had

squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment

behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only

Loony Lovegood in here —”

Neville mumbled something about not wanting to

disturb anyone.

“Don’t be silly,” said Ginny, laughing, “she’s all right.”

She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside it.

Harry and Neville followed.

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“Hi, Luna,” said Ginny. “Is it okay if we take these

seats?”

The girl beside the window looked up. She had

straggly, waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale

eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a

permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why

Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The

girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it

was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her

left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to

wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she was

reading a magazine upside down. Her eyes ranged

over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded.

“Thanks,” said Ginny, smiling at her.

Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and

Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack and sat down. The

girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down

magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not

seem to need to blink as much as normal humans.

She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the

seat opposite her and now wished he had not.

“Had a good summer, Luna?” Ginny asked.

“Yes,” said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off

Harry. “Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You’re

Harry Potter,” she added.

“I know I am,” said Harry.

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes upon him

instead.

“And I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m nobody,” said Neville hurriedly.

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“No you’re not,” said Ginny sharply. “Neville

Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but

in Ravenclaw.”

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure, ” said

Luna in a singsong voice.

She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to

hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked

at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny

suppressed a giggle.

The train rattled onward, speeding them out into

open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day;

one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the

next they were passing beneath ominously gray

clouds.

“Guess what I got for my birthday?” said Neville.

“Another Remembrall?” said Harry, remembering the

marblelike device Neville’s grandmother had sent him

in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.

“No,” said Neville, “I could do with one, though, I lost

the old one ages ago... No, look at this...”

He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on

Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of

rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small

gray cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with

what looked like boils rather than spines.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia, ” he said proudly.

Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly,

giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased

internal organ.

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“It’s really, really rare,” said Neville, beaming. “I don’t know if there’s one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts,

even. I can’t wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My

great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I’m going to

see if I can breed from it.”

Harry knew that Neville’s favorite subject was

Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see

what he would want with this stunted little plant.

“Does it — er — do anything?” he asked.

“Loads of stuff!” said Neville proudly. “It’s got an

amazing defensive mechanism — hold Trevor for

me...”

He dumped the toad into Harry’s lap and took a quill

from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood’s popping eyes

appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine

again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held

the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue

between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant

a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant, thick,

stinking, dark-green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the

windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood’s magazine.

Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face

just in time, merely looked as though she was

wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands

had been busy preventing the escape of Trevor,

received a face full. It smelled like rancid manure.

Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched,

shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.

“S-sorry,” he gasped. “I haven’t tried that before...

Didn’t realize it would be quite so … Don’t worry,

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though, Stinksap’s not poisonous,” he added

nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful onto the floor.

At that precise moment the door of their compartment

slid open.

“Oh … hello, Harry,” said a nervous voice. “Um … bad

time?”

Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-

free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black

hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho

Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

“Oh … hi,” said Harry blankly.

“Um …” said Cho. “Well … just thought I’d say hello

… ’bye then.”

She closed the door again, rather pink in the face,

and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and

groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him

sitting with a group of very cool people laughing their

heads off at a joke he had just told; he would not

have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony

Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap.

“Never mind,” said Ginny bracingly. “Look, we can get

rid of all this easily.” She pulled out her wand.

“Scourgify!”

The Stinksap vanished.

“Sorry,” said Neville again, in a small voice.

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an

hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone

by. Harry, Ginny, and Neville had finished their

Pumpkin Pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate

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Frog cards when the compartment door slid open and

they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a

shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.

“I’m starving,” said Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to

Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and

throwing himself into the seat next to him. He ripped

open the wrapper, bit off the Frog’s head, and leaned

back with his eyes closed as though he had had a

very exhausting morning.

“Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each

House,” said Hermione, looking thoroughly

disgruntled as she took her seat. “Boy and girl from

each.”

“And guess who’s a Slytherin prefect?” said Ron, still

with his eyes closed.

“Malfoy,” replied Harry at once, his worst fear

confirmed.

“ ’Course,” said Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the

Frog into his mouth and taking another.

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said

Hermione viciously. “How she got to be a prefect when

she’s thicker than a concussed troll …”

“Who’s Hufflepuff?” Harry asked.

“Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron

thickly.

“And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for

Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.

“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” said a

vague voice.

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Everyone turned to look at Luna Lovegood, who was

gazing un-blinkingly at Ron over the top of The

Quibbler. He swallowed his mouthful of Frog.

“Yeah, I know I did,” he said, looking mildly

surprised.

“She didn’t enjoy it very much,” Luna informed him.

“She doesn’t think you treated her very well, because

you wouldn’t dance with her. I don’t think I’d have

minded,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t like dancing

very much.”

She retreated behind The Quibbler again. Ron stared

at the cover with his mouth hanging open for a few

seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind

of explanation, but Ginny had stuffed her knuckles in

her mouth to stop herself giggling. Ron shook his

head, bemused, then checked his watch.

“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so

often,” he told Harry and Neville, “and we can give out

punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to

get Crabbe and Goyle for something...”

“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!”

said Hermione sharply.

“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all,”

said Ron sarcastically.

“So you’re going to descend to his level?”

“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before

he gets mine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron —”

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“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates

writing,” said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to

Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look

of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I

… must … not … look … like … a … baboon’s …

backside...”

Everyone laughed, but nobody laughed harder than

Luna Lovegood. She let out a scream of mirth that

caused Hedwig to wake up and flap her wings

indignantly and Crookshanks to leap up into the

luggage rack, hissing. She laughed so hard that her

magazine slipped out of her grasp, slid down her legs,

and onto the floor.

“That was funny!”

Her prominent eyes swam with tears as she gasped

for breath, staring at Ron. Utterly nonplussed, he

looked around at the others, who were now laughing

at the expression on Ron’s face and at the ludicrously

prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who was

rocking backward and forward, clutching her sides.

“Are you taking the mickey?” said Ron, frowning at

her.

“Baboon’s … backside!” she choked, holding her ribs.

Everyone else was watching Luna laughing, but

Harry, glancing at the magazine on the floor, noticed

something that made him dive for it. Upside down it

had been hard to tell what the picture on the front

was, but Harry now realized it was a fairly bad

cartoon of Cornelius Fudge; Harry only recognized

him because of the lime-green bowler hat. One of

Fudge’s hands was clenched around a bag of gold; the

other hand was throttling a goblin. The cartoon was

captioned: How Far Will Fudge Go to Gain Gringotts?

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Beneath this were listed the titles of other articles inside the magazine.

CORRUPTION IN THE QUIDDITCH LEAGUE:

How the Tornados Are Taking Control

SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT RUNES REVEALED

SIRIUS BLACK: Villain or Victim?

“Can I have a look at this?” Harry asked Luna eagerly.

She nodded, still gazing at Ron, breathless with

laughter.

Harry opened the magazine and scanned the index;

until this moment he had completely forgotten the

magazine Kingsley had handed Mr. Weasley to give to

Sirius, but it must have been this edition of The

Quibbler. He found the page and turned excitedly to

the article.

This too was illustrated by a rather bad cartoon; in

fact, Harry would not have known it was supposed to

be Sirius if it hadn’t been captioned. Sirius was

standing on a pile of human bones with his wand out.

The headline on the article read:

SIRIUS - Black As He’s Painted?

Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing

Sensation?

Harry had to read this sentence several times before

he was convinced that he had not misunderstood it.

Since when had Sirius been a singing sensation?

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For fourteen years Sirius Black has been believed

guilty of the mass murder of twelve innocent Muggles

and one wizard. Black’s audacious escape from

Azkaban two years ago has led to the widest manhunt

ever conducted by the Ministry of Magic. None of us

has ever questioned that he deserves to be recaptured

and handed back to the dementors.

BUT DOES HE?

Startling new evidence has recently come to light that

Sirius Black may not have committed the crimes for

which he was sent to Azkaban. In fact, says Doris

Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little Norton, Black may

not even have been present at the killings.

“What people don’t realize is that Sirius Black is a

false name,” says Mrs. Purkiss. “The man people

believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby

Boardman, lead singer of the popular singing group

The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being

struck in the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little

Norton Church Hall nearly fifteen years ago. I

recognized him the moment I saw his picture in the

paper. Now, Stubby couldn’t possibly have committed

those crimes, because on the day in question he

happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner

with me. I have written to the Minister of Magic and am

expecting him to give Stubby, alias Sirius, a full pardon

any day now.”

Harry finished reading and stared at the page in

disbelief. Perhaps it was a joke, he thought, perhaps

the magazine often printed spoof items. He flicked

back a few pages and found the piece on Fudge.

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, denied that

he had any plans to take over the running of the

Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, when he was elected

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Minister of Magic five years ago. Fudge has always

insisted that he wants nothing more than to

“cooperate peacefully” with the guardians of our gold.

BUT DOES HE?

Sources close to the Minister have recently disclosed

that Fudge’s dearest ambition is to seize control of the

goblin gold supplies and that he will not hesitate to

use force if need be.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, either,” said a Ministry

insider. “Cornelius ‘Goblin-Crusher’ Fudge, that’s what

his friends call him, if you could hear him when he

thinks no one’s listening, oh, he’s always talking about

the goblins he’s had done in; he’s had them drowned,

he’s had them dropped off buildings, he’s had them

poisoned, he’s had them cooked in pies...”

Harry did not read any further. Fudge might have

many faults but Harry found it extremely hard to

imagine him ordering goblins to be cooked in pies. He

flicked through the rest of the magazine. Pausing

every few pages he read an accusation that the

Tutshill Tornados were winning the Quidditch League

by a combination of blackmail, illegal broom-

tampering, and torture; an interview with a wizard

who claimed to have flown to the moon on a

Cleansweep Six and brought back a bag of moon frogs

to prove it; and an article on ancient runes, which at

least explained why Luna had been reading The

Quibbler upside down. According to the magazine, if

you turned the runes on their heads they revealed a

spell to make your enemy’s ears turn into kumquats.

In fact, compared to the rest of the articles in The

Quibbler, the suggestion that Sirius might really be

the lead singer of The Hobgoblins was quite sensible.

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“Anything good in there?” asked Ron as Harry closed

the magazine.

“Of course not,” said Hermione scathingly, before

Harry could answer, “The Quibbler’s rubbish,

everyone knows that.”

“Excuse me,” said Luna; her voice had suddenly lost

its dreamy quality. “My father’s the editor.”

“I — oh,” said Hermione, looking embarrassed. “Well

… it’s got some interesting … I mean, it’s quite …”

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” said Luna coldly, and

leaning forward she snatched it out of Harry’s hands.

Rifling through it to page fifty-seven, she turned it

resolutely upside down again and disappeared behind

it, just as the compartment door opened for the third

time. Harry looked around; he had expected this, but

that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking

at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle

any more enjoyable.

“What?” he said aggressively, before Malfoy could

open his mouth.

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you a detention,”

drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed

chin were just like his father’s. “You see, I, unlike

you, have been made a prefect, which means that I,

unlike you, have the power to hand out

punishments.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so

get out and leave us alone.”

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Malfoy’s

lip curled.

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“Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to

Weasley, Potter?” he asked.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Hermione sharply.

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” said Malfoy,

smirking. “Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because

I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of

line.”

“Get out!” said Hermione, standing up.

Sniggering, Malfoy gave Harry a last malicious look

and departed, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering in his

wake. Hermione slammed the compartment door

behind them and turned to look at Harry, who knew

at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy

had said and been just as unnerved by it.

“Chuck us another Frog,” said Ron, who had clearly

noticed nothing.

Harry could not talk freely in front of Neville and

Luna. He exchanged another nervous look with

Hermione and then stared out of the window.

He had thought Sirius coming with him to the station

was a bit of a laugh, but suddenly it seemed reckless,

if not downright dangerous... Hermione had been

right... Sirius should not have come. What if Mr.

Malfoy had noticed the black dog and told Draco,

what if he had deduced that the Weasleys, Lupin,

Tonks, and Moody knew where Sirius was hiding? Or

had Malfoy’s use of the word “dogging” been a

coincidence?

The weather remained undecided as they traveled

farther and farther north. Rain spattered the windows

in a halfhearted way, then the sun put in a feeble

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appearance before clouds drifted over it once more.

When darkness fell and lamps came on inside the

carriages, Luna rolled up The Quibbler, put it

carefully away in her bag, and took to staring at

everyone in the compartment instead.

Harry was sitting with his forehead pressed against

the train window, trying to get a first distant glimpse

of Hogwarts, but it was a moonless night and the

rain-streaked window was grimy.

“We’d better change,” said Hermione at last. She and

Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their

chests. Harry saw Ron checking how it looked in the

black window.

At last the train began to slow down and they heard

the usual racket up and down it as everybody

scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled,

ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were

supposed to supervise all this; they disappeared from

the carriage again, leaving Harry and the others to

look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.

“I’ll carry that owl, if you like,” said Luna to Harry,

reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stowed Trevor

carefully in an inside pocket.

“Oh — er — thanks,” said Harry, handing her the

cage and hoisting Hedwig’s more securely into his

arms.

They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first

sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the

crowd in the corridor. Slowly they moved toward the

doors. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the

path down to the lake. He stepped down onto the

platform and looked around, listening for the familiar

call of “Firs’ years over here … firs’ years …”

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But it did not come. Instead a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling, “First years line up over

here, please! All first years to me!”

A lantern came swinging toward Harry and by its light

he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of

Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken

over Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a

while the previous year.

“Where’s Hagrid?” he said out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, “but we’d better get out of

the way, we’re blocking the door.”

“Oh yeah …”

Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off

along the platform and out through the station.

Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the

darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here,

Harry had been relying on it — seeing Hagrid again

had been one of the things to which he had been

looking forward most. But there was no sign of him at

all.

He can’t have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled

slowly through a narrow doorway onto the road

outside with the rest of the crowd. He’s just got a cold

or something...

He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to

know what they thought about the reappearance of

Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was

anywhere near him, so he allowed himself to be

shunted forward onto the dark rain-washed road

outside Hogsmeade station.

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Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches

that always took the students above first year up to

the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned

away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then

did a double take.

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were

creatures standing between the carriage shafts; if he

had had to give them a name, he supposed he would

have called them horses, though there was something

reptilian about them, too. They were completely

fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons,

of which every bone was visible. Their heads were

dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and

staring. Wings sprouted from each wither — vast,

black leathery wings that looked as though they

ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet

in the gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister.

Harry could not understand why the coaches were

being pulled by these horrible horses when they were

quite capable of moving along by themselves.

“Where’s Pig?” said Ron’s voice, right behind Harry.

“That Luna girl was carrying him,” said Harry,

turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid.

“Where d’you reckon —”

“— Hagrid is? I dunno,” said Ron, sounding worried.

“He’d better be okay...”

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a

small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle, and

Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking

second years out of the way so that they could get a

coach to themselves. Seconds later Hermione emerged

panting from the crowd.

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“Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first year back there, I swear I’m going to report him, he’s only had

his badge three minutes and he’s using it to bully

people worse than ever... Where’s Crookshanks?”

“Ginny’s got him,” said Harry. “There she is...”

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a

squirming Crookshanks.

“Thanks,” said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat.

“Come on, let’s get a carriage together before they all

fill up...”

“I haven’t got Pig yet!” Ron said, but Hermione was

already heading off toward the nearest unoccupied

coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.

“What are those things, d’you reckon?” he asked Ron,

nodding at the horrible horses as the other students

surged past them.

“What things?”

“Those horse —”

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon’s cage in her

arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.

“Here you are,” she said. “He’s a sweet little owl, isn’t

he?”

“Er … yeah … He’s all right,” said Ron gruffly. “Well,

come on then, let’s get in... what were you saying,

Harry?”

“I was saying, what are those horse things?” Harry

said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in

which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.

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“What horse things?”

“The horse things pulling the carriages!” said Harry

impatiently; they were, after all, about three feet from

the nearest one; it was watching them with empty

white eyes. Ron, however, gave Harry a perplexed

look.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about — look!”

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and wheeled him about so

that he was face-to-face with the winged horse. Ron

stared straight at it for a second, then looked back at

Harry.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“At the — there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the

coach! It’s right there in front —”

But as Ron continued to look bemused, a strange

thought occurred to Harry.

“Can’t … can’t you see them?”

“See what?”

“Can’t you see what’s pulling the carriages?”

Ron looked seriously alarmed now.

“Are you feeling all right, Harry?”

“I … yeah …”

Harry felt utterly bewildered. The horse was there in

front of him, gleaming solidly in the dim light issuing

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from the station windows behind them, vapor rising

from its nostrils in the chilly night air. Yet unless Ron

was faking — and it was a very feeble joke if he was —

Ron could not see it at all.

“Shall we get in, then?” said Ron uncertainly, looking

at Harry as though worried about him.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, go on …”

“It’s all right,” said a dreamy voice from beside Harry

as Ron vanished into the coach’s dark interior.

“You’re not going mad or anything. I can see them

too.”

“Can you?” said Harry desperately, turning to Luna.

He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her

wide, silvery eyes.

“Oh yes,” said Luna, “I’ve been able to see them ever

since my first day here. They’ve always pulled the

carriages. Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am.”

Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of

the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured,

Harry followed her.

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THE SORTING HAT’S NEW SONG

Harry did not want to tell the others that he and Luna

were having the same hallucination, if that was what

it was, so he said nothing about the horses as he sat

down inside the carriage and slammed the door

behind him. Nevertheless, he could not help watching

the silhouettes of the horses moving beyond the

window.

“Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?” asked

Ginny. “What’s she doing back here? Hagrid can’t

have left, can he?”

“I’ll be quite glad if he has,” said Luna. “He isn’t a

very good teacher, is he?”

“Yes, he is!” said Harry, Ron, and Ginny angrily.

Harry glared at Hermione; she cleared her throat and

quickly said, “Erm … yes … he’s very good.”

“Well, we think he’s a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw,” said

Luna, unfazed.

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“You’ve got a rubbish sense of humor then,” Ron

snapped, as the wheels below them creaked into

motion.

Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron’s rudeness; on

the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as

though he were a mildly interesting television

program.

Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy

up the road. When they passed between the tall stone

pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the

gates to the school grounds, Harry leaned forward to

try and see whether there were any lights on in

Hagrid’s cabin by the Forbidden Forest, but the

grounds were in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle,

however, loomed ever closer: a towering mass of

turrets, jet-black against the dark sky, here and there

a window blazing fiery bright above them.

The carriages jingled to a halt near the stone steps

leading up to the oak front doors and Harry got out of

the carriage first. He turned again to look for lit

windows down by the forest, but there was definitely

no sign of life within Hagrid’s cabin. Unwillingly,

because he had half hoped they would have vanished,

he turned his eyes instead upon the strange, skeletal

creatures standing quietly in the chill night air, their

blank white eyes gleaming.

Harry had once before had the experience of seeing

something that Ron could not, but that had been a

reflection in a mirror, something much more

insubstantial than a hundred very solid-looking

beasts strong enough to pull a fleet of carriages. If

Luna was to be believed, the beasts had always been

there but invisible; why, then, could Harry suddenly

see them, and why could Ron not?

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“Are you coming or what?” said Ron beside him.

“Oh … yeah,” said Harry quickly, and they joined the

crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.

The entrance hall was ablaze with torches and

echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the

flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right,

leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.

The four long House tables in the Great Hall were

filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was

just like the sky they could glimpse through the high

windows. Candles floated in midair all along the

tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were

dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students

talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer

news, shouting greetings at friends from other

Houses, eyeing one another’s new haircuts and robes.

Again Harry noticed people putting their heads

together to whisper as he passed; he gritted his teeth

and tried to act as though he neither noticed nor

cared.

Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table.

The moment they reached Gryffindor’s, Ginny was

hailed by some fellow fourth years and left to sit with

them; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville found seats

together about halfway down the table between Nearly

Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, and

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of

whom gave Harry airy, overly friendly greetings that

made him quite sure they had stopped talking about

him a split second before. He had more important

things to worry about, however: He was looking over

the students’ heads to the staff table that ran along

the top wall of the Hall.

“He’s not there.”

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Ron and Hermione scanned the staff table too, though

there was no real need; Hagrid’s size made him

instantly obvious in any lineup.

“He can’t have left,” said Ron, sounding slightly

anxious.

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Harry firmly.

“You don’t think he’s … hurt, or anything, do you?”

said Hermione uneasily.

“No,” said Harry at once.

“But where is he, then?”

There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so

that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender could not hear,

“Maybe he’s not back yet. You know — from his

mission — the thing he was doing over the summer

for Dumbledore.”

“Yeah … yeah, that’ll be it,” said Ron, sounding

reassured, but Hermione bit her lip, looking up and

down the staff table as though hoping for some

conclusive explanation of Hagrid’s absence.

“Who’s that?” she said sharply, pointing toward the

middle of the staff table.

Harry’s eyes followed hers. They lit first upon

Professor Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed

golden chair at the center of the long staff table,

wearing deep-purple robes scattered with silvery stars

and a matching hat. Dumbledore’s head was inclined

toward the woman sitting next to him, who was

talking into his ear. She looked, Harry thought, like

somebody’s maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly,

mouse-brown hair in which she had placed a horrible

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pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes. Then she turned her face

slightly to take a sip from her goblet and he saw, with

a shock of recognition, a pallid, toadlike face and a

pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.

“It’s that Umbridge woman!”

“Who?” said Hermione.

“She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!”

“Nice cardigan,” said Ron, smirking.

“She works for Fudge?” Hermione repeated, frowning.

“What on earth’s she doing here, then?”

“Dunno …”

Hermione scanned the staff table, her eyes narrowed.

“No,” she muttered, “no, surely not …”

Harry did not understand what she was talking about

but did not ask; his attention had just been caught by

Professor Grubbly-Plank who had just appeared

behind the staff table; she worked her way along to

the very end and took the seat that ought to have

been Hagrid’s. That meant that the first years must

have crossed the lake and reached the castle, and

sure enough, a few seconds later, the doors from the

entrance hall opened. A long line of scared-looking

first years entered, led by Professor McGonagall, who

was carrying a stool on which sat an ancient wizard’s

hat, heavily patched and darned with a wide rip near

the frayed brim.

The buzz of talk in the Great Hall faded away. The

first years lined up in front of the staff table facing the

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rest of the students, and Professor McGonagall placed the stool carefully in front of them, then stood back.

The first years’ faces glowed palely in the candlelight.

A small boy right in the middle of the row looked as

though he was trembling. Harry recalled, fleetingly,

how terrified he had felt when he had stood there,

waiting for the unknown test that would determine to

which House he belonged.

The whole school waited with bated breath. Then the

rip near the hat’s brim opened wide like a mouth and

the Sorting Hat burst into song:

In times of old when I was new

And Hogwarts barely started

The founders of our noble school

Thought never to be parted:

United by a common goal,

They had the selfsame yearning,

To make the world’s best magic school

And pass along their learning.

“Together we will build and teach!”

The four good friends decided

And never did they dream that they

Might someday be divided,

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffndor?

Unless it was the second pair

Of Huffepuff and Ravenclaw?

So how could it have gone so wrong?

How could such friendships fail?

Why, I was there and so can tell

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those

Whose ancestry is purest.”

Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose

Intelligence is surest.”

Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those

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With brave deeds to their name,”

Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot,

And treat them just the same.”

These differences caused little strife

When first they came to light,

For each of the four founders had

A House in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,

For instance, Slytherin

Took only pure-blood wizards

Of great cunning, just like him,

And only those of sharpest mind

Were taught by Ravenclaw

While the bravest and the boldest

Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff she took the rest,

And taught them all she knew,

Thus the Houses and their founders

Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony

For several happy years,

But then discord crept among us

Feeding on our faults and fears.

The Houses that, like pillars four,

Had once held up our school,

Now turned upon each other and,

Divided, sought to rule.

And for a while it seemed the school

Must meet an early end,

What with dueling and with fighting

And the clash of friend on friend

And at last there came a morning

When old Slytherin departed

And though the fighting then died out

He left us quite downhearted.

And never since the founders four

Were whittled down to three

Have the Houses been united

As they once were meant to be.

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And now the Sorting Hat is here

And you all know the score:

I sort you into Houses

Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,

Listen closely to my song:

Though condemned I am to split you

Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfill my duty

And must quarter every year

Still I wonder whether sorting

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From external, deadly foes

And we must unite inside her

Or we’ll crumble from within.

I have told you, I have warned you…

Let the Sorting now begin.

The hat became motionless once more; applause

broke out, though it was punctured, for the first time

in Harry’s memory, with muttering and whispers. All

across the Great Hall students were exchanging

remarks with their neighbors and Harry, clapping

along with everyone else, knew exactly what they were

talking about.

“Branched out a bit this year, hasn’t it?” said Ron, his

eyebrows raised.

“Too right it has,” said Harry.

The Sorting Hat usually confined itself to describing

the different qualities looked for by each of the four

Hogwarts Houses and its own role in sorting them;

Harry could not remember it ever trying to give the

school advice before.

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“I wonder if it’s ever given warnings before?” said

Hermione, sounding slightly anxious.

“Yes, indeed,” said Nearly Headless Nick

knowledgeably, leaning across Neville toward her

(Neville winced, it was very uncomfortable to have a

ghost lean through you). “The hat feels itself honor-

bound to give the school due warning whenever it

feels —”

But Professor McGonagall, who was waiting to read

out the list of first years’ names, was giving the

whispering students the sort of look that scorches.

Nearly Headless Nick placed a see-through finger to

his lips and sat primly upright again as the muttering

came to an abrupt end. With a last frowning look that

swept the four House tables, Professor McGonagall

lowered her eyes to her long piece of parchment and

called out,

“Abercrombie, Euan.”

The terrified-looking boy Harry had noticed earlier

stumbled forward and put the hat on his head; it was

only prevented from falling right down to his

shoulders by his very prominent ears. The hat

considered for a moment, then the rip near the brim

opened again and shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry clapped loudly with the rest of Gryffindor

House as Euan Abercrombie staggered to their table

and sat down, looking as though he would like very

much to sink through the floor and never be looked at

again.

Slowly the long line of first years thinned; in the

pauses between the names and the Sorting Hat’s

decisions, Harry could hear Ron’s stomach rumbling

loudly. Finally, “Zeller, Rose” was sorted into

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Hufflepuff, and Professor McGonagall picked up the

hat and stool and marched them away as Professor

Dumbledore rose to his feet.

Harry was somehow soothed to see Dumbledore

standing before them all, whatever his recent bitter

feelings toward his headmaster. Between the absence

of Hagrid and the presence of those dragonish horses,

he had felt that his return to Hogwarts, so long

anticipated, was full of unexpected surprises like

jarring notes in a familiar song. But this, at least, was

how it was supposed to be: their headmaster rising to

greet them all before the start-of-term feast.

“To our newcomers,” said Dumbledore in a ringing

voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile

on his lips, “welcome! To our old hands — welcome

back! There is a time for speech making, but this is

not it. Tuck in!”

There was an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of

applause as Dumbledore sat down neatly and threw

his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of

the way of his plate — for food had appeared out of

nowhere, so that the five long tables were groaning

under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread,

sauces, and flagons of pumpkin juice.

“Excellent,” said Ron, with a kind of groan of longing,

and he seized the nearest plate of chops and began

piling them onto his plate, watched wistfully by

Nearly Headless Nick.

“What were you saying before the Sorting?” Hermione

asked the ghost. “About the hat giving warnings?”

“Oh yes,” said Nick, who seemed glad of a reason to

turn away from Ron, who was now eating roast

potatoes with almost indecent enthusiasm. “Yes, I

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have heard the hat give several warnings before,

always at times when it detects periods of great

danger for the school. And always, of course, its

advice is the same: Stand together, be strong from

within.”

“Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?” said Ron.

His mouth was so full Harry thought it was quite an

achievement for him to make any noise at all.

“I beg your pardon?” said Nearly Headless Nick

politely, while Hermione looked revolted. Ron gave an

enormous swallow and said, “How can it know if the

school’s in danger if it’s a hat?”

“I have no idea,” said Nearly Headless Nick. “Of

course, it lives in Dumbledore’s office, so I daresay it

picks things up there.”

“And it wants all the Houses to be friends?” said

Harry, looking over at the Slytherin table, where

Draco Malfoy was holding court. “Fat chance.”

“Well, now, you shouldn’t take that attitude,” said

Nick reprovingly. “Peaceful cooperation, that’s the

key. We ghosts, though we belong to separate Houses,

maintain links of friendship. In spite of the

competitiveness between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I

would never dream of seeking an argument with the

Bloody Baron.”

“Only because you’re terrified of him,” said Ron.

Nearly Headless Nick looked highly affronted.

“Terrified? I hope I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-

Porpington, have never been guilty of cowardice in my

life! The noble blood that runs in my veins —”

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“What blood?” asked Ron. “Surely you haven’t still got

— ?”

“It’s a figure of speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick,

now so annoyed his head was trembling ominously on

his partially severed neck. “I assume I am still allowed

to enjoy the use of whichever words I like, even if the

pleasures of eating and drinking are denied me! But I

am quite used to students poking fun at my death, I

assure you!”

“Nick, he wasn’t really laughing at you!” said

Hermione, throwing a furious look at Ron.

Unfortunately, Ron’s mouth was packed to exploding

point again and all he could manage was “node

iddum eentup sechew,” which Nick did not seem to

think constituted an adequate apology. Rising into

the air, he straightened his feathered hat and swept

away from them to the other end of the table, coming

to rest between the Creevey brothers, Colin and

Dennis.

“Well done, Ron,” snapped Hermione.

“What?” said Ron indignantly, having managed,

finally, to swallow his food. “I’m not allowed to ask a

simple question?”

“Oh forget it,” said Hermione irritably, and the pair of

them spent the rest of the meal in huffy silence.

Harry was too used to their bickering to bother trying

to reconcile them; he felt it was a better use of his

time to eat his way steadily through his steak-and-

kidney pie, then a large plateful of his favorite treacle

tart.

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When all the students had finished eating and the

noise level in the hall was starting to creep upward

again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking

ceased immediately as all turned to face the

headmaster. Harry was feeling pleasantly drowsy

now. His four-poster bed was waiting somewhere

above, wonderfully warm and soft...

“Well, now that we are all digesting another

magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your

attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” said

Dumbledore. “First years ought to know that the

forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students —

and a few of our older students ought to know by now

too.” (Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged smirks.)

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he

tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to

remind you all that magic is not permitted in

corridors between classes, nor are a number of other

things, all of which can be checked on the extensive

list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door.

“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We

are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-

Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures

lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor

Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher.”

There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic

applause during which Harry, Ron, and Hermione

exchanged slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore had

not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be

teaching.

Dumbledore continued, “Tryouts for the House

Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

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He broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor

Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than

sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood

why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then

Professor Umbridge said, “Hem, hem, ” and it became

clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to

make a speech.

Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment,

then he sat back down smartly and looked alertly at

Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing

better than to listen to her talk. Other members of

staff were not as adept at hiding their surprise.

Professor Sprout’s eyebrows had disappeared into her

flyaway hair, and Professor McGonagall’s mouth was

as thin as Harry had ever seen it. No new teacher had

ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the

students were smirking; this woman obviously did not

know how things were done at Hogwarts.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge

simpered, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish

and again, Harry felt a powerful rush of dislike that

he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that

he loathed everything about her, from her stupid

voice to her fluffy pink cardigan. She gave another

little throat-clearing cough (“Hem, hem”) and

continued: “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I

must say!” She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth.

“And to see such happy little faces looking back at

me!”

Harry glanced around. None of the faces he could see

looked happy; on the contrary, they all looked rather

taken aback at being addressed as though they were

five years old.

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“I am very much looking forward to getting to know

you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Students exchanged looks at this; some of them were

barely concealing grins.

“I’ll be her friend as long as I don’t have to borrow

that cardigan,” Parvati whispered to Lavender, and

both of them lapsed into silent giggles.

Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again (“Hem,

hem”), but when she continued, some of the

breathiness had vanished from her voice. She

sounded much more businesslike and now her words

had a dull learned-by-heart sound to them.

“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the

education of young witches and wizards to be of vital

importance. The rare gifts with which you were born

may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by

careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the

Wizarding community must be passed down through

the generations lest we lose them forever. The

treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our

ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished

by those who have been called to the noble profession

of teaching.”

Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little

bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed

back. Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows had

contracted so that she looked positively hawklike, and

Harry distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance

with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little

“Hem, hem” and went on with her speech.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has

brought something new to the weighty task of

governing this historic school, and that is as it should

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be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must

be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions

often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between

old and new, between permanence and change,

between tradition and innovation …”

Harry found his attentiveness ebbing, as though his

brain was slipping in and out of tune. The quiet that

always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking

was breaking up as students put their heads

together, whispering and giggling. Over at the

Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang was chatting animatedly

with her friends. A few seats along from Cho, Luna

Lovegood had got out The Quibbler again. Meanwhile

at the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan was one of

the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he was

glassy-eyed and Harry was sure he was only

pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the

new prefect’s badge gleaming on his chest.

Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the

restlessness of her audience. Harry had the

impression that a full-scale riot could have broken

out under her nose and she would have plowed on

with her speech. The teachers, however, were still

listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be

drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though

judging by her expression, they were not at all to her

taste.

“… because some changes will be for the better, while

others will come, in the fullness of time, to be

recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some

old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas

others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned.

Let us move forward, then, into a new era of

openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on

preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting

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what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we

find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed

his lead, though Harry noticed that several of them

brought their hands together only once or twice

before stopping. A few students joined in, but most

had been taken unawares by the end of the speech,

not having listened to more than a few words of it,

and before they could start applauding properly,

Dumbledore had stood up again.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was

most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now — as

I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held …”

“Yes, it certainly was illuminating,” said Hermione in

a low voice.

“You’re not telling me you enjoyed it?” Ron said

quietly, turning a glazed face upon Hermione. “That

was about the dullest speech I’ve ever heard, and I

grew up with Percy.”

“I said illuminating, not enjoyable,” said Hermione. “It

explained a lot.”

“Did it?” said Harry in surprise. “Sounded like a load

of waffle to me.”

“There was some important stuff hidden in the

waffle,” said Hermione grimly.

“Was there?” said Ron blankly.

“How about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be

discouraged’? How about ‘pruning wherever we find

practices that ought to be prohibited’?”

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“Well, what does that mean?” said Ron impatiently.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said Hermione ominously.

“It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts.”

There was a great clattering and banging all around

them; Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the

school, because everyone was standing up ready to

leave the Hall. Hermione jumped up, looking

flustered.

“Ron, we’re supposed to show the first years where to

go!”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, who had obviously forgotten.

“Hey — hey you lot! Midgets!”

“Ron!”

“Well, they are, they’re titchy...”

“I know, but you can’t call them midgets... First

years!” Hermione called commandingly along the

table. “This way, please!”

A group of new students walked shyly up the gap

between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of

them trying hard not to lead the group. They did

indeed seem very small; Harry was sure he had not

appeared that young when he had arrived here. He

grinned at them. A blond boy next to Euan

Abercrombie looked petrified, nudged Euan, and

whispered something in his ear. Euan Abercrombie

looked equally frightened and stole a horrified look at

Harry, who felt the grin slide off his face like

Stinksap.

“See you later,” he said to Ron and Hermione and he

made his way out of the Great Hall alone, doing

P a g e | 273 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

everything he could to ignore more whispering,

staring, and pointing as he passed. He kept his eyes

fixed ahead as he wove his way through the crowd in

the entrance hall, then he hurried up the marble

staircase, took a couple of concealed shortcuts, and

had soon left most of the crowds behind.

He had been stupid not to expect this, he thought

angrily, as he walked through much emptier upstairs

corridors. Of course everyone was staring at him: He

had emerged from the Triwizard maze two months ago

clutching the dead body of a fellow student and

claiming to have seen Lord Voldemort return to

power. There had not been time last term to explain

himself before everyone went home, even if he had felt

up to giving the whole school a detailed account of the

terrible events in that graveyard.

He had reached the end of the corridor to the

Gryffindor common room and had come to a halt in

front of the portrait of the Fat Lady before he realized

that he did not know the new password.

“Er …” he said glumly, staring up at the Fat Lady,

who smoothed the folds of her pink satin dress and

looked sternly back at him.

“No password, no entrance,” she said loftily.

“Harry, I know it!” someone panted from behind him,

and he turned to see Neville jogging toward him.

“Guess what it is? I’m actually going to be able to

remember it for once —” He waved the stunted little

cactus he had shown them on the train. “Mimbulus

mimbletonia!”

“Correct,” said the Fat Lady, and her portrait swung

open toward them like a door, revealing a circular

P a g e | 274 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

hole in the wall behind, through which Harry and

Neville now climbed.

The Gryffindor common room looked as welcoming as

ever, a cozy circular tower room full of dilapidated

squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire was

crackling merrily in the grate and a few people were

warming their hands before going up to their

dormitories; on the other side of the room Fred and

George Weasley were pinning something up on the

notice board. Harry waved good night to them and

headed straight for the door to the boys’ dormitories;

he was not in much of a mood for talking at the

moment. Neville followed him.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan had reached the

dormitory first and were in the process of covering the

walls beside their beds with posters and photographs.

They had been talking as Harry pushed open the door

but stopped abruptly the moment they saw him.

Harry wondered whether they had been talking about

him, then whether he was being paranoid.

“Hi,” he said, moving across to his own trunk and

opening it.

“Hey, Harry,” said Dean, who was putting on a pair of

pajamas in the West Ham colors. “Good holiday?”

“Not bad,” muttered Harry, as a true account of his

holiday would have taken most of the night to relate

and he could not face it. “You?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” chuckled Dean. “Better than

Seamus’s anyway, he was just telling me.”

“Why, what happened, Seamus?” Neville asked as he

placed his Mimbulus mimbletonia tenderly on his

bedside cabinet.

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Seamus did not answer immediately; he was making

rather a meal of ensuring that his poster of the

Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team was quite straight.

Then he said, with his back still turned to Harry, “Me

mam didn’t want me to come back.”

“What?” said Harry, pausing in the act of pulling off

his robes.

“She didn’t want me to come back to Hogwarts.”

Seamus turned away from his poster and pulled his

own pajamas out of his trunk, still not looking at

Harry.

“But — why?” said Harry, astonished. He knew that

Seamus’s mother was a witch and could not

understand, therefore, why she should have come

over so Dursley-ish.

Seamus did not answer until he had finished

buttoning his pajamas.

“Well,” he said in a measured voice, “I suppose …

because of you.”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. His heart was

beating rather fast. He felt vaguely as though

something was closing in on him.

“Well,” said Seamus again, still avoiding Harry’s eyes,

“she … er … well, it’s not just you, it’s Dumbledore

too …”

“She believes the Daily Prophet?” said Harry. “She

thinks I’m a liar and Dumbledore’s an old fool?”

Seamus looked up at him. “Yeah, something like

that.”

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Harry said nothing. He threw his wand down onto his

bedside table, pulled off his robes, stuffed them

angrily into his trunk, and pulled on his pajamas. He

was sick of it; sick of being the person who was stared

at and talked about all the time. If any of them knew,

if any of them had the faintest idea what it felt like to

be the one all these things had happened to … Mrs.

Finnigan had no idea, the stupid woman, he thought

savagely.

He got into bed and made to pull the hangings closed

around him, but before he could do so, Seamus said,

“Look … what did happen that night when … you

know, when … with Cedric Diggory and all?”

Seamus sounded nervous and eager at the same time.

Dean, who had been bending over his trunk, trying to

retrieve a slipper, went oddly still and Harry knew he

was listening hard.

“What are you asking me for?” Harry retorted. “Just

read the Daily Prophet like your mother, why don’t

you? That’ll tell you all you need to know.”

“Don’t you have a go at my mother,” snapped

Seamus.

“I’ll have a go at anyone who calls me a liar,” said

Harry.

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“I’ll talk to you how I want,” said Harry, his temper

rising so fast he snatched his wand back from his

bedside table. “If you’ve got a problem sharing a

dormitory with me, go and ask McGonagall if you can

be moved, stop your mummy worrying —”

“Leave my mother out of this, Potter!”

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“What’s going on?”

Ron had appeared in the doorway. His wide eyes

traveled from Harry, who was kneeling on his bed

with his wand pointing at Seamus, to Seamus, who

was standing there with his fists raised.

“He’s having a go at my mother!” Seamus yelled.

“What?” said Ron. “Harry wouldn’t do that — we met

your mother, we liked her...”

“That’s before she started believing every word the

stinking Daily Prophet writes about me!” said Harry at

the top of his voice.

“Oh,” said Ron, comprehension dawning across his

freckled face. “Oh … right.”

“You know what?” said Seamus heatedly, casting

Harry a venomous look. “He’s right, I don’t want to

share a dormitory with him anymore, he’s a

madman.”

“That’s out of order, Seamus,” said Ron, whose ears

were starting to glow red, always a danger sign.

“Out of order, am I?” shouted Seamus, who in

contrast with Ron was turning paler. “You believe all

the rubbish he’s come out with about You-Know-Who,

do you, you reckon he’s telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I do!” said Ron angrily.

“Then you’re mad too,” said Seamus in disgust.

“Yeah? Well unfortunately for you, pal, I’m also a

prefect!” said Ron, jabbing himself in the chest with a

P a g e | 278 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

finger. “So unless you want detention, watch your

mouth!”

Seamus looked for a few seconds as though detention

would be a reasonable price to pay to say what was

going through his mind; but with a noise of contempt

he turned on his heel, vaulted into bed, and pulled

the hangings shut with such violence that they were

ripped from the bed and fell in a dusty pile to the

floor. Ron glared at Seamus, then looked at Dean and

Neville.

“Anyone else’s parents got a problem with Harry?” he

said aggressively.

“My parents are Muggles, mate,” said Dean,

shrugging. “They don’t know nothing about no deaths

at Hogwarts, because I’m not stupid enough to tell

them.”

“You don’t know my mother, she’ll weasel anything

out of anyone!” Seamus snapped at him. “Anyway,

your parents don’t get the Daily Prophet, they don’t

know our headmaster’s been sacked from the

Wizengamot and the International Confederation of

Wizards because he’s losing his marbles —”

“My gran says that’s rubbish,” piped up Neville. “She

says it’s the Daily Prophet that’s going downhill, not

Dumbledore. She’s canceled our subscription. We

believe Harry,” he said simply. He climbed into bed

and pulled the covers up to his chin, looking owlishly

over them at Seamus. “My gran’s always said You-

Know-Who would come back one day. She says if

Dumbledore says he’s back, he’s back.”

Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Neville. Nobody

else said anything. Seamus got out his wand, repaired

the bed hangings, and vanished behind them. Dean

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got into bed, rolled over, and fell silent. Neville, who appeared to have nothing more to say either, was

gazing fondly at his moonlit cactus.

Harry lay back on his pillows while Ron bustled

around the next bed, putting his things away. He felt

shaken by the argument with Seamus, whom he had

always liked very much. How many more people were

going to suggest that he was lying or unhinged?

Had Dumbledore suffered like this all summer, as

first the Wizengamot, then the International

Confederation of Wizards had thrown him from their

ranks? Was it anger at Harry, perhaps, that had

stopped Dumbledore getting in touch with him for

months? The two of them were in this together, after

all; Dumbledore had believed Harry, announced his

version of events to the whole school and then to the

wider Wizarding community. Anyone who thought

Harry was a liar had to think that Dumbledore was

too or else that Dumbledore had been hoodwinked...

They’ll know we’re right in the end, thought Harry

miserably, as Ron got into bed and extinguished the

last candle in the dormitory. But he wondered how

many attacks like Seamus’s he would have to endure

before that time came.

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PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE

Seamus dressed at top speed next morning and left

the dormitory before Harry had even put on his socks.

“Does he think he’ll turn into a nutter if he stays in a

room with me too long?” asked Harry loudly, as the

hem of Seamus’s robes whipped out of sight.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” Dean muttered,

hoisting his school-bag onto his shoulder. “He’s just

…” But apparently he was unable to say exactly what

Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause

followed him out of the room.

Neville and Ron both gave Harry it’s-his-problem-not-

yours looks, but Harry was not much consoled. How

much more of this was he going to have to take?

“What’s the matter?” asked Hermione five minutes

later, catching up with Harry and Ron halfway across

the common room as they all headed toward

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breakfast. “You look absolutely — oh for heaven’s

sake.”

She was staring at the common room notice board,

where a large new sign had been put up.

GALLONS OF GALLEONS!

Pocket money failing to keep pace with your

outgoings?

Like to earn a little extra gold?

—————————————————

Contact Fred and George Weasley,

Gryffindor common room,

for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs

(WE REGRET THAT ALL WORK IS UNDERTAKEN AT

APPLICANT’S OWN RISK)

“They are the limit,” said Hermione grimly, taking

down the sign, which Fred and George had pinned up

over a poster giving the date of the first Hogsmeade

weekend in October. “We’ll have to talk to them, Ron.”

Ron looked positively alarmed.

“Why?”

“Because we’re prefects!” said Hermione, as they

climbed out through the portrait hole. “It’s up to us to

stop this kind of thing!”

Ron said nothing; Harry could tell from his glum

expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and

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George doing exactly what they liked was not one that he found inviting.

“Anyway, what’s up, Harry?” Hermione continued, as

they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits

of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them,

being engrossed in their own conversation. “You look

really angry about something.”

“Seamus reckons Harry’s lying about You-Know-

Who,” said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not

respond.

Hermione, whom Harry had expected to react angrily

on his behalf, sighed.

“Yes, Lavender thinks so too,” she said gloomily.

“Been having a nice little chat with her about whether

or not I’m a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?”

Harry said loudly.

“No,” said Hermione calmly, “I told her to keep her big

fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be

quite nice if you stopped jumping down Ron’s and my

throats, Harry, because if you haven’t noticed, we’re

on your side.”

There was a short pause.

“Sorry,” said Harry in a low voice.

“That’s quite all right,” said Hermione with dignity.

Then she shook her head. “Don’t you remember what

Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?”

Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly, and

Hermione sighed again.

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“About You-Know-Who. He said, ‘ His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only

by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and

trust —’ ”

“How do you remember stuff like that?” asked Ron,

looking at her in admiration.

“I listen, Ron,” said Hermione with a touch of

asperity.

“So do I, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what —”

“The point,” Hermione pressed on loudly, “is that this

sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking

about. You-Know-Who’s only been back two months,

and we’ve started fighting among ourselves. And the

Sorting Hat’s warning was the same — stand

together, be united —”

“And Harry said it last night,” retorted Ron, “if that

means we’re supposed to get matey with the

Slytherins, fat chance.”

“Well, I think it’s a pity we’re not trying for a bit of

inter-House unity,” said Hermione crossly.

They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A

line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the

entrance hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried

to form a tighter group, as though frightened he

might attack stragglers.

“Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends

with people like that,” said Harry sarcastically.

They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall,

looking instinctively at the staff table as they entered.

Professor Grubbly-Plank was chatting to Professor

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Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid was once

again conspicuous only by his absence. The

enchanted ceiling above them echoed Harry’s mood; it

was a miserable rain-cloud gray.

“Dumbledore didn’t even mention how long that

Grubbly-Plank woman’s staying,” he said, as they

made their way across to the Gryffindor table.

“Maybe …” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“What?” said both Harry and Ron together.

“Well … maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to

Hagrid not being here.”

“What d’you mean, draw attention to it?” said Ron,

half laughing. “How could we not notice?”

Before Hermione could answer, a tall black girl with

long, braided hair had marched up to Harry.

“Hi, Angelina.”

“Hi,” she said briskly, “good summer?” And without

waiting for an answer, “Listen, I’ve been made

Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.”

“Nice one,” said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected

Angelina’s pep talks might not be as long-winded as

Oliver Wood’s had been, which could only be an

improvement.

“Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver’s left.

Tryouts are on Friday at five o’clock and I want the

whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the

new person’ll fit in.”

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“Okay,” said Harry, and she smiled at him and

departed.

“I’d forgotten Wood had left,” said Hermione vaguely,

sitting down beside Ron and pulling a plate of toast

toward her. “I suppose that will make quite a

difference to the team?”

“I s’pose,” said Harry, taking the bench opposite. “He

was a good Keeper...”

“Still, it won’t hurt to have some new blood, will it?”

said Ron.

With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls came

soaring in through the upper windows. They

descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and

packages to their owners and showering the

breakfasters with droplets of water; it was clearly

raining hard outside. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen,

but Harry was hardly surprised; his only

correspondent was Sirius, and he doubted Sirius

would have anything new to tell him after only

twenty-four hours apart. Hermione, however, had to

move her orange juice aside quickly to make way for a

large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet

in its beak.

“What are you still getting that for?” said Harry

irritably, thinking of Seamus, as Hermione placed a

Knut in the leather pouch on the owl’s leg and it took

off again. “I’m not bothering … load of rubbish.”

“It’s best to know what the enemy are saying,” said

Hermione darkly, and she unfurled the newspaper

and disappeared behind it, not emerging until Harry

and Ron had finished eating.

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“Nothing,” she said simply, rolling up the newspaper

and laying it down by her plate. “Nothing about you

or Dumbledore or anything.”

Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table

handing out schedules.

“Look at today!” groaned Ron. “History of Magic,

double Potions, Divination, and double Defense

Against the Dark Arts … Binns, Snape, Trelawney,

and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred

and George’d hurry up and get those Skiving

Snackboxes sorted...”

“Do mine ears deceive me?” said Fred, arriving with

George and squeezing onto the bench beside Harry.

“Hogwarts prefects surely don’t wish to skive off

lessons?”

“Look what we’ve got today,” said Ron grumpily,

shoving his schedule under Fred’s nose. “That’s the

worst Monday I’ve ever seen.”

“Fair point, little bro,” said Fred, scanning the

column. “You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat

cheap if you like.”

“Why’s it cheap?” said Ron suspiciously.

“Because you’ll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, we

haven’t got an antidote yet,” said George, helping

himself to a kipper.

“Cheers,” said Ron moodily, pocketing his schedule,

“but I think I’ll take the lessons.”

“And speaking of your Skiving Snackboxes,” said

Hermione, eyeing Fred and George beadily, “you can’t

advertise for testers on the Gryffindor notice board.”

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“Says who?” said George, looking astonished.

“Says me,” said Hermione. “And Ron.”

“Leave me out of it,” said Ron hastily.

Hermione glared at him. Fred and George sniggered.

“You’ll be singing a different tune soon enough,

Hermione,” said Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet.

“You’re starting your fifth year, you’ll be begging us

for a Snackbox before long.”

“And why would starting fifth year mean I want a

Skiving Snackbox?” asked Hermione.

“Fifth year’s O.W.L. year,” said George.

“So?”

“So you’ve got your exams coming up, haven’t you?

They’ll be keeping your noses so hard to that

grindstone they’ll be rubbed raw,” said Fred with

satisfaction.

“Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to

O.W.L.s,” said George happily. “Tears and tantrums

… Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint...”

“Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d’you remember?”

said Fred reminiscently.

“That’s ’cause you put Bulbadox Powder in his

pajamas,” said George.

“Oh yeah,” said Fred, grinning. “I’d forgotten... Hard

to keep track sometimes, isn’t it?”

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“Anyway, it’s a nightmare of a year, the fifth,” said George. “If you care about exam results anyway. Fred

and I managed to keep our spirits up somehow.”

“Yeah … you got, what was it, three O.W.L.s each?”

said Ron.

“Yep,” said Fred unconcernedly. “But we feel our

futures lie outside the world of academic

achievement.”

“We seriously debated whether we were going to

bother coming back for our seventh year,” said

George brightly, “now that we’ve got —”

He broke off at a warning look from Harry, who knew

George had been about to mention the Triwizard

winnings he had given them.

“— now that we’ve got our O.W.L.s,” George said

hastily. “I mean, do we really need N.E.W.T.s? But we

didn’t think Mum could take us leaving school early,

not on top of Percy turning out to be the world’s

biggest prat.”

“We’re not going to waste our last year here, though,”

said Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great

Hall. “We’re going to use it to do a bit of market

research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts

student requires from his joke shop, carefully

evaluate the results of our research, and then

produce the products to fit the demand.”

“But where are you going to get the gold to start a

joke shop?” asked Hermione skeptically. “You’re going

to need all the ingredients and materials — and

premises too, I suppose...”

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Harry did not look at the twins. His face felt hot; he deliberately dropped his fork and dived down to

retrieve it. He heard Fred say overhead, “Ask us no

questions and we’ll tell you no lies, Hermione. C’mon,

George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a

few Extendable Ears before Herbology.”

Harry emerged from under the table to see Fred and

George walking away, each carrying a stack of toast.

“What did that mean?” said Hermione, looking from

Harry to Ron. “ ‘Ask us no questions …’ Does that

mean they’ve already got some gold to start a joke

shop?”

“You know, I’ve been wondering about that,” said

Ron, his brow furrowed. “They bought me a new set of

dress robes this summer, and I couldn’t understand

where they got the Galleons...”

Harry decided it was time to steer the conversation

out of these dangerous waters.

“D’you reckon it’s true this year’s going to be really

tough? Because of the exams?”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron. “Bound to be, isn’t it? O.W.L.s

are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for

and everything. We get career advice too, later this

year, Bill told me. So you can choose what N.E.W.T.s

you want to do next year.”

“D’you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?”

Harry asked the other two, as they left the Great Hall

shortly afterward and set off toward their History of

Magic classroom.

“Not really,” said Ron slowly. “Except … well …”

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He looked slightly sheepish.

“What?” Harry urged him.

“Well, it’d be cool to be an Auror,” said Ron in an

offhand voice.

“Yeah, it would,” said Harry fervently.

“But they’re, like, the elite,” said Ron. “You’ve got to

be really good. What about you, Hermione?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I think I’d really like

to do something worthwhile.”

“An Auror’s worthwhile!” said Harry.

“Yes, it is, but it’s not the only worthwhile thing,” said

Hermione thoughtfully. “I mean, if I could take

S.P.E.W. further …”

Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each

other.

History of Magic was by common consent the most

boring subject ever devised by Wizard-kind. Professor

Binns, their ghost teacher, had a wheezy, droning

voice that was almost guaranteed to cause severe

drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather.

He never varied the form of their lessons, but lectured

them without pausing while they took notes, or

rather, gazed sleepily into space. Harry and Ron had

so far managed to scrape passes in this subject only

by copying Hermione’s notes before exams; she alone

seemed able to resist the soporific power of Binns’s

voice.

Today they suffered through three quarters of an

hour’s droning on the subject of giant wars. Harry

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heard just enough within the first ten minutes to

appreciate dimly that in another teacher’s hands this

subject might have been mildly interesting, but then

his brain disengaged, and he spent the remaining

thirty-five minutes playing hangman on a corner of

his parchment with Ron, while Hermione shot them

filthy looks out of the corner of her eye.

“How would it be,” she asked them coldly as they left

the classroom for break (Binns drifting away through

the blackboard), “if I refused to lend you my notes

this year?”

“We’d fail our O.W.L.s,” said Ron. “If you want that on

your conscience, Hermione …”

“Well, you’d deserve it,” she snapped. “You don’t even

try to listen to him, do you?”

“We do try,” said Ron. “We just haven’t got your

brains or your memory or your concentration —

you’re just cleverer than we are — is it nice to rub it

in?”

“Oh, don’t give me that rubbish,” said Hermione, but

she looked slightly mollified as she led the way out

into the damp courtyard.

A fine misty drizzle was falling, so that the people

standing in huddles around the yard looked blurred

at the edges. Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose a

secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony,

turning up the collars of their robes against the chilly

September air and talking about what Snape was

likely to set them in the first lesson of the year. They

had got as far as agreeing that it was likely to be

something extremely difficult, just to catch them off

guard after a two-month holiday, when someone

walked around the corner toward them.

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“Hello, Harry!”

It was Cho Chang and what was more, she was on

her own again. This was most unusual: Cho was

almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls;

Harry remembered the agony of trying to get her by

herself to ask her to the Yule Ball.

“Hi,” said Harry, feeling his face grow hot. At least

you’re not covered in Stinksap this time, he told

himself. Cho seemed to be thinking along the same

lines.

“You got that stuff off, then?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, trying to grin as though the

memory of their last meeting was funny as opposed to

mortifying. “So did you … er … have a good summer?”

The moment he had said this he wished he hadn’t:

Cedric had been Cho’s boyfriend and the memory of

his death must have affected her holiday almost as

badly as it had affected Harry’s... Something seemed

to tauten in her face, but she said, “Oh, it was all

right, you know...”

“Is that a Tornados badge?” Ron demanded suddenly,

pointing at the front of Cho’s robes, to which a sky-

blue badge emblazoned with a double gold T was

pinned. “You don’t support them, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Cho.

“Have you always supported them, or just since they

started winning the league?” said Ron, in what Harry

considered an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice.

“I’ve supported them since I was six,” said Cho coolly.

“Anyway … see you, Harry.”

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She walked away. Hermione waited until Cho was

halfway across the courtyard before rounding on Ron.

“You are so tactless!”

“What? I only asked her if —”

“Couldn’t you tell she wanted to talk to Harry on her

own?”

“So? She could’ve done, I wasn’t stopping —”

“What on earth were you attacking her about her

Quidditch team for?”

“Attacking? I wasn’t attacking her, I was only —”

“Who cares if she supports the Tornados?”

“Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those

badges only bought them last season —”

“But what does it matter?”

“It means they’re not real fans, they’re just jumping

on the bandwagon —”

“That’s the bell,” said Harry listlessly, because Ron

and Hermione were bickering too loudly to hear it.

They did not stop arguing all the way down to Snape’s

dungeon, which gave Harry plenty of time to reflect

that between Neville and Ron he would be lucky ever

to have two minutes’ conversation with Cho that he

could look back on without wanting to leave the

country.

And yet, he thought, as they joined the queue lining

up outside Snape’s classroom door, she had chosen

to come and talk to him, hadn’t she? She had been

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Cedric’s girlfriend; she could easily have hated Harry for coming out of the Triwizard maze alive when

Cedric had died, yet she was talking to him in a

perfectly friendly way, not as though she thought him

mad, or a liar, or in some horrible way responsible for

Cedric’s death... Yes, she had definitely chosen to

come and talk to him, and that made the second time

in two days … and at this thought, Harry’s spirits

rose. Even the ominous sound of Snape’s dungeon

door creaking open did not puncture the small,

hopeful bubble that seemed to have swelled in his

chest. He filed into the classroom behind Ron and

Hermione and followed them to their usual table at

the back, ignoring the huffy, irritable noises now

issuing from both of them.

“Settle down,” said Snape coldly, shutting the door

behind him.

There was no real need for the call to order; the

moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had

fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape’s mere

presence was usually enough to ensure a class’s

silence.

“Before we begin today’s lesson,” said Snape,

sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them

all, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next

June you will be sitting an important examination,

during which you will prove how much you have

learned about the composition and use of magical

potions. Moronic though some of this class

undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an

‘Acceptable’ in your O.W.L., or suffer my …

displeasure.”

His gaze lingered this time upon Neville, who gulped.

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“After this year, of course, many of you will cease

studying with me,” Snape went on. “I take only the

very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which

means that some of us will certainly be saying good-

bye.”

His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry

glared back, feeling a grim pleasure at the idea that

he would be able to give up Potions after fifth year.

“But we have another year to go before that happy

moment of farewell,” said Snape softly, “so whether

you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T. or not, I advise

all of you to concentrate your efforts upon

maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect

from my O.W.L. students.

“Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up

at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a

potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be

warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the

ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and

sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay

close attention to what you are doing.” On Harry’s

left, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her

expression one of the utmost attentiveness. “The

ingredients and method” — Snape flicked his wand —

“are on the blackboard” — (they appeared there) —

“you will find everything you need” — he flicked his

wand again — “in the store cupboard” — (the door of

the said cupboard sprang open) — “you have an hour

and a half... Start.”

Just as Harry, Ron, and Hermione had predicted,

Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult,

fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the

cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities;

the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number

of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise

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directions; the heat of the flames on which it was

simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level

for a specific number of minutes before the final

ingredient was added.

“A light silver vapor should now be rising from your

potion,” called Snape, with ten minutes left to go.

Harry, who was sweating profusely, looked

desperately around the dungeon. His own cauldron

was issuing copious amounts of dark gray steam;

Ron’s was spitting green sparks. Seamus was

feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his

cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they had gone

out. The surface of Hermione’s potion, however, was a

shimmering mist of silver vapor, and as Snape swept

by he looked down his hooked nose at it without

comment, which meant that he could find nothing to

criticize. At Harry’s cauldron, however, Snape

stopped, looking down at Harry with a horrible smirk

on his face.

“Potter, what is this supposed to be?”

The Slytherins at the front of the class all looked up

eagerly; they loved hearing Snape taunt Harry.

“The Draught of Peace,” said Harry tensely.

“Tell me, Potter,” said Snape softly, “can you read?”

Draco Malfoy laughed.

“Yes, I can,” said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly

around his wand.

“Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.”

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Harry squinted at the blackboard; it was not easy to

make out the instructions through the haze of

multicolored steam now filling the dungeon.

“ ‘Add powdered moonstone, stir three times

counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes,

then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.’ ”

His heart sank. He had not added syrup of hellebore,

but had proceeded straight to the fourth line of the

instructions after allowing his potion to simmer for

seven minutes.

“Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?”

“No,” said Harry very quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No,” said Harry, more loudly. “I forgot the

hellebore...”

“I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess

is utterly worthless. Evanesco. ”

The contents of Harry’s potion vanished; he was left

standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron.

“Those of you who have managed to read the

instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your

potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up

to my desk for testing,” said Snape. “Homework:

twelve inches of parchment on the properties of

moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be

handed in on Thursday.”

While everyone around him filled their flagons, Harry

cleared away his things, seething. His potion had

been no worse than Ron’s, which was now giving off a

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foul odor of bad eggs, or Neville’s, which had achieved the consistency of just-mixed cement and which

Neville was now having to gouge out of his cauldron,

yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero

marks for the day’s work. He stuffed his wand back

into his bag and slumped down onto his seat,

watching everyone else march up to Snape’s desk

with filled and corked flagons. When at long last the

bell rang, Harry was first out of the dungeon and had

already started his lunch by the time Ron and

Hermione joined him in the Great Hall. The ceiling

had turned an even murkier gray during the morning.

Rain was lashing the high windows.

“That was really unfair,” said Hermione consolingly,

sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to

shepherd’s pie. “Your potion wasn’t nearly as bad as

Goyle’s, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing

shattered and set his robes on fire.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry, glowering at his plate, “since

when has Snape ever been fair to me?”

Neither of the others answered; all three of them

knew that Snape and Harry’s mutual enmity had

been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in

Hogwarts.

“I did think he might be a bit better this year,” said

Hermione in a disappointed voice. “I mean … you

know …” She looked carefully around; there were half

a dozen empty seats on either side of them and

nobody was passing the table. “… Now he’s in the

Order and everything.”

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” said

Ron sagely. “Anyway, I’ve always thought Dumbledore

was cracked trusting Snape, where’s the evidence he

ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?”

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“I think Dumbledore’s probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn’t share it with you, Ron,” snapped

Hermione.

“Oh, shut up, the pair of you,” said Harry heavily, as

Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and

Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. “Can’t

you give it a rest?” he said. “You’re always having a go

at each other, it’s driving me mad.” And abandoning

his shepherd’s pie, he swung his schoolbag back over

his shoulder and left them sitting there.

He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a

time, past the many students hurrying toward lunch.

The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still

blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and

Hermione’s shocked faces afforded him a sense of

deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought. Why

can’t they give it a rest? … Bickering all the time … It’s enough to drive anyone up the wall...

He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight

on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and

brandished it fiercely at Harry, who ignored him.

“Come back, you scurvy dog, stand fast and fight!”

yelled Sir Cadogan in a muffled voice from behind his

visor, but Harry merely walked on, and when Sir

Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a

neighboring picture, he was rebuffed by its

inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound.

Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone

underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower,

and consequently he was the first to ascend the silver

ladder that led to Sibyll Trelawney’s classroom when

the bell rang.

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Divination was Harry’s least favorite class after

Potions, which was due mainly to Professor

Trelawney’s habit of predicting his premature death

every few lessons. A thin woman, heavily draped in

shawls and glittering with strings of beads, she

always reminded Harry of some kind of insect, with

her glasses hugely magnifying her eyes. She was busy

putting copies of battered, leather-bound books on

each of the spindly little tables with which her room

was littered when Harry entered the room, but so dim

was the light cast by the lamps covered by scarves

and the low-burning, sickly-scented fire that she

appeared not to notice him as he took a seat in the

shadows. The rest of the class arrived over the next

five minutes. Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked

around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for

him, or as directly as he could while having to wend

his way between tables, chairs, and overstuffed poufs.

“Hermione and me have stopped arguing,” he said,

sitting down beside Harry.

“Good,” grunted Harry.

“But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you

stopped taking out your temper on us,” said Ron.

“I’m not —”

“I’m just passing on the message,” said Ron, talking

over him. “But I reckon she’s right. It’s not our fault

how Seamus and Snape treat you.”

“I never said it —”

“Good day,” said Professor Trelawney in her usual

misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, feeling both

annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself again. “And

welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been

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following your fortunes most carefully over the

holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all

returned to Hogwarts safely — as, of course, I knew

you would.

“You will find on the tables before you copies of The

Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is

a most important means of divining the future and

one that may very probably be tested in your O.W.L.

Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or

failures are of the remotest importance when it comes

to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing

Eye, certificates and grades matter very little.

However, the headmaster likes you to sit the

examination, so …”

Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in

no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her

subject above such sordid matters as examinations.

“Turn, please, to the introduction and read what

Imago has to say on the matter of dream

interpretation. Then divide into pairs. Use The Dream

Oracle to interpret each other’s most recent dreams.

Carry on.”

The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that

it was not a double period. By the time they had all

finished reading the introduction of the book, they

had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation.

At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired

up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-

winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of

giant scissors wearing his grandmother’s best hat;

Harry and Ron merely looked at each other glumly.

“I never remember my dreams,” said Ron. “You say

one.”

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“You must remember one of them,” said Harry

impatiently.

He was not going to share his dreams with anyone.

He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare

about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or

Professor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell

him that...

“Well, I had one that I was playing Quidditch the

other night,” said Ron, screwing up his face in an

effort to remember. “What d’you reckon that means?”

“Probably that you’re going to be eaten by a giant

marshmallow or something,” said Harry, turning the

pages of The Dream Oracle without interest.

It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the

Oracle and Harry was not cheered up when Professor

Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary

for a month as homework. When the bell went, he

and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron

grumbling loudly.

“D’you realize how much homework we’ve got

already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on

giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of

moonstones, and now we’ve got a month’s dream

diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren’t wrong

about O.W.L. year, were they? That Umbridge woman

had better not give us any...”

When they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts

classroom they found Professor Umbridge already

seated at the teacher’s desk, wearing the fluffy pink

cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow

on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly

of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even

larger toad.

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The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and

nobody knew yet how strict a disciplinarian she was

likely to be.

“Well, good afternoon!” she said when finally the

whole class had sat down.

A few people mumbled “Good afternoon,” in reply.

“Tut, tut,” said Professor Umbridge. “That won’t do,

now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good

afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time,

please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted

back at her.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That

wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills

out, please.”

Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order

“wands away” had never yet been followed by a lesson

they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand

back inside his bag and pulled out quill, ink, and

parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag,

extracted her own wand, which was an unusually

short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it;

words appeared on the board at once:

Defense Against the Dark Arts

A Return to Basic Principles.

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been

rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” stated

Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her

hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant

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changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to

have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has

unfortunately resulted in your being far below the

standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however, that these

problems are now to be rectified. We will be following

a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-

approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy

down the following, please.”

She rapped the blackboard again; the first message

vanished and was replaced by:

Course aims:

1. Understanding the principles underlying

defensive magic.

2. Learning to recognize situations in which

defensive magic can legally be used.

3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.

For a couple of minutes the room was full of the

sound of scratching quills on parchment. When

everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge’s three

course aims she said, “Has everybody got a copy of

Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the

class.

“I think we’ll try that again,” said Professor Umbridge.

“When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply

‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor

Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive

Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

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“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” rang through the room.

“Good,” said Professor Umbridge. “I should like you to

turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for

Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled

herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk,

observing them all with those pouchy toad’s eyes.

Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive

Magical Theory and started to read.

It was desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to

Professor Binns. He felt his concentration sliding

away from him; he had soon read the same line half a

dozen times without taking in more than the first few

words. Several silent minutes passed. Next to him,

Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and

over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the

page. Harry looked right and received a surprise to

shake him out of his torpor. Hermione had not even

opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory. She was

staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand

in the air.

Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting

to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the

temptation to open any book that came under her

nose. He looked at her questioningly, but she merely

shook her head slightly to indicate that she was not

about to answer questions, and continued to stare at

Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as

resolutely in another direction.

After several more minutes had passed, however,

Harry was not the only one watching Hermione. The

chapter they had been instructed to read was so

tedious that more and more people were choosing to

watch Hermione’s mute attempt to catch Professor

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Umbridge’s eye than to struggle on with “Basics for

Beginners.”

When more than half the class were staring at

Hermione rather than at their books, Professor

Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the

situation no longer.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter,

dear?” she asked Hermione, as though she had only

just noticed her.

“Not about the chapter, no,” said Hermione.

“Well, we’re reading just now,” said Professor

Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. “If you

have other queries we can deal with them at the end

of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said

Hermione.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.

“And your name is — ?”

“Hermione Granger,” said Hermione.

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are

perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,”

said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined

sweetness.

“Well, I don’t,” said Hermione bluntly. “There’s

nothing written up there about using defensive

spells.”

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There was a short silence in which many members of

the class turned their heads to frown at the three

course aims still written on the blackboard.

“Using defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeated

with a little laugh. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation

arising in my classroom that would require you to use

a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t

expecting to be attacked during class?”

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron ejaculated loudly.

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak

in my class, Mr. — ?”

“Weasley,” said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned

her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately

raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge’s pouchy

eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she

addressed Hermione.

“Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something

else?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Surely the whole point of

Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive

spells?”

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss

Granger?” asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely

sweet voice.

“No, but —”

“Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide

what the ‘whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much

older and cleverer than you have devised our new

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program of study. You will be learning about

defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way —”

“What use is that?” said Harry loudly. “If we’re going

to be attacked it won’t be in a —”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!” sang Professor Umbridge.

Harry thrust his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge

promptly turned away from him again, but now

several other people had their hands up too.

“And your name is?” Professor Umbridge said to

Dean.

“Dean Thomas.”

“Well, Mr. Thomas?”

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” said Dean. “If we’re

going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free —”

“I repeat,” said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very

irritating fashion at Dean, “do you expect to be

attacked during my classes?”

“No, but —”

Professor Umbridge talked over him.

“I do not wish to criticize the way things have been

run in this school,” she said, an unconvincing smile

stretching her wide mouth, “but you have been

exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this

class, very irresponsible indeed — not to mention,”

she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous

half-breeds.”

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“If you mean Professor Lupin,” piped up Dean

Thomas angrily, “he was the best we ever —”

“Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying — you have been

introduced to spells that have been complex,

inappropriate to your age group, and potentially

lethal. You have been frightened into believing that

you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day —

”

“No we haven’t,” Hermione said, “we just —”

“Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!”

Hermione put up her hand; Professor Umbridge

turned away from her.

“It is my understanding that my predecessor not only

performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually

performed them on you —”

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?” said

Dean Thomas hotly. “Mind you, we still learned loads

—”

“Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!” trilled Professor

Umbridge. “Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a

theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to

get you through your examination, which, after all, is

what school is all about. And your name is?” she

added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot

up.

“Parvati Patil, and isn’t there a practical bit in our

Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren’t we

supposed to show that we can actually do the

countercurses and things?”

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“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough,

there is no reason why you should not be able to

perform the spells under carefully controlled

examination conditions,” said Professor Umbridge

dismissively.

“Without ever practicing them before?” said Parvati

incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time

we’ll get to do the spells will be during our exam?”

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard

enough —”

“And what good’s theory going to be in the real

world?” said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again.

Professor Umbridge looked up.

“This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,” she

said softly.

“So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s

waiting out there?”

“There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh yeah?” said Harry. His temper, which seemed to

have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day,

was reaching boiling point.

“Who do you imagine wants to attack children like

yourselves?” inquired Professor Umbridge in a

horribly honeyed voice.

“Hmm, let’s think …” said Harry in a mock thoughtful

voice, “maybe Lord Voldemort?”

Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream;

Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor

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Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.”

The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was

staring at either Umbridge or Harry.

“Now, let me make a few things quite plain.”

Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward

them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.

“You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has

returned from the dead —”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry angrily, “but yeah, he’s

returned!”

“Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-

points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,” said

Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at

him. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a

certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a

lie. ”

“It is NOT a lie!” said Harry. “I saw him, I fought him!”

“Detention, Mr. Potter!” said Professor Umbridge

triumphantly. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My

office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic

guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark

wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and

see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming

you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like

to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend.

And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page

five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ ”

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Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again.

Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at

him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.

“Harry, no!” Hermione whispered in a warning voice,

tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of

her reach.

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of

his own accord, did he?” Harry asked, his voice

shaking.

There was a collective intake of breath from the class,

for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had

ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on

the night that Cedric had died. They stared avidly

from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised

her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a

fake smile on her face.

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” she

said coldly.

“It was murder,” said Harry. He could feel himself

shaking. He had hardly talked to anyone about this,

least of all thirty eagerly listening classmates.

“Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

Professor Umbridge’s face was quite blank. For a

moment he thought she was going to scream at him.

Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish

voice, “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and

Hermione and up to the teacher’s desk. He could feel

the rest of the class holding its breath. He felt so

angry he did not care what happened next.

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Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink

parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the

desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started

scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see

what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute

or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with

her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could

not open it.

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said

Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.

He took it from her without saying a word and left the

room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione,

and slamming the classroom door shut behind him.

He walked very fast along the corridor, the note to

McGonagall clutched tight in his hand, and turning a

corner walked slap into Peeves the Poltergeist, a wide-

faced little man floating on his back in midair,

juggling several inkwells.

“Why, it’s Potty Wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, allowing

two of the inkwells to fall to the ground where they

smashed and spattered the walls with ink; Harry

jumped backward out of the way with a snarl.

“Get out of it, Peeves.”

“Oooh, Crackpot’s feeling cranky,” said Peeves,

pursuing Harry along the corridor, leering as he

zoomed along above him. “What is it this time, my

fine Potty friend? Hearing voices? Seeing visions?

Speaking in” — Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry —

“tongues?”

“I said, leave me ALONE!” Harry shouted, running

down the nearest flight of stairs, but Peeves merely

slid down the banister on his back beside him.

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“Oh, most think he’s barking, the Potty wee lad,

But some are more kindly and think he’s just sad,

But Peevesy knows better and says that he’s mad —”

“SHUT UP!”

A door to his left flew open and Professor McGonagall

emerged from her office looking grim and slightly

harassed.

“What on earth are you shouting about, Potter?” she

snapped, as Peeves cackled gleefully and zoomed out

of sight. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“I’ve been sent to see you,” said Harry stiffly.

“Sent? What do you mean, sent?”

He held out the note from Professor Umbridge.

Professor McGonagall took it from him, frowning, slit

it open with a tap of her wand, stretched it out, and

began to read. Her eyes zoomed from side to side

behind their square spectacles as she read what

Umbridge had written, and with each line they

became narrower.

“Come in here, Potter.”

He followed her inside her study. The door closed

automatically behind him.

“Well?” said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him.

“Is this true?”

“Is what true?” Harry asked, rather more aggressively

than he had intended. “Professor?” he added in an

attempt to sound more polite.

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“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“You called her a liar?”

“Yes.”

“You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?”

“Yes.”

Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk,

frowning at Harry. Then she said, “Have a biscuit,

Potter.”

“Have — what?”

“Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating

a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles

of papers on her desk. “And sit down.”

There had been a previous occasion when Harry,

expecting to be caned by Professor McGonagall, had

instead been appointed by her to the Gryffindor

Quidditch team. He sank into a chair opposite her

and helped himself to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as

confused and wrong-footed as he had done on that

occasion.

Professor McGonagall set down Professor Umbridge’s

note and looked very seriously at Harry.

“Potter, you need to be careful.”

Harry swallowed his mouthful of Ginger Newt and

stared at her. Her tone of voice was not at all what he

was used to; it was not brisk, crisp, and stern; it was

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low and anxious and somehow much more human

than usual.

“Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge’s class could cost

you much more than House points and a detention.”

“What do you — ?”

“Potter, use your common sense,” snapped Professor

McGonagall, with an abrupt return to her usual

manner. “You know where she comes from, you must

know to whom she is reporting.”

The bell rang for the end of the lesson. Overhead and

all around came the elephantine sounds of hundreds

of students on the move.

“It says here she’s given you detention every evening

this week, starting tomorrow,” Professor McGonagall

said, looking down at Umbridge’s note again.

“Every evening this week!” Harry repeated, horrified.

“But, Professor, couldn’t you — ?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Professor McGonagall flatly.

“But —”

“She is your teacher and has every right to give you

detention. You will go to her room at five o’clock

tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread

carefully around Dolores Umbridge.”

“But I was telling the truth!” said Harry, outraged.

“Voldemort’s back, you know he is, Professor

Dumbledore knows he is —”

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” said Professor

McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she

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had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort’s

name). “Do you really think this is about truth or

lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your

temper under control!”

She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and

he stood too.

“Have another biscuit,” she said irritably, thrusting

the tin at him.

“No, thanks,” said Harry coldly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

He took one.

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the

start-of-term feast, Potter?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah … she said … progress will

be prohibited or … well, it meant that … that the

Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.”

Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then

sniffed, walked around her desk, and held open the

door for him.

“Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any

rate,” she said, pointing him out of her office.

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DETENTION WITH DOLORES

Dinner in the Great Hall that night was not a pleasant

experience for Harry. The news about his shouting

match with Umbridge seemed to have traveled

exceptionally fast even by Hogwarts standards. He

heard whispers all around him as he sat eating

between Ron and Hermione. The funny thing was that

none of the whisperers seemed to mind him

overhearing what they were saying about him — on

the contrary, it was as though they were hoping he

would get angry and start shouting again, so that

they could hear his story firsthand.

“He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered...”

“He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who...”

“Come off it...”

“Who does he think he’s kidding?”

“Pur- lease …”

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“What I don’t get,” said Harry in a shaking voice,

laying down his knife and fork (his hands were

trembling too much to hold them steady), “is why they

all believed the story two months ago when

Dumbledore told them...”

“The thing is, Harry, I’m not sure they did,” said

Hermione grimly. “Oh, let’s get out of here.”

She slammed down her own knife and fork; Ron

looked sadly at his half-finished apple pie but

followed suit. People stared at them all the way out of

the Hall.

“What d’you mean, you’re not sure they believed

Dumbledore?” Harry asked Hermione when they

reached the first-floor landing.

“Look, you don’t understand what it was like after it

happened,” said Hermione quietly. “You arrived back

in the middle of the lawn clutching Cedric’s dead

body... None of us saw what happened in the maze...

We just had Dumbledore’s word for it that You-Know-

Who had come back and killed Cedric and fought

you.”

“Which is the truth!” said Harry loudly.

“I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my

head off?” said Hermione wearily. “It’s just that before

the truth could sink in, everyone went home for the

summer, where they spent two months reading about

how you’re a nutcase and Dumbledore’s going senile!”

Rain pounded on the windowpanes as they strode

along the empty corridors back to Gryffindor Tower.

Harry felt as though his first day had lasted a week,

but he still had a mountain of homework to do before

bed. A dull pounding pain was developing over his

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right eye. He glanced out of a rain-washed window at

the dark grounds as they turned into the Fat Lady’s

corridor. There was still no light in Hagrid’s cabin.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia, ” said Hermione, before the

Fat Lady could ask. The portrait swung open to reveal

the hole behind and the three of them scrambled

back through it.

The common room was almost empty; nearly everyone

was still down at dinner. Crookshanks uncoiled

himself from an armchair and trotted to meet them,

purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, and Hermione

took their three favorite chairs at the fireside he leapt

lightly into Hermione’s lap and curled up there like a

furry ginger cushion. Harry gazed into the flames,

feeling drained and exhausted.

“How can Dumbledore have let this happen?”

Hermione cried suddenly, making Harry and Ron

jump; Crookshanks leapt off her, looking affronted.

She pounded the arms of her chair in fury, so that

bits of stuffing leaked out of the holes. “How can he

let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L.

year too!”

“Well, we’ve never had great Defense Against the Dark

Arts teachers, have we?” said Harry. “You know what

it’s like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they

say it’s jinxed.”

“Yes, but to employ someone who’s actually refusing

to let us do magic! What’s Dumbledore playing at?”

“And she’s trying to get people to spy for her,” said

Ron darkly. “Remember when she said she wanted us

to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You-

Know-Who’s back?”

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“Of course she’s here to spy on us all, that’s obvious, why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?”

snapped Hermione.

“Don’t start arguing again,” said Harry wearily, as

Ron opened his mouth to retaliate. “Can’t we just …

Let’s just do that homework, get it out of the way...”

They collected their schoolbags from a corner and

returned to the chairs by the fire. People were coming

back from dinner now. Harry kept his face averted

from the portrait hole, but could still sense the stares

he was attracting.

“Shall we do Snape’s stuff first?” said Ron, dipping

his quill into his ink. “ ‘ The properties … of moonstone

… and its uses … in potion-making …’ ” he muttered,

writing the words across the top of his parchment as

he spoke them. “There.” He underlined the title, then

looked up expectantly at Hermione.

“So what are the properties of moonstone and its uses

in potion-making?”

But Hermione was not listening; she was squinting

over into the far corner of the room, where Fred,

George, and Lee Jordan were now sitting at the center

of a knot of innocent-looking first years, all of whom

were chewing something that seemed to have come

out of a large paper bag that Fred was holding.

“No, I’m sorry, they’ve gone too far,” she said,

standing up and looking positively furious. “Come on,

Ron.”

“I — what?” said Ron, plainly playing for time. “No —

come on, Hermione — we can’t tell them off for giving

out sweets...”

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“You know perfectly well that those are bits of

Nosebleed Nougat or — or Puking Pastilles or —”

“Fainting Fancies?” Harry suggested quietly.

One by one, as though hit over the heads with

invisible mallets, the first years were slumping

unconscious in their seats; some slid right onto the

floor, others merely hung over the arms of their

chairs, their tongues lolling out. Most of the people

watching were laughing; Hermione, however, squared

her shoulders and marched directly over to where

Fred and George now stood with clipboards, closely

observing the unconscious first years. Ron rose

halfway out of his chair, hovered uncertainly for a

moment or two, then muttered to Harry, “She’s got it

under control,” before sinking as low in his chair as

his lanky frame permitted.

“That’s enough!” Hermione said forcefully to Fred and

George, both of whom looked up in mild surprise.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said George, nodding, “this

dosage looks strong enough, doesn’t it?”

“I told you this morning, you can’t test your rubbish

on students!”

“We’re paying them!” said Fred indignantly.

“I don’t care, it could be dangerous!”

“Rubbish,” said Fred.

“Calm down, Hermione, they’re fine!” said Lee

reassuringly as he walked from first year to first year,

inserting purple sweets into their open mouths.

“Yeah, look, they’re coming round now,” said George.

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A few of the first years were indeed stirring. Several looked so shocked to find themselves lying on the

floor, or dangling off their chairs, that Harry was sure

Fred and George had not warned them what the

sweets were going to do.

“Feel all right?” said George kindly to a small dark-

haired girl lying at his feet.

“I-I think so,” she said shakily.

“Excellent,” said Fred happily, but the next second

Hermione had snatched both his clipboard and the

paper bag of Fainting Fancies from his hands.

“It is NOT excellent!”

“ ’Course it is, they’re alive, aren’t they?” said Fred

angrily.

“You can’t do this, what if you made one of them

really ill?”

“We’re not going to make them ill, we’ve already tested

them all on ourselves, this is just to see if everyone

reacts the same —”

“If you don’t stop doing it, I’m going to —”

“Put us in detention?” said Fred in an I’d-like-to-see-

you-try-it voice.

“Make us write lines?” said George, smirking.

Onlookers all over the room were laughing. Hermione

drew herself up to her full height; her eyes were

narrowed and her bushy hair seemed to crackle with

electricity.

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“No,” she said, her voice quivering with anger, “but I will write to your mother.”

“You wouldn’t,” said George, horrified, taking a step

back from her.

“Oh, yes, I would,” said Hermione grimly. “I can’t stop

you eating the stupid things yourselves, but you’re

not giving them to first years.”

Fred and George looked thunderstruck. It was clear

that as far as they were concerned, Hermione’s threat

was way below the belt. With a last threatening look

at them, she thrust Fred’s clipboard and the bag of

Fancies back into his arms and stalked back to her

chair by the fire.

Ron was now so low in his seat that his nose was

roughly level with his knees.

“Thank you for your support, Ron,” Hermione said

acidly.

“You handled it fine by yourself,” Ron mumbled.

Hermione stared down at her blank piece of

parchment for a few seconds, then said edgily, “Oh,

it’s no good, I can’t concentrate now. I’m going to

bed.”

She wrenched her bag open; Harry thought she was

about to put her books away, but instead she pulled

out two misshapen woolly objects, placed them

carefully on a table by the fireplace, covered them

with a few screwed-up bits of parchment and a

broken quill, and stood back to admire the effect.

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing?” said

Ron, watching her as though fearful for her sanity.

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“They’re hats for house-elves,” she said briskly, now stuffing her books back into her bag. “I did them over

the summer. I’m a really slow knitter without magic,

but now I’m back at school I should be able to make

lots more.”

“You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” said

Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with

rubbish first?”

“Yes,” said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto

her back.

“That’s not on,” said Ron angrily. “You’re trying to

trick them into picking up the hats. You’re setting

them free when they might not want to be free.”

“Of course they want to be free!” said Hermione at

once, though her face was turning pink. “Don’t you

dare touch those hats, Ron!”

She left. Ron waited until she had disappeared

through the door to the girls’ dormitories, then

cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats.

“They should at least see what they’re picking up,” he

said firmly. “Anyway …” He rolled up the parchment

on which he had written the title of Snape’s essay.

“There’s no point trying to finish this now, I can’t do it

without Hermione, I haven’t got a clue what you’re

supposed to do with moonstones, have you?”

Harry shook his head, noticing as he did so that the

ache in his right temple was getting worse. He

thought of the long essay on giant wars and the pain

stabbed at him sharply. Knowing perfectly well that

he would regret not finishing his homework tonight

when the morning came, he piled his books back into

his bag.

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“I’m going to bed too.”

He passed Seamus on the way to the door leading to

the dormitories, but did not look at him. Harry had a

fleeting impression that Seamus had opened his

mouth to speak, but sped up, and reached the

soothing peace of the stone spiral staircase without

having to endure any more provocation.

The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy as

the previous one. Hagrid was still absent from the

staff table at breakfast.

“But on the plus side, no Snape today,” said Ron

bracingly.

Hermione yawned widely and poured herself some

coffee. She looked mildly pleased about something,

and when Ron asked her what she had to be so happy

about, she simply said, “The hats have gone. Seems

the house-elves do want freedom after all.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Ron told her cuttingly. “They

might not count as clothes. They didn’t look anything

like hats to me, more like woolly bladders.”

Hermione did not speak to him all morning.

Double Charms was succeeded by double

Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick and Professor

McGonagall both spent the first fifteen minutes of

their lessons lecturing the class on the importance of

O.W.L.s.

“What you must remember,” said little Professor

Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books

so that he could see over the top of his desk, “is that

these examinations may influence your futures for

many years to come! If you have not already given

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serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I’m afraid, we shall be

working harder than ever to ensure that you all do

yourselves justice!”

They then spent more than an hour reviewing

Summoning Charms, which according to Professor

Flitwick were bound to come up in their O.W.L., and

he rounded off the lesson by setting them their largest

amount of Charms homework ever.

It was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.

“You cannot pass an O.W.L.,” said Professor

McGonagall grimly, “without serious application,

practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in

this class should not achieve an O.W.L. in

Transfiguration as long as they put in the work.”

Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise. “Yes, you

too, Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “There’s

nothing wrong with your work except lack of

confidence. So … today we are starting Vanishing

Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which

you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level,

but they are still among the most difficult magic you

will be tested on in your O.W.L.”

She was quite right; Harry found the Vanishing Spells

horribly difficult. By the end of a double period,

neither he nor Ron had managed to vanish the snails

on which they were practicing, though Ron said

hopefully that he thought his looked a bit paler.

Hermione, on the other hand, successfully vanished

her snail on the third attempt, earning her a ten-point

bonus for Gryffindor from Professor McGonagall. She

was the only person not given homework; everybody

else was told to practice the spell overnight, ready for

a fresh attempt on their snails the following

afternoon.

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Now panicking slightly about the amount of

homework they had to do, Harry and Ron spent their

lunch hour in the library looking up the uses of

moonstones in potion-making. Still angry about Ron’s

slur on her woolly hats, Hermione did not join them.

By the time they reached Care of Magical Creatures in

the afternoon, Harry’s head was aching again.

The day had become cool and breezy, and, as they

walked down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid’s cabin

on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they felt the

occasional drop of rain on their faces. Professor

Grubbly-Plank stood waiting for the class some ten

yards from Hagrid’s front door, a long trestle table in

front of her laden with many twigs. As Harry and Ron

reached her, a loud shout of laughter sounded behind

them; turning, they saw Draco Malfoy striding toward

them, surrounded by his usual gang of Slytherin

cronies. He had clearly just said something highly

amusing, because Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy Parkinson,

and the rest continued to snigger heartily as they

gathered around the trestle table. Judging by the fact

that all of them kept looking over at Harry, he was

able to guess the subject of the joke without too much

difficulty.

“Everyone here?” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank,

once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors had arrived.

“Let’s crack on then — who can tell me what these

things are called?”

She indicated the heap of twigs in front of her.

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Behind her back,

Malfoy did a buck-toothed imitation of her jumping

up and down in eagerness to answer a question.

Pansy Parkinson gave a shriek of laughter that turned

almost at once into a scream, as the twigs on the

table leapt into the air and revealed themselves to be

what looked like tiny pixieish creatures made of wood,

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each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike

fingers at the end of each hand, and a funny, flat,

barklike face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes

glittered.

“Oooooh!” said Parvati and Lavender, thoroughly

irritating Harry: Anyone would have thought that

Hagrid never showed them impressive creatures;

admittedly the flobberworms had been a bit dull, but

the salamanders and hippogriffs had been interesting

enough, and the Blast-Ended Skrewts perhaps too

much so.

“Kindly keep your voices down, girls!” said Professor

Grubbly-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what

looked like brown rice among the stick-creatures, who

immediately fell upon the food. “So — anyone know

the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?”

“Bowtruckles,” said Hermione. “They’re tree-

guardians, usually live in wand-trees.”

“Five points for Gryffindor,” said Professor Grubbly-

Plank. “Yes, these are bowtruckles and, as Miss

Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees

whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what

they eat?”

“Wood lice,” said Hermione promptly, which explained

why what Harry had taken for grains of brown rice

were moving. “But fairy eggs if they can get them.”

“Good girl, take another five points. So whenever you

need leaves or wood from a tree in which a

bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of wood lice

ready to distract or placate it. They may not look

dangerous, but if angered they will gouge out human

eyes with their fingers, which, as you can see, are

very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs.

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So if you’d like to gather closer, take a few wood lice and a bowtruckle — I have enough here for one

between three — you can study them more closely. I

want a sketch from each of you with all body parts

labeled by the end of the lesson.”

The class surged forward around the trestle table.

Harry deliberately circled around the back so that he

ended up right next to Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Where’s Hagrid?” he asked her, while everyone else

was choosing bowtruckles.

“Never you mind,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank

repressively, which had been her attitude last time

Hagrid had failed to turn up for a class too. Smirking

all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leaned across

Harry and seized the largest bowtruckle.

“Maybe,” said Malfoy in an undertone, so that only

Harry could hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got

himself badly injured.”

“Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” said Harry out

of the side of his mouth.

“Maybe he’s been messing with stuff that’s too big for

him, if you get my drift.”

Malfoy walked away, smirking over his shoulder at

Harry, who suddenly felt sick. Did Malfoy know

something? His father was a Death Eater, after all;

what if he had information about Hagrid’s fate that

had not yet reached the Order’s ears? He hurried

back around the table to Ron and Hermione, who

were squatting on the grass some distance away and

attempting to persuade a bowtruckle to remain still

long enough to draw it. Harry pulled out parchment

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and quill, crouched down beside the others, and

related in a whisper what Malfoy had just said.

“Dumbledore would know if something had happened

to Hagrid,” said Hermione at once. “It’s just playing

into Malfoy’s hands to look worried, it tells him we

don’t know exactly what’s going on. We’ve got to

ignore him, Harry. Here, hold the bowtruckle for a

moment, just so I can draw its face...”

“Yes,” came Malfoy’s clear drawl from the group

nearest them, “Father was talking to the Minister just

a couple of days ago, you know, and it sounds as

though the Ministry’s really determined to crack down

on substandard teaching in this place. So even if that

overgrown moron does show up again, he’ll probably

be sent packing straight away.”

“OUCH!”

Harry had gripped the bowtruckle so hard that it had

almost snapped; it had just taken a great retaliatory

swipe at his hand with its sharp fingers, leaving two

long deep cuts there. Harry dropped it; Crabbe and

Goyle, who had already been guffawing at the idea of

Hagrid being sacked, laughed still harder as the

bowtruckle set off at full tilt toward the forest, a little,

moving stickman soon swallowed up by the tree roots.

When the bell echoed distantly over the grounds

Harry rolled up his bloodstained bowtruckle picture

and marched off to Herbology with his hand wrapped

in a handkerchief of Hermione’s and Malfoy’s derisive

laughter still ringing in his ears.

“If he calls Hagrid a moron one more time …” snarled

Harry.

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“Harry, don’t go picking a row with Malfoy, don’t

forget, he’s a prefect now, he could make life difficult

for you...”

“Wow, I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult

life?” said Harry sarcastically. Ron laughed, but

Hermione frowned. Together they traipsed across the

vegetable patch. The sky still appeared unable to

make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or not.

“I just wish Hagrid would hurry up and get back,

that’s all,” said Harry in a low voice, as they reached

the greenhouses. “And don’t say that Grubbly-Plank

woman’s a better teacher!” he added threateningly.

“I wasn’t going to,” said Hermione calmly.

“Because she’ll never be as good as Hagrid,” said

Harry firmly, fully aware that he had just experienced

an exemplary Care of Magical Creatures lesson and

was thoroughly annoyed about it.

The door of the nearest greenhouse opened and some

fourth years spilled out of it, including Ginny.

“Hi,” she said brightly as she passed. A few seconds

later, Luna Lovegood emerged, trailing behind the rest

of the class, a smudge of earth on her nose and her

hair tied in a knot on the top of her head. When she

saw Harry, her prominent eyes seemed to bulge

excitedly and she made a beeline straight for him.

Many of his classmates turned curiously to watch.

Luna took a great breath and then said, without so

much as a preliminary hello: “I believe He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named is back, and I believe you fought him

and escaped from him.”

“Er — right,” said Harry awkwardly. Luna was

wearing what looked like a pair of orange radishes for

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earrings, a fact that Parvati and Lavender seemed to

have noticed, as they were both giggling and pointing

at her earlobes.

“You can laugh!” Luna said, her voice rising,

apparently under the impression that Parvati and

Lavender were laughing at what she had said rather

than what she was wearing. “But people used to

believe there were no such things as the Blibbering

Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!”

“Well, they were right, weren’t they?” said Hermione

impatiently. “There weren’t any such things as the

Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned

Snorkack.”

Luna gave her a withering look and flounced away,

radishes swinging madly. Parvati and Lavender were

not the only ones hooting with laughter now.

“D’you mind not offending the only people who believe

me?” Harry asked Hermione as they made their way

into class.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry, you can do better than

her, ” said Hermione. “Ginny’s told me all about her,

apparently she’ll only believe in things as long as

there’s no proof at all. Well, I wouldn’t expect

anything else from someone whose father runs The

Quibbler. ”

Harry thought of the sinister winged horses he had

seen on the night he had arrived and how Luna had

said she could see them too. His spirits sank slightly.

Had she been lying? But before he could devote much

more thought to the matter, Ernie Macmillan had

stepped up to him.

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“I want you to know, Potter,” he said in a loud,

carrying voice, “that it’s not only weirdos who support

you. I personally believe you one hundred percent. My

family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore,

and so do I.”

“Er — thanks very much, Ernie,” said Harry, taken

aback but pleased. Ernie might be pompous on

occasions like these, but Harry was in a mood to

deeply appreciate a vote of confidence from somebody

who was not wearing radishes in their ears. Ernie’s

words had certainly wiped the smile from Lavender

Brown’s face and, as he turned to talk to Ron and

Hermione, Harry caught Seamus’s expression, which

looked both confused and defiant.

To nobody’s surprise, Professor Sprout started their

lesson by lecturing them about the importance of

O.W.L.s. Harry wished all the teachers would stop

doing this; he was starting to get an anxious, twisted

feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how

much homework he had to do, a feeling that

worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave

them yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and

smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout’s

preferred brand of fertilizer, the Gryffindors trooped

back up to the castle an hour and a half later, none of

them talking very much; it had been another long

day.

As Harry was starving, and he had his first detention

with Umbridge at five o’clock, he headed straight for

dinner without dropping off his bag in Gryffindor

Tower so that he could bolt something down before

facing whatever she had in store for him. He had

barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall,

however, when a loud and angry voice said, “Oy,

Potter!”

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“What now?” he muttered wearily, turning to face

Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a

towering temper.

“I’ll tell you what now,” she said, marching straight

up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her

finger. “How come you’ve landed yourself in detention

for five o’clock on Friday?”

“What?” said Harry. “Why … oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!”

“Now he remembers!” snarled Angelina. “Didn’t I tell

you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and

find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn’t I tell

you I’d booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And

now you’ve decided you’re not going to be there!”

“I didn’t decide not to be there!” said Harry, stung by

the injustice of these words. “I got detention from that

Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth

about You-Know-Who —”

“Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to

let you off on Friday,” said Angelina fiercely, “and I

don’t care how you do it, tell her You-Know-Who’s a

figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure

you’re there!”

She stormed away.

“You know what?” Harry said to Ron and Hermione as

they entered the Great Hall. “I think we’d better check

with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood’s been

killed during a training session, because she seems to

be channeling his spirit.”

“What d’you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting

you off on Friday?” said Ron skeptically, as they sat

down at the Gryffindor table.

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“Less than zero,” said Harry glumly, tipping lamb

chops onto his plate and starting to eat. “Better try,

though, hadn’t I? I’ll offer to do two more detentions

or something, I dunno...” He swallowed a mouthful of

potato and added, “I hope she doesn’t keep me too

long this evening. You realize we’ve got to write three

essays, practice Vanishing Spells for McGonagall,

work out a countercharm for Flitwick, finish the

bowtruckle drawing, and start that stupid dream

diary for Trelawney?”

Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the

ceiling.

“And it looks like it’s going to rain.”

“What’s that got to do with our homework?” said

Hermione, her eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” said Ron at once, his ears reddening.

At five to five Harry bade the other two good-bye and

set off for Umbridge’s office on the third floor. When

he knocked on the door she said, “Come in,” in a

sugary voice. He entered cautiously, looking around.

He had known this office under three of its previous

occupants. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had

lived here it had been plastered in beaming portraits

of its owner. When Lupin had occupied it, it was likely

you would meet some fascinating Dark creature in a

cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor

Moody’s days it had been packed with various

instruments and artifacts for the detection of

wrongdoing and concealment.

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognizable. The

surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and

cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers,

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each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated

with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow

around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared

at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke

again.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.”

Harry started and looked around. He had not noticed

her at first because she was wearing a luridly

flowered set of robes that blended only too well with

the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

“Evening,” Harry said stiffly.

“Well, sit down,” she said, pointing toward a small

table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a

straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay

on the table, apparently waiting for him.

“Er,” said Harry, without moving. “Professor

Umbridge? Er — before we start, I-I wanted to ask

you a … a favor.”

Her bulging eyes narrowed.

“Oh yes?”

“Well I’m … I’m on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new

Keeper at five o’clock on Friday and I was — was

wondering whether I could skip detention that night

and do it — do it another night … instead …”

He knew long before he reached the end of his

sentence that it was no good.

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“Oh no,” said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she

looked as though she had just swallowed a

particularly juicy fly. “Oh no, no, no. This is your

punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-

seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments

certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s

convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock

tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and

you will do your detentions as planned. I think it

rather a good thing that you are missing something

you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I

am trying to teach you.”

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a

thumping noise in his ears. So he told evil, nasty,

attention-seeking stories, did he?

She was watching him with her head slightly to one

side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly

what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether

he would start shouting again. With a massive effort

Harry looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag

beside the straight-backed chair, and sat down.

“There,” said Umbridge sweetly, “we’re getting better

at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you

are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr. Potter.

No, not with your quill,” she added, as Harry bent

down to open his bag. “You’re going to be using a

rather special one of mine. Here you are.”

She handed him a long, thin black quill with an

unusually sharp point.

“I want you to write ‘ I must not tell lies, ’ ” she told him

softly.

“How many times?” Harry asked, with a creditable

imitation of politeness.

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“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in, ”

said Umbridge sweetly. “Off you go.”

She moved over to her desk, sat down, and bent over

a stack of parchment that looked like essays for

marking. Harry raised the sharp black quill and then

realized what was missing.

“You haven’t given me any ink,” he said.

“Oh, you won’t need ink,” said Professor Umbridge

with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and

wrote: I must not tell lies.

He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on

the parchment in what appeared to be shining red

ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the

back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as

though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as he

stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again,

leaving the place where it had been slightly redder

than before but quite smooth.

Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching

him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly.

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill

upon it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt

the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second

time; once again the words had been cut into his

skin, once again they healed over seconds later.

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And on it went. Again and again Harry wrote the

words on the parchment in what he soon came to

realize was not ink, but his own blood. And again and

again the words were cut into the back of his hand,

healed, and then reappeared the next time he set quill

to parchment.

Darkness fell outside Umbridge’s window. Harry did

not ask when he would be allowed to stop. He did not

even check his watch. He knew she was watching him

for signs of weakness and he was not going to show

any, not even if he had to sit here all night, cutting

open his own hand with this quill...

“Come here,” she said, after what seemed hours.

He stood up. His hand was stinging painfully. When

he looked down at it he saw that the cut had healed,

but that the skin there was red raw.

“Hand,” she said.

He extended it. She took it in her own. Harry

repressed a shudder as she touched him with her

thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of

ugly old rings.

“Tut, tut, I don’t seem to have made much of an

impression yet,” she said, smiling. “Well, we’ll just

have to try again tomorrow evening, won’t we? You

may go.”

Harry left her office without a word. The school was

quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. He

walked slowly up the corridor then, when he had

turned the corner and was sure that she would not

hear him, broke into a run.

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He had not had time to practice Vanishing Spells, had not written a single dream in his dream diary, and

had not finished the drawing of the bowtruckle, nor

had he written his essays. He skipped breakfast next

morning to scribble down a couple of made-up

dreams for Divination, their first lesson, and was

surprised to find a disheveled Ron keeping him

company.

“How come you didn’t do it last night?” Harry asked,

as Ron stared wildly around the common room for

inspiration. Ron, who had been fast asleep when

Harry got back to the dormitory, muttered something

about “doing other stuff,” bent low over his

parchment, and scrawled a few words.

“That’ll have to do,” he said, slamming the diary shut,

“I’ve said I dreamed I was buying a new pair of shoes,

she can’t make anything weird out of that, can she?”

They hurried off to North Tower together.

“How was detention with Umbridge, anyway? What

did she make you do?”

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said,

“Lines.”

“That’s not too bad, then, eh?” said Ron.

“Nope,” said Harry.

“Hey — I forgot — did she let you off for Friday?”

“No,” said Harry.

Ron groaned sympathetically.

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It was another bad day for Harry; he was one of the

worst in Transfiguration, not having practiced

Vanishing Spells at all. He had to give up his lunch

hour to complete the picture of the bowtruckle, and

meanwhile, Professors McGonagall, Grubbly-Plank,

and Sinistra gave them yet more homework, which he

had no prospect of finishing that evening because of

his second detention with Umbridge. To cap it all,

Angelina Johnson tracked him down at dinner again

and, on learning that he would not be able to attend

Friday’s Keeper tryouts, told him she was not at all

impressed by his attitude and that she expected

players who wished to remain on the team to put

training before their other commitments.

“I’m in detention!” Harry yelled after her as she

stalked away. “D’you think I’d rather be stuck in a

room with that old toad or playing Quidditch?”

“At least it’s only lines,” said Hermione consolingly, as

Harry sank back onto his bench and looked down at

his steak-and-kidney pie, which he no longer fancied

very much. “It’s not as if it’s a dreadful punishment,

really...”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded.

He was not really sure why he was not telling Ron

and Hermione exactly what was happening in

Umbridge’s room: He only knew that he did not want

to see their looks of horror; that would make the

whole thing seem worse and therefore more difficult

to face. He also felt dimly that this was between

himself and Umbridge, a private battle of wills, and he

was not going to give her the satisfaction of hearing

that he had complained about it.

“I can’t believe how much homework we’ve got,” said

Ron miserably.

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“Well, why didn’t you do any last night?” Hermione

asked him. “Where were you anyway?”

“I was … I fancied a walk,” said Ron shiftily.

Harry had the distinct impression that he was not

alone in concealing things at the moment.

* * *

The second detention was just as bad as the previous

one. The skin on the back of Harry’s hand became

irritated more quickly now, red and inflamed; Harry

thought it unlikely to keep healing as effectively for

long. Soon the cut would remain etched in his hand

and Umbridge would, perhaps, be satisfied. He let no

moan of pain escape him, however, and from the

moment of entering the room to the moment of his

dismissal, again past midnight, he said nothing but

“Good evening” and “Good night.”

His homework situation, however, was now desperate,

and when he returned to the Gryffindor common

room he did not, though exhausted, go to bed, but

opened his books and began Snape’s moonstone

essay. It was half-past two by the time he had

finished it. He knew he had done a poor job, but there

was no help for it; unless he had something to give in

he would be in detention with Snape next. He then

dashed off answers to the questions Professor

McGonagall had set them, cobbled together

something on the proper handling of bowtruckles for

Professor Grubbly-Plank, and staggered up to bed,

where he fell fully clothed on top of the bed covers

and fell asleep immediately.

Thursday passed in a haze of tiredness. Ron seemed

very sleepy too, though Harry could not see why he

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should be. Harry’s third detention passed in the same way as the previous two, except that after two hours

the words “I must not tell lies” did not fade from the

back of Harry’s hand, but remained scratched there,

oozing droplets of blood. The pause in the pointed

quill’s scratching made Professor Umbridge look up.

“Ah,” she said softly, moving around her desk to

examine his hand herself. “Good. That ought to serve

as a reminder to you, oughtn’t it? You may leave for

tonight.”

“Do I still have to come back tomorrow?” said Harry,

picking up his schoolbag with his left hand rather

than his smarting right.

“Oh yes,” said Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as

before. “Yes, I think we can etch the message a little

deeper with another evening’s work.”

He had never before considered the possibility that

there might be another teacher in the world he hated

more than Snape, but as he walked back toward

Gryffindor Tower he had to admit he had found a

contender. She’s evil, he thought, as he climbed a

staircase to the seventh floor, she’s an evil, twisted,

mad, old —

“Ron?”

He had reached the top of the stairs, turned right,

and almost walked into Ron, who was lurking behind

a statue of Lachlan the Lanky, clutching his

broomstick. He gave a great leap of surprise when he

saw Harry and attempted to hide his new Cleansweep

Eleven behind his back.

“What are you doing?”

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“Er — nothing. What are you doing?”

Harry frowned at him.

“Come on, you can tell me! What are you hiding here

for?”

“I’m — I’m hiding from Fred and George, if you must

know,” said Ron. “They just went past with a bunch

of first years, I bet they’re testing stuff on them again,

I mean, they can’t do it in the common room now, can

they, not with Hermione there.”

He was talking in a very fast, feverish way.

“But what have you got your broom for, you haven’t

been flying, have you?” Harry asked.

“I — well — well, okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t laugh, all

right?” Ron said defensively, turning redder with

every second. “I-I thought I’d try out for Gryffindor

Keeper now I’ve got a decent broom. There. Go on.

Laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Harry. Ron blinked. “It’s a

brilliant idea! It’d be really cool if you got on the team!

I’ve never seen you play Keeper, are you good?”

“I’m not bad,” said Ron, who looked immensely

relieved at Harry’s reaction. “Charlie, Fred, and

George always made me Keep for them when they

were training during the holidays.”

“So you’ve been practicing tonight?”

“Every evening since Tuesday … just on my own,

though, I’ve been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at

me, but it hasn’t been easy and I don’t know how

much use it’ll be.” Ron looked nervous and anxious.

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“Fred and George are going to laugh themselves

stupid when I turn up for the tryouts. They haven’t

stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made

a prefect.”

“I wish I was going to be there,” said Harry bitterly, as

they set off together toward the common room.

“Yeah, so do — Harry, what’s that on the back of your

hand?”

Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free

right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success

as Ron with his Cleansweep.

“It’s just a cut — it’s nothing — it’s —”

But Ron had grabbed Harry’s forearm and pulled the

back of Harry’s hand up level with his eyes. There

was a pause, during which he stared at the words

carved into the skin, then he released Harry, looking

sick.

“I thought you said she was giving you lines?”

Harry hesitated, but after all, Ron had been honest

with him, so he told Ron the truth about the hours he

had been spending in Umbridge’s office.

“The old hag!” Ron said in a revolted whisper as they

came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was

dozing peacefully with her head against her frame.

“She’s sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!”

“No,” said Harry at once. “I’m not giving her the

satisfaction of knowing she’s got to me.”

“Got to you? You can’t let her get away with this!”

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“I don’t know how much power McGonagall’s got over

her,” said Harry.

“Dumbledore, then, tell Dumbledore!”

“No,” said Harry flatly.

“Why not?”

“He’s got enough on his mind,” said Harry, but that

was not the true reason. He was not going to go to

Dumbledore for help when Dumbledore had not

spoken to him once since last June.

“Well, I reckon you should —” Ron began, but he was

interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching

them sleepily and now burst out, “Are you going to

give me the password or will I have to stay awake all

night waiting for you to finish your conversation?”

Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the

week. Though Harry glanced toward the staff table

automatically when he entered the Great Hall, it was

without real hope of seeing Hagrid and he turned his

mind immediately to his more pressing problems,

such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to

do and the prospect of yet another detention with

Umbridge.

Two things sustained Harry that day. One was the

thought that it was almost the weekend; the other

was that, dreadful though his final detention with

Umbridge was sure to be, he had a distant view of the

Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with

luck, be able to see something of Ron’s tryout. These

were rather feeble rays of light, it was true, but Harry

was grateful for anything that might lighten his

present darkness; he had never had a worse first

week of term at Hogwarts.

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At five o’clock that evening he knocked on Professor

Umbridge’s office door for what he sincerely hoped

would be the final time, was told to enter and did so.

The blank parchment lay ready for him on the lace-

covered table, the pointed black quill beside it.

“You know what to do, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge,

smiling sweetly over at him.

Harry picked up the quill and glanced through the

window. If he just shifted his chair an inch or so to

the right … On the pretext of shifting himself closer to

the table he managed it. He now had a distant view of

the Gryffindor Quidditch team soaring up and down

the pitch, while half a dozen black figures stood at the

foot of the three high goalposts, apparently awaiting

their turn to Keep. It was impossible to tell which one

was Ron at this distance.

I must not tell lies, Harry wrote. The cut in the back of

his right hand opened and began to bleed afresh.

I must not tell lies. The cut dug deeper, stinging and

smarting.

I must not tell lies. Blood trickled down his wrist.

He chanced another glance out of the window.

Whoever was defending the goalposts now was doing

a very poor job indeed. Katie Bell scored twice in the

few seconds Harry dared watch. Hoping very much

that the Keeper wasn’t Ron, he dropped his eyes back

to the parchment dotted with blood.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

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He looked up whenever he thought he could risk it,

when he could hear the scratching of Umbridge’s quill

or the opening of a desk drawer. The third person to

try out was pretty good, the fourth was terrible, the

fifth dodged a Bludger exceptionally well but then

fumbled an easy save. The sky was darkening so that

Harry doubted he would be able to watch the sixth

and seventh people at all.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

The parchment was now shining with drops of blood

from the back of his hand, which was searing with

pain. When he next looked up, night had fallen and

the Quidditch pitch was no longer visible.

“Let’s see if you’ve gotten the message yet, shall we?”

said Umbridge’s soft voice half an hour later.

She moved toward him, stretching out her short be-

ringed fingers for his arm. And then, as she took hold

of him to examine the words now cut into his skin,

pain seared, not across the back of his hand, but

across the scar on his forehead. At the same time, he

had a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his

midriff.

He wrenched his arm out of her grip and leapt to his

feet, staring at her. She looked back at him, a smile

stretching her wide, slack mouth.

“Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?” she said softly.

He did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard

and fast. Was she talking about his hand or did she

know what he had just felt in his forehead?

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“Well, I think I’ve made my point, Mr. Potter. You may go.”

He caught up his schoolbag and left the room as

quickly as he could.

Stay calm, he told himself as he sprinted up the

stairs. Stay calm, it doesn’t necessarily mean what

you think it means...

“Mimbulus mimbletonia!” he gasped at the Fat Lady,

who swung forward once more.

A roar of sound greeted him. Ron came running

toward him, beaming all over his face and slopping

butterbeer down his front from the goblet he was

clutching.

“Harry, I did it, I’m in, I’m Keeper!”

“What? Oh — brilliant!” said Harry, trying to smile

naturally, while his heart continued to race and his

hand throbbed and bled.

“Have a butterbeer.” Ron pressed a bottle onto him. “I

can’t believe it — where’s Hermione gone?”

“She’s there,” said Fred, who was also swigging

butterbeer, and pointed to an armchair by the fire.

Hermione was dozing in it, her drink tipping

precariously in her hand.

“Well, she said she was pleased when I told her,” said

Ron, looking slightly put out.

“Let her sleep,” said George hastily. It was a few

moments before Harry noticed that several of the first

years gathered around them bore unmistakable signs

of recent nosebleeds.

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“Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver’s old robes fit you,”

called Katie Bell. “We can take off his name and put

yours on instead...”

As Ron moved away, Angelina came striding up to

Harry.

“Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Potter,” she

said abruptly. “It’s stressful, this managing lark, you

know, I’m starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood

sometimes.” She was watching Ron over the rim of

her goblet with a slight frown on her face.

“Look, I know he’s your best mate, but he’s not

fabulous,” she said bluntly. “I think with a bit of

training he’ll be all right, though. He comes from a

family of good Quidditch players. I’m banking on him

turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed

today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey

Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper’s a

real whiner, he’s always moaning about something or

other, and Vicky’s involved in all sorts of societies,

she admitted herself that if training clashed with her

Charm Club she’d put Charms first. Anyway, we’re

having a practice session at two o’clock tomorrow, so

just make sure you’re there this time. And do me a

favor and help Ron as much as you can, okay?”

He nodded and Angelina strolled back to Alicia

Spinnet. Harry moved over to sit next to Hermione,

who awoke with a jerk as he put down his bag.

“Oh, Harry, it’s you... Good about Ron, isn’t it?” she

said blearily. “I’m just so — so — so tired,” she

yawned. “I was up until one o’clock making more

hats. They’re disappearing like mad!”

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And sure enough, now that he looked, Harry saw that

there were woolly hats concealed all around the room

where unwary elves might accidentally pick them up.

“Great,” said Harry distractedly; if he did not tell

somebody soon, he would burst. “Listen, Hermione, I

was just up in Umbridge’s office and she touched my

arm …”

Hermione listened closely. When Harry had finished

she said slowly, “You’re worried that You-Know-Who’s

controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?”

“Well,” said Harry, dropping his voice, “it’s a

possibility, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, though she sounded

unconvinced. “But I don’t think he can be possessing

her the way he possessed Quirrell, I mean, he’s

properly alive again now, isn’t he, he’s got his own

body, he wouldn’t need to share someone else’s. He

could have her under the Imperius Curse, I

suppose...”

Harry watched Fred, George, and Lee Jordan juggling

empty butterbeer bottles for a moment. Then

Hermione said, “But last year your scar hurt when

nobody was touching you, and didn’t Dumbledore say

it had to do with what You-Know-Who was feeling at

the time? I mean, maybe this hasn’t got anything to

do with Umbridge at all, maybe it’s just coincidence it

happened while you were with her?”

“She’s evil,” said Harry flatly. “Twisted.”

“She’s horrible, yes, but … Harry, I think you ought to

tell Dumbledore your scar hurt.”

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It was the second time in two days he had been

advised to go to Dumbledore and his answer to

Hermione was just the same as his answer to Ron.

“I’m not bothering him with this. Like you just said,

it’s not a big deal. It’s been hurting on and off all

summer — it was just a bit worse tonight, that’s all —

”

“Harry, I’m sure Dumbledore would want to be

bothered by this —”

“Yeah,” said Harry, before he could stop himself,

“that’s the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about,

isn’t it, my scar?”

“Don’t say that, it’s not true!”

“I think I’ll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he

thinks —”

“Harry, you can’t put something like that in a letter!”

said Hermione, looking alarmed. “Don’t you

remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in

writing! We just can’t guarantee owls aren’t being

intercepted anymore!”

“All right, all right, I won’t tell him, then!” said Harry

irritably. He got to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Tell Ron

for me, will you?”

“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking relieved, “if you’re

going that means I can go without being rude too, I’m

absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more

hats tomorrow. Listen, you can help me if you like,

it’s quite fun, I’m getting better, I can do patterns and

bobbles and all sorts of things now.”

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Harry looked into her face, which was shining with

glee, and tried to look as though he was vaguely

tempted by this offer.

“Er … no, I don’t think I will, thanks,” he said. “Er —

not tomorrow. I’ve got loads of homework to do...”

And he traipsed off to the boys’ stairs, leaving her

looking slightly disappointed behind him.

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PERCY AND PADFOOT

Harry was the first to awake in his dormitory next

morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in

the chink of sunlight falling through the gap in his

four-poster’s hangings and savored the thought that

it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to

have dragged on forever, like one gigantic History of

Magic lesson.

Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted

look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after

daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his

bed, got up, and started to dress. The only sound

apart from the distant twittering of birds was the

slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He

opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment

and quill, and headed out of the dormitory for the

common room.

Making straight for his favorite squashy old armchair

beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself

down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while

looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up

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bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient

jars, and candy wrappers that usually covered the

common room at the end of each day was gone, as

were all Hermione’s elf hats. Wondering vaguely how

many elves had now been set free whether they

wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle,

dipped his quill into it, and then held it suspended an

inch above the smooth yellowish surface of his

parchment, thinking hard... But after a minute or so

he found himself staring into the empty grate, at a

complete loss for what to say.

He could now appreciate how hard it had been for

Ron and Hermione to write him letters over the

summer. How was he supposed to tell Sirius

everything that had happened over the past week and

pose all the questions he was burning to ask without

giving potential letter-thieves a lot of information he

did not want them to have?

He sat quite motionless for a while, gazing into the

fireplace, then, finally coming to a decision, he dipped

his quill into the ink bottle once more and set it

resolutely upon the parchment.

Dear Snuffles,

Hope you’re okay, the first week back here’s been

terrible, I’m really glad it’s the weekend.

We’ve got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher, Professor Umbridge. She’s nearly as nice as

your mum. I’m writing because that thing I wrote to

you about last summer happened again last night

when I was doing a detention with Umbridge.

We’re all missing our biggest friend, we hope he’ll be

back soon.

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Please write back quickly.

Best,

Harry

Harry reread this letter several times, trying to see it

from the point of view of an outsider. He could not see

how they would know what he was talking about — or

who he was talking to — just from reading this letter.

He did hope Sirius would pick up the hint about

Hagrid and tell them when he might be back: Harry

did not want to ask directly in case it drew too much

attention to what Hagrid might be up to while he was

not at Hogwarts.

Considering it was a very short letter it had taken a

long time to write; sunlight had crept halfway across

the room while he had been working on it, and he

could now hear distant sounds of movement from the

dormitories above. Sealing the parchment carefully he

climbed through the portrait hole and headed off for

the Owlery.

“I would not go that way if I were you,” said Nearly

Headless Nick, drifting disconcertingly through a wall

just ahead of him as he walked down the passage.

“Peeves is planning an amusing joke on the next

person to pass the bust of Paracelsus halfway down

the corridor.”

“Does it involve Paracelsus falling on top of the

person’s head?” asked Harry.

“Funnily enough, it does, ” said Nearly Headless Nick

in a bored voice. “Subtlety has never been Peeves’s

strong point. I’m off to try and find the Bloody

Baron... He might be able to put a stop to it... See

you, Harry...”

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“Yeah, ’bye,” said Harry and instead of turning right, he turned left, taking a longer but safer route up to

the Owlery. His spirits rose as he walked past window

after window showing brilliantly blue sky; he had

training later, he would be back on the Quidditch

pitch at last —

Something brushed his ankles. He looked down and

saw the caretaker’s skeletal gray cat, Mrs. Norris,

slinking past him. She turned lamplike yellow eyes

upon him for a moment before disappearing behind a

statue of Wilfred the Wistful.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Harry called after

her. She had the unmistakable air of a cat that was

off to report to her boss, yet Harry could not see why;

he was perfectly entitled to walk up to the Owlery on

a Saturday morning.

The sun was high in the sky now and when Harry

entered the Owlery the glassless windows dazzled his

eyes; thick silvery beams of sunlight crisscrossed the

circular room in which hundreds of owls nestled on

rafters, a little restless in the early morning light,

some clearly just returned from hunting. The straw-

covered floor crunched a little as he stepped across

tiny animal bones, craning his neck for a sight of

Hedwig.

“There you are,” he said, spotting her somewhere near

the very top of the vaulted ceiling. “Get down here,

I’ve got a letter for you.”

With a low hoot she stretched her great white wings

and soared down onto his shoulder.

“Right, I know this says ‘Snuffles’ on the outside,” he

told her, giving her the letter to clasp in her beak and,

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without knowing exactly why, whispering, “but it’s for Sirius, okay?”

She blinked her amber eyes once and he took that to

mean that she understood.

“Safe flight, then,” said Harry and he carried her to

one of the windows; with a moment’s pressure on his

arm Hedwig took off into the blindingly bright sky. He

watched her until she became a tiny black speck and

vanished, then switched his gaze to Hagrid’s hut,

clearly visible from this window, and just as clearly

uninhabited, the chimney smokeless, the curtains

drawn.

The treetops of the Forbidden Forest swayed in a light

breeze. Harry watched them, savoring the fresh air on

his face, thinking about Quidditch later … and then

he saw it. A great, reptilian winged horse, just like the

ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leathery

black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl’s, rose up

out of the trees like a grotesque, giant bird. It soared

in a great circle and then plunged once more into the

trees. The whole thing had happened so quickly Harry

could hardly believe what he had seen, except that

his heart was hammering madly.

The Owlery door opened behind him. He leapt in

shock, and turning quickly, saw Cho Chang holding a

letter and a parcel in her hands.

“Hi,” said Harry automatically.

“Oh … hi,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t think

anyone would be up here this early... I only

remembered five minutes ago, it’s my mum’s

birthday.”

She held up the parcel.

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“Right,” said Harry. His brain seemed to have

jammed. He wanted to say something funny and

interesting, but the memory of that terrible winged

horse was fresh in his mind.

“Nice day,” he said, gesturing to the windows. His

insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment. The

weather. He was talking about the weather...

“Yeah,” said Cho, looking around for a suitable owl.

“Good Quidditch conditions. I haven’t been out all

week, have you?”

“No,” said Harry.

Cho had selected one of the school barn owls. She

coaxed it down onto her arm where it held out an

obliging leg so that she could attach the parcel.

“Hey, has Gryffindor got a new Keeper yet?” she

asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “It’s my friend Ron Weasley, d’you

know him?”

“The Tornado-hater?” said Cho rather coolly. “Is he

any good?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “I think so. I didn’t see his tryout,

though, I was in detention.”

Cho looked up, the parcel only half-attached to the

owl’s legs.

“That Umbridge woman’s foul,” she said in a low

voice. “Putting you in detention just because you told

the truth about how — how — how he died. Everyone

heard about it, it was all over the school. You were

really brave standing up to her like that.”

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Harry’s insides reinflated so rapidly he felt as though he might actually float a few inches off the dropping-strewn floor. Who cared about a stupid flying horse,

Cho thought he had been really brave... For a

moment he considered accidentally-on-purpose

showing her his cut hand as he helped her tie her

parcel onto her owl... But the very instant that this

thrilling thought occurred, the Owlery door opened

again.

Filch, the caretaker, came wheezing into the room.

There were purple patches on his sunken, veined

cheeks, his jowls were aquiver and his thin gray hair

disheveled; he had obviously run here. Mrs. Norris

came trotting at his heels, gazing up at the owls

overhead and mewing hungrily. There was a restless

shifting of wings from above, and a large brown owl

snapped his beak in a menacing fashion.

“Aha!” said Filch, taking a flat-footed step toward

Harry, his pouchy cheeks trembling with anger. “I’ve

had a tip-off that you are intending to place a massive

order for Dungbombs!”

Harry folded his arms and stared at the caretaker.

“Who told you I was ordering Dungbombs?”

Cho was looking from Harry to Filch, also frowning;

the barn owl on her arm, tired of standing on one leg,

gave an admonitory hoot but she ignored it.

“I have my sources,” said Filch in a self-satisfied hiss.

“Now hand over whatever it is you’re sending.”

Feeling immensely thankful that he had not dawdled

in posting off the letter, Harry said, “I can’t, it’s gone.”

“Gone?” said Filch, his face contorting with rage.

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“Gone,” said Harry calmly.

Filch opened his mouth furiously, mouthed for a few

seconds, then raked Harry’s robes with his eyes. “How

do I know you haven’t got it in your pocket?”

“Because —”

“I saw him send it,” said Cho angrily.

Filch rounded on her.

“You saw him — ?”

“That’s right, I saw him,” she said fiercely.

There was a moment’s pause in which Filch glared at

Cho and Cho glared right back, then the caretaker

turned and shuffled back toward the door. He

stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back

at Harry.

“If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb …”

He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a

last longing look at the owls and followed him.

Harry and Cho looked at each other.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“No problem,” said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the

barn owl’s other leg, her face slightly pink. “You

weren’t ordering Dungbombs, were you?”

“No,” said Harry.

“I wonder why he thought you were, then?” she said,

as she carried the owl to the window.

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Harry shrugged; he was quite as mystified by that as

she was, though, oddly, it was not bothering him very

much at the moment.

They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a

corridor that led toward the west wing of the castle,

Cho said, “I’m going this way. Well, I’ll … I’ll see you

around, Harry.”

“Yeah … see you.”

She smiled at him and departed. He walked on,

feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an

entire conversation with her and not embarrassed

himself once... You were really brave standing up to

her like that... She had called him brave... She did not

hate him for being alive...

Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that...

Though if he’d only asked her to the ball before Cedric

had, things might have turned out differently... She

had seemed sincerely sorry that she had to refuse

when Harry had asked her...

“Morning,” Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione,

joining them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” said Ron,

eyeing Harry in surprise.

“Erm … Quidditch later,” said Harry happily, pulling

a large platter of bacon and eggs toward him.

“Oh … yeah …” said Ron. He put down the bit of toast

he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice.

Then he said, “Listen … you don’t fancy going out a

bit earlier with me, do you? Just to — er — give me

some practice before training? So I can, you know, get

my eye in a bit …”

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“Yeah, okay,” said Harry.

“Look, I don’t think you should,” said Hermione

seriously, “you’re both really behind on homework as

it —”

But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and,

as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring toward her in

the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously

close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg; Hermione

pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the

newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as

the owl took off again.

“Anything interesting?” said Ron; Harry smiled — he

knew Ron was keen to get her off the subject of

homework.

“No,” she sighed, “just some guff about the bass

player in the Weird Sisters getting married...”

She opened the paper and disappeared behind it.

Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and

bacon; Ron was staring up at the high windows,

looking slightly preoccupied.

“Wait a moment,” said Hermione suddenly. “Oh no …

Sirius!”

“What’s happened?” said Harry, and he snatched at

the paper so violently that it ripped down the middle

so that he and Hermione were holding half each.

“ ‘ The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a

reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass

murderer … blah blah blah … is currently hiding in London!’ ” Hermione read from her half in an

anguished whisper.

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“Lucius Malfoy, I’ll bet anything,” said Harry in a low, furious voice. “He did recognize Sirius on the

platform...”

“What?” said Ron, looking alarmed. “You didn’t say —

”

“Shh!” said the other two.

“… ‘ Ministry warns Wizarding community that Black is

very dangerous … killed thirteen people … broke out of Azkaban …’ the usual rubbish,” Hermione concluded,

laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully

at Harry and Ron. “Well, he just won’t be able to leave

the house again, that’s all,” she whispered.

“Dumbledore did warn him not to.”

Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he

had torn off. Most of the page was devoted to an

advertisement for Madame Malkin’s Robes for All

Occasions, which was apparently having a sale.

“Hey!” he said, flattening it down so Hermione and

Ron could both see it. “Look at this!”

“I’ve got all the robes I want,” said Ron.

“No,” said Harry, “look … this little piece here …”

Ron and Hermione bent closer to read it; the item was

barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of

a column. It was headlined:

TRESPASS AT MINISTRY

Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum

Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the

Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted

robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August.

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Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watch-

wizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to

force his way through a top-security door at one

o’clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to

speak in his own defense, was convicted on both

charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

“Sturgis Podmore?” said Ron slowly, “but he’s that

bloke who looks like his head’s been thatched, isn’t

he? He’s one of the Ord —”

“Ron, shh!” said Hermione, casting a terrified look

around them.

“Six months in Azkaban!” whispered Harry, shocked.

“Just for trying to get through a door!”

“Don’t be silly, it wasn’t just for trying to get through

a door — what on earth was he doing at the Ministry

of Magic at one o’clock in the morning?” breathed

Hermione.

“D’you reckon he was doing something for the Order?”

Ron muttered.

“Wait a moment...” said Harry slowly. “Sturgis was

supposed to come and see us off, remember?”

The other two looked at him.

“Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going

to King’s Cross, remember? And Moody was all

annoyed because he didn’t turn up, so that doesn’t

seem like he was supposed to be on a job for them,

does it?”

“Well, maybe they didn’t expect him to get caught,”

said Hermione.

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“It could be a frame-up!” Ron exclaimed excitedly. “No

— listen!” he went on, dropping his voice dramatically

at the threatening look on Hermione’s face. “The

Ministry suspects he’s one of Dumbledore’s lot so — I

dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he

wasn’t trying to get through a door at all! Maybe

they’ve just made something up to get him!”

There was a pause while Harry and Hermione

considered this. Harry thought it seemed far-fetched;

Hermione, on the other hand, looked rather

impressed and said, “Do you know, I wouldn’t be at

all surprised if that were true.”

She folded up her half of the newspaper thoughtfully.

When Harry laid down his knife and fork she seemed

to come out of a reverie.

“Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for

Sprout on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs first, and if we’re

lucky we’ll be able to start McGonagall’s Inanimatus

Conjurus before lunch...”

Harry felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of the

pile of homework awaiting him upstairs, but the sky

was a clear, exhilarating blue, and he had not been

on his Firebolt for a week...

“I mean, we can do it tonight,” said Ron, as he and

Harry walked down the sloping lawns toward the

Quidditch pitch, their broomsticks over their

shoulders, Hermione’s dire warnings that they would

fail all their O.W.L.s still ringing in their ears. “And

we’ve got tomorrow. She gets too worked up about

work, that’s her trouble...” There was a pause and he

added, in a slightly more anxious tone, “D’you think

she meant it when she said we weren’t copying from

her?”

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“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. “Still, this is important too, we’ve got to practice if we want to stay on the

Quidditch team...”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ron in a heartened tone.

“And we have got plenty of time to do it all...”

Harry glanced over to his right as they approached

the Quidditch pitch, to where the trees of the

Forbidden Forest were swaying darkly. Nothing flew

out of them; the sky was empty but for a few distant

owls fluttering around the Owlery Tower. He had

enough to worry about; the flying horse wasn’t doing

him any harm: He pushed it out of his mind.

They collected balls from the cupboard in the

changing room and set to work, Ron guarding the

three tall goalposts, Harry playing Chaser and trying

to get the Quaffle past Ron. Harry thought Ron was

pretty good; he blocked three-quarters of the goals

Harry attempted to put past him and played better

the longer they practiced. After a couple of hours they

returned to the school, where they ate lunch, during

which Hermione made it quite clear that she thought

they were irresponsible, then returned to the

Quidditch pitch for the real training session. All their

teammates but Angelina were already in the changing

room when they entered.

“All right, Ron?” said George, winking at him.

“Yeah,” said Ron, who had become quieter and

quieter all the way down to the pitch.

“Ready to show us all up, Ickle Prefect?” said Fred,

emerging tousle-haired from the neck of his Quidditch

robes, a slightly malicious grin on his face.

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“Shut up,” said Ron, stony-faced, pulling on his own

team robes for the first time. They fitted him well

considering they had been Oliver Wood’s, who was

rather broader in the shoulder.

“Okay everyone,” said Angelina, entering from the

Captain’s office, already changed. “Let’s get to it;

Alicia and Fred, if you can just bring the ball crate

out for us. Oh, and there are a couple of people out

there watching but I want you to just ignore them, all

right?”

Something in her would-be casual voice made Harry

think he might know who the uninvited spectators

were, and sure enough, when they left the changing

room for the bright sunlight of the pitch it was to a

storm of catcalls and jeers from the Slytherin

Quidditch team and assorted hangers-on, who were

grouped halfway up the empty stands and whose

voices echoed loudly around the stadium.

“What’s that Weasley’s riding?” Malfoy called in his

sneering drawl. “Why would anyone put a Flying

Charm on a moldy old log like that?”

Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson guffawed and

shrieked with laughter. Ron mounted his broom and

kicked off from the ground and Harry followed him,

watching his ears turn red from behind.

“Ignore them,” he said, accelerating to catch up with

Ron. “We’ll see who’s laughing after we play them...”

“Exactly the attitude I want, Harry,” said Angelina

approvingly, soaring around them with the Quaffle

under her arm and slowing to hover on the spot in

front of her airborne team. “Okay everyone, we’re

going to start with some passes just to warm up, the

whole team please —”

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“Hey, Johnson, what’s with that hairstyle anyway?”

shrieked Pansy Parkinson from below. “Why would

anyone want to look like they’ve got worms coming

out of their head?”

Angelina swept her long braided hair out of her face

and said calmly, “Spread out, then, and let’s see what

we can do...”

Harry reversed away from the others to the far side of

the pitch. Ron fell back toward the opposite goal.

Angelina raised the Quaffle with one hand and threw

it hard to Fred, who passed to George, who passed to

Harry, who passed to Ron, who dropped it.

The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, roared and screamed

with laughter. Ron, who had pelted toward the

ground to catch the Quaffle before it landed, pulled

out of the dive untidily, so that he slipped sideways

on his broom, and returned to playing height,

blushing. Harry saw Fred and George exchange looks,

but uncharacteristically neither of them said

anything, for which he was grateful.

“Pass it on, Ron,” called Angelina, as though nothing

had happened.

Ron threw the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed back to

Harry, who passed to George...

“Hey, Potter, how’s your scar feeling?” called Malfoy.

“Sure you don’t need a lie-down? It must be, what, a

whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that’s

a record for you, isn’t it?”

Fred passed to Angelina; she reverse passed to Harry,

who had not been expecting it, but caught it in the

very tips of his fingers and passed it quickly to Ron,

who lunged for it and missed by inches.

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“Come on now, Ron,” said Angelina crossly, as Ron

dived for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. “Pay

attention.”

It would have been hard to say whether Ron’s face or

the Quaffle was a deeper scarlet when he returned

again to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the

Slytherin team were howling with laughter.

On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle;

perhaps out of relief he passed it on so

enthusiastically that it soared straight through Katie’s

outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face.

“Sorry!” Ron groaned, zooming forward to see whether

he had done any damage.

“Get back in position, she’s fine!” barked Angelina.

“But as you’re passing to a teammate, do try not to

knock her off her broom, won’t you? We’ve got

Bludgers for that!”

Katie’s nose was bleeding. Down below the Slytherins

were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George

converged on Katie.

“Here, take this,” Fred told her, handing her

something small and purple from out of his pocket.

“It’ll clear it up in no time.”

“All right,” called Angelina, “Fred, George, go and get

your bats and a Bludger; Ron, get up to the goalposts,

Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We’re going

to aim for Ron’s goal, obviously.”

Harry zoomed off after the twins to fetch the Snitch.

“Ron’s making a right pig’s ear of things, isn’t he?”

muttered George, as the three of them landed at the

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crate containing the balls and opened it to extract one of the Bludgers and the Snitch.

“He’s just nervous,” said Harry. “He was fine when I

was practicing with him this morning.”

“Yeah, well, I hope he hasn’t peaked too soon,” said

Fred gloomily.

They returned to the air. When Angelina blew her

whistle, Harry released the Snitch and Fred and

George let fly the Bludger; from that moment on,

Harry was barely aware of what the others were

doing. It was his job to recapture the tiny fluttering

golden ball that was worth a hundred and fifty points

to the Seeker’s team and doing so required enormous

speed and skill. He accelerated, rolling and swerving

in and out of the Chasers, the warm autumn air

whipping his face and the distant yells of the

Slytherins so much meaningless roaring in his ears...

But too soon, the whistle brought him to a halt again.

“Stop — stop – STOP!” screamed Angelina. “Ron —

you’re not covering your middle post!”

Harry looked around at Ron, who was hovering in

front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two

completely unprotected.

“Oh … sorry …”

“You keep shifting around while you’re watching the

Chasers!” said Angelina. “Either stay in center

position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or

else circle the hoops, but don’t drift vaguely off to one

side, that’s how you let in the last three goals!”

“Sorry …” Ron repeated, his red face shining like a

beacon against the bright blue sky.

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“And Katie, can’t you do something about that

nosebleed?”

“It’s just getting worse!” said Katie thickly, attempting

to stem the flow with her sleeve.

Harry glanced around at Fred, who was looking

anxious and checking his pockets. He saw Fred pull

out something purple, examine it for a second, and

then look around at Katie, evidently horrorstruck.

“Well, let’s try again,” said Angelina. She was ignoring

the Slytherins, who had now set up a chant of

“Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers, ” but there

was a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom

nevertheless.

This time they had been flying for barely three

minutes when Angelina’s whistle sounded. Harry,

who had just sighted the Snitch circling the opposite

goalpost, pulled up feeling distinctly aggrieved.

“What now?” he said impatiently to Alicia, who was

nearest.

“Katie,” she said shortly.

Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred, and George all

flying as fast as they could toward Katie. Harry and

Alicia sped toward her too. It was plain that Angelina

had stopped training just in time; Katie was now

chalk-white and covered in blood.

“She needs the hospital wing,” said Angelina.

“We’ll take her,” said Fred. “She — er — might have

swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake —”

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“Well, there’s no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone,” said Angelina glumly, as Fred and

George zoomed off toward the castle supporting Katie

between them. “Come on, let’s go and get changed.”

The Slytherins continued to chant as they trailed

back into the changing rooms.

“How was practice?” asked Hermione rather coolly

half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through

the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.

“It was —” Harry began.

“Completely lousy,” said Ron in a hollow voice,

sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up

at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt.

“Well, it was only your first one,” she said consolingly,

“it’s bound to take time to —”

“Who said it was me who made it lousy?” snapped

Ron.

“No one,” said Hermione, looking taken aback, “I

thought —”

“You thought I was bound to be rubbish?”

“No, of course I didn’t! Look, you said it was lousy so I

just —”

“I’m going to get started on some homework,” said

Ron angrily and stomped off to the staircase to the

boys’ dormitories and vanished from sight. Hermione

turned to Harry.

“Was he lousy?”

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“No,” said Harry loyally.

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Well, I suppose he could’ve played better,” Harry

muttered, “but it was only the first training session,

like you said...”

Neither Harry nor Ron seemed to make much

headway with their homework that night. Harry knew

Ron was too preoccupied with how badly he had

performed at Quidditch practice and he himself was

having difficulty in getting the chant of “Gryffindor are

losers” out of his head.

They spent the whole of Sunday in the common room,

buried in their books while the room around them

filled up, then emptied: It was another clear, fine day

and most of their fellow Gryffindors spent the day out

in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of

the last sunshine that year. By the evening Harry felt

as though somebody had been beating his brain

against the inside of his skull.

“You know, we probably should try and get more

homework done during the week,” Harry muttered to

Ron, as they finally laid aside Professor McGonagall’s

long essay on the Inanimatus Conjurus spell and

turned miserably to Professor Sinistra’s equally long

and difficult essay about Jupiter’s moons.

“Yeah,” said Ron, rubbing slightly bloodshot eyes and

throwing his fifth spoiled bit of parchment into the

fire beside them. “Listen … shall we just ask

Hermione if we can have a look at what she’s done?”

Harry glanced over at her; she was sitting with

Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to

Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flashed in midair

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in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks.

“No,” he said heavily, “you know she won’t let us.”

And so they worked on while the sky outside the

windows became steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in

the common room began to thin again. At half-past

eleven, Hermione wandered over to them, yawning.

“Nearly done?”

“No,” said Ron shortly.

“Jupiter’s biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto,”

she said, pointing over Ron’s shoulder at a line in his

Astronomy essay, “and it’s Io that’s got the volcanos.”

“Thanks,” snarled Ron, scratching out the offending

sentences.

“Sorry, I only —”

“Yeah, well, if you’ve just come over here to criticize —

”

“Ron —”

“I haven’t got time to listen to a sermon, all right,

Hermione, I’m up to my neck in it here —”

“No — look!”

Hermione was pointing to the nearest window. Harry

and Ron both looked over. A handsome screech owl

was standing on the windowsill, gazing into the room

at Ron.

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“Isn’t that Hermes?” said Hermione, sounding

amazed.

“Blimey, it is!” said Ron quietly, throwing down his

quill and getting to his feet. “What’s Percy writing to

me for?”

He crossed to the window and opened it; Hermes flew

inside, landed upon Ron’s essay, and held out a leg to

which a letter was attached. Ron took it off and the

owl departed at once, leaving inky footprints across

Ron’s drawing of the moon Io.

“That’s definitely Percy’s handwriting,” said Ron,

sinking back into his chair and staring at the words

on the outside of the scroll: To Ronald Weasley,

Gryffindor House, Hogwarts. He looked up at the

other two. “What d’you reckon?”

“Open it!” said Hermione eagerly. Harry nodded.

Ron unrolled the scroll and began to read. The farther

down the parchment his eyes traveled, the more

pronounced became his scowl. When he had finished

reading, he looked disgusted. He thrust the letter at

Harry and Hermione, who leaned toward each other

to read it together:

Dear Ron,

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the

Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new

teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a

Hogwarts prefect.

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this

news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must

admit that I have always been afraid that you would

take what we might call the “Fred and George” route,

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rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped

flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some

real responsibility.

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron,

I want to give you some advice, which is why I am

sending this at night rather than by the usual morning

post. Hopefully you will be able to read this away from

prying eyes and avoid awkward questions.

From something the Minister let slip when telling me

you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing

a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing

could put you in danger of losing your badge more than

continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure

you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say

that Potter has always been Dumbledore’s favorite —

but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be

in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who

count have a very different — and probably more

accurate — view of Potters behavior. I shall say no

more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet

tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind

is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly!

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the

same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to

your future prospects, and I am talking here about life

after school too. As you must be aware, given that our

father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary

hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot

and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got

off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of

the people I’ve spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter

— I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I

know, violent — but if you have any worries about this,

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or have spotted anything else in Potter’s behavior that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores

Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will

be only too happy to advise you.

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have

hinted above, Dumbledore’s regime at Hogwarts may

soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him,

but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to

hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering

very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make

those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the

Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find

this easier from next week — again, see the Prophet

tomorrow!). I shall say only this — a student who

shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now

may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple

of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over

the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I

am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while

they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd

around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any

point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore,

who is a great friend of Dumbledore’s, has recently

been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry.

Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty

criminals with whom they are currently rubbing

shoulders). I count myself very lucky to have escaped

the stigma of association with such people — the

Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and

I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to

blind you to the misguided nature of our parents’

beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time,

they will realize how mistaken they were and I shall,

of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that

day comes.

P a g e | 380 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and

congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

Harry looked up at Ron.

“Well,” he said, trying to sound as though he found

the whole thing a joke, “if you want to — er — what is

it?” (He checked Percy’s letter.) “Oh yeah — ‘sever ties’

with me, I swear I won’t get violent.”

“Give it back,” said Ron, holding out his hand. “He is

—” Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy’s letter in half, “the

world’s” — he tore it into quarters — “biggest” — he

tore it into eighths — “git. ” He threw the pieces into

the fire.

“Come on, we’ve got to get this finished some time

before dawn,” he said briskly to Harry, pulling

Professor Sinistra’s essay back toward him.

Hermione was looking at Ron with an odd expression

on her face.

“Oh, give them here,” she said abruptly.

“What?” said Ron.

“Give them to me, I’ll look through them and correct

them,” she said.

“Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you’re a lifesaver,”

said Ron, “what can I — ?”

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“What you can say is, ‘We promise we’ll never leave

our homework this late again,’ ” she said, holding out

both hands for their essays, but she looked slightly

amused all the same.

“Thanks a million, Hermione,” said Harry weakly,

passing over his essay and sinking back into his

armchair, rubbing his eyes.

It was now past midnight and the common room was

deserted but for the three of them and Crookshanks.

The only sound was that of Hermione’s quill

scratching out sentences here and there on their

essays and the ruffle of pages as she checked various

facts in the reference books strewn across the table.

Harry was exhausted. He also felt an odd, sick, empty

feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with

tiredness and everything to do with the letter now

curling blackly in the heart of the fire.

He knew that half the people inside Hogwarts thought

him strange, even mad; he knew that the Daily

Prophet had been making snide allusions to him for

months, but there was something about seeing it

written down like that in Percy’s writing, about

knowing that Percy was advising Ron to drop him and

even to tell tales on him to Umbridge, that made his

situation real to him as nothing else had. He had

known Percy for four years, had stayed in his house

during the summers, shared a tent with him during

the Quidditch World Cup, had even been awarded full

marks by him in the second task of the Triwizard

Tournament last year, yet now, Percy thought him

unbalanced and possibly violent.

And with a surge of sympathy for his godfather, Harry

thought that Sirius was probably the only person he

knew who could really understand how he felt at the

moment, because Sirius was in the same situation;

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nearly everyone in the Wizarding world thought Sirius a dangerous murderer and a great Voldemort

supporter and he had had to live with that knowledge

for fourteen years...

Harry blinked. He had just seen something in the fire

that could not have been there. It had flashed into

sight and vanished immediately. No … it could not

have been... He had imagined it because he had been

thinking about Sirius...

“Okay, write that down,” Hermione said to Ron,

pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own

writing back to Ron, “and then copy out this

conclusion that I’ve written for you.”

“Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful

person I’ve ever met,” said Ron weakly, “and if I’m

ever rude to you again —”

“— I’ll know you’re back to normal,” said Hermione.

“Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I

think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra,

Europa’s covered in ice, not mice — Harry?”

Harry had slid off his chair onto his knees and was

now crouching on the singed and threadbare

hearthrug, gazing into the flames.

“Er — Harry?” said Ron uncertainly. “Why are you

down there?”

“Because I’ve just seen Sirius’s head in the fire,” said

Harry.

He spoke quite calmly; after all, he had seen Sirius’s

head in this very fire the previous year and talked to

it too. Nevertheless, he could not be sure that he had

really seen it this time... It had vanished so quickly...

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“Sirius’s head?” Hermione repeated. “You mean like

when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard

Tournament? But he wouldn’t do that now, it would

be too — Sirius!”

She gasped, gazing at the fire; Ron dropped his quill.

There in the middle of the dancing flames sat Sirius’s

head, long dark hair falling around his grinning face.

“I was starting to think you’d go to bed before

everyone else had disappeared,” he said. “I’ve been

checking every hour.”

“You’ve been popping into the fire every hour?” Harry

said, half laughing.

“Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear

yet.”

“But what if you’d been seen?” said Hermione

anxiously.

“Well, I think a girl — first year by the look of her —

might’ve got a glimpse of me earlier, but don’t worry,”

Sirius said hastily, as Hermione clapped a hand to

her mouth. “I was gone the moment she looked back

at me and I’ll bet she just thought I was an oddly

shaped log or something.”

“But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk —” Hermione

began.

“You sound like Molly,” said Sirius. “This was the only

way I could come up with of answering Harry’s letter

without resorting to a code — and codes are

breakable.”

At the mention of Harry’s letter, Hermione and Ron

had both turned to stare at him.

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“You didn’t say you’d written to Sirius!” said

Hermione accusingly.

“I forgot,” said Harry, which was perfectly true; his

meeting with Cho in the Owlery had driven everything

before it out of his mind. “Don’t look at me like that,

Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got

secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?”

“No, it was very good,” said Sirius, smiling. “Anyway,

we’d better be quick, just in case we’re disturbed —

your scar.”

“What about — ?” Ron began, but Hermione said

quickly, “We’ll tell you afterward, go on, Sirius.”

“Well, I know it can’t be fun when it hurts, but we

don’t think it’s anything to really worry about. It kept

aching all last year, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever

Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion,” said

Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione’s

winces. “So maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry

or something the night I had that detention.”

“Well, now he’s back it’s bound to hurt more often,”

said Sirius.

“So you don’t think it had anything to do with

Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with

her?” Harry asked.

“I doubt it,” said Sirius. “I know her by reputation and

I’m sure she’s no Death Eater —”

“She’s foul enough to be one,” said Harry darkly and

Ron and Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement.

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“Yes, but the world isn’t split into good people and

Death Eaters,” said Sirius with a wry smile. “I know

she’s a nasty piece of work, though — you should

hear Remus talk about her.”

“Does Lupin know her?” asked Harry quickly,

remembering Umbridge’s comments about dangerous

half-breeds during her first lesson.

“No,” said Sirius, “but she drafted a bit of anti-

werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it

almost impossible for him to get a job.”

Harry remembered how much shabbier Lupin looked

these days and his dislike of Umbridge deepened even

further.

“What’s she got against werewolves?” said Hermione

angrily.

“Scared of them, I expect,” said Sirius, smiling at her

indignation. “Apparently she loathes part-humans;

she campaigned to have mer-people rounded up and

tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and

energy persecuting merpeople when there are little

toerags like Kreacher on the loose —”

Ron laughed but Hermione looked upset.

“Sirius!” she said reproachfully. “Honestly, if you

made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I’m sure he’d

respond, after all, you are the only member of his

family he’s got left, and Professor Dumbledore said —”

“So what are Umbridge’s lessons like?” Sirius

interrupted. “Is she training you all to kill half-

breeds?”

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“No,” said Harry, ignoring Hermione’s affronted look

at being cut off in her defense of Kreacher. “She’s not

letting us use magic at all!”

“All we do is read the stupid textbook,” said Ron.

“Ah, well, that figures,” said Sirius. “Our information

from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn’t want

you trained in combat.”

“Trained in combat?” repeated Harry incredulously.

“What does he think we’re doing here, forming some

sort of wizard army?”

“That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,” said

Sirius, “or rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid

Dumbledore’s doing — forming his own private army,

with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of

Magic.”

There was a pause at this, then Ron said, “That’s the

stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, including all the stuff

that Luna Lovegood comes out with.”

“So we’re being prevented from learning Defense

Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we’ll

use spells against the Ministry?” said Hermione,

looking furious.

“Yep,” said Sirius. “Fudge thinks Dumbledore will

stop at nothing to seize power. He’s getting more

paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It’s a matter

of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some

trumped-up charge.”

This reminded Harry of Percy’s letter.

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“D’you know if there’s going to be anything about

Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Only

Ron’s brother Percy reckons there will be —”

“I don’t know,” said Sirius, “I haven’t seen anyone

from the Order all weekend, they’re all busy. It’s just

been Kreacher and me here...”

There was a definite note of bitterness in Sirius’s

voice.

“So you haven’t had any news about Hagrid, either?”

“Ah …” said Sirius, “well, he was supposed to be back

by now, no one’s sure what’s happened to him.” Then,

seeing their stricken faces, he added quickly, “But

Dumbledore’s not worried, so don’t you three get

yourselves in a state; I’m sure Hagrid’s fine.”

“But if he was supposed to be back by now …” said

Hermione in a small, worried voice.

“Madame Maxime was with him, we’ve been in touch

with her and she says they got separated on the

journey home — but there’s nothing to suggest he’s

hurt or — well, nothing to suggest he’s not perfectly

okay.”

Unconvinced, Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged

worried looks.

“Listen, don’t go asking too many questions about

Hagrid,” said Sirius hastily, “it’ll just draw even more

attention to the fact that he’s not back, and I know

Dumbledore doesn’t want that. Hagrid’s tough, he’ll

be okay.” And when they did not appear cheered by

this, Sirius added, “When’s your next Hogsmeade

weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with

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the dog disguise at the station, didn’t we? I thought I could —”

“NO!” said Harry and Hermione together, very loudly.

“Sirius, didn’t you see the Daily Prophet?” said

Hermione anxiously.

“Oh that,” said Sirius, grinning, “they’re always

guessing where I am, they haven’t really got a clue —”

“Yeah, but we think this time they have,” said Harry.

“Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he

knew it was you, and his father was on the platform,

Sirius — you know, Lucius Malfoy — so don’t come

up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you

again —”

“All right, all right, I’ve got the point,” said Sirius. He

looked most displeased. “Just an idea, thought you

might like to get together —”

“I would, I just don’t want you chucked back in

Azkaban!” said Harry.

There was a pause in which Sirius looked out of the

fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes.

“You’re less like your father than I thought,” he said

finally, a definite coolness in his voice. “The risk

would’ve been what made it fun for James.”

“Look —”

“Well, I’d better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming

down the stairs,” said Sirius, but Harry was sure he

was lying. “I’ll write to tell you a time I can make it

back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to

risk it?”

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There was a tiny pop, and the place where Sirius’s head had been was flickering flame once more.

P a g e | 390 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR

They had expected to have to comb Hermione’s Daily

Prophet carefully next morning to find the article

Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the

departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of

the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and

flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph

of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking

slowly at them from beneath the headline:

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM

DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER

“HIGH INQUISITOR”

“ ‘High Inquisitor’?” said Harry darkly, his half-eaten

bit of toast slipping from his fingers. “What does that

mean?”

Hermione read aloud:

“In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic

passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented

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level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“ ‘ The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-

on at Hogwarts for some time,’ said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. ‘ He is now responding to

concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the

school may be moving in a direction they do not

approve. ’

“This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has

used new laws to effect improvements at the

Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th

Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure

that, in the event of the current headmaster being

unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the

Ministry should select an appropriate person.

“ ‘ That’s how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed

to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley last

night. ‘ Dumbledore couldn’t find anyone, so the

Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she’s been an

immediate success —’ ”

“She’s been a WHAT?” said Harry loudly.

“Wait, there’s more,” said Hermione grimly.

“ ‘— an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the

teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and

providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback

about what’s really happening at Hogwarts. ’

“It is this last function that the Ministry has now

formalized with the passing of Educational Decree

Twenty-three, which creates the new position of

‘ Hogwarts High Inquisitor. ’

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“ ‘ This is an exciting new phase in the Minister’s plan to get to grips with what some are calling the “falling

standards” at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley. ‘ The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and

make sure that they are coming up to scratch.

Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in

addition to her own teaching post, and we are

delighted to say that she has accepted. ’

“The Ministry’s new moves have received enthusiastic

support from parents of students at Hogwarts.

“ ‘ I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that

Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective

evaluation,’ said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from

his Wiltshire mansion last night. ‘Many of us with our

children’s best interests at heart have been concerned

about some of Dumbledore’s eccentric decisions in the

last few years and will be glad to know that the

Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation. ’

“Among those ‘ eccentric decisions’ are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described

in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of

werewolf Remus Lupin, half giant Rubeus Hagrid, and

delusional ex-Auror ‘ Mad-Eye’ Moody.

“Rumors abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore,

once Supreme Mugwump of the International

Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the

Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing

the prestigious school of Hogwarts.

“ ‘ I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step

toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in

whom we can all repose confidence,’ said a Ministry

insider last night.

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“Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of

the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts.

“ ‘ Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius

Fudge’s office,’ said Madam Marchbanks. ‘ This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus

Dumbledore.’ ( For a full account of Madam

Marchbanks’ alleged links to subversive goblin groups,

turn to page 17).”

Hermione finished reading and looked across the

table at the other two.

“So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge!

Fudge passed this ‘Educational Decree’ and forced

her on us! And now he’s given her the power to

inspect other teachers!” Hermione was breathing fast

and her eyes were very bright. “I can’t believe this. It’s

outrageous... ”

“I know it is,” said Harry. He looked down at his right

hand, clenched upon the tabletop, and saw the faint

white outline of the words Umbridge had forced him

to cut into his skin.

But a grin was unfurling on Ron’s face.

“What?” said Harry and Hermione together, staring at

him.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see McGonagall inspected,” said

Ron happily. “Umbridge won’t know what’s hit her.”

“Well, come on,” said Hermione, jumping up, “we’d

better get going, if she’s inspecting Binns’s class we

don’t want to be late...”

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But Professor Umbridge was not inspecting their

History of Magic lesson, which was just as dull as the

previous Monday, nor was she in Snape’s dungeon

when they arrived for double Potions, where Harry’s

moonstone essay was handed back to him with a

large, spiky black D scrawled in an upper corner.

“I have awarded you the grades you would have

received if you presented this work in your O.W.L,”

said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among them,

passing back their homework. “This should give you a

realistic idea of what to expect in your examination.”

Snape reached the front of the class and turned to

face them.

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal.

Most of you would have failed had this been your

examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort

for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom

antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out

detentions to those dunces who get D’s.”

He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a

carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!”

Harry realized that Hermione was looking sideways to

see what grade he had received; he slid his

moonstone essay back into his bag as quickly as

possible, feeling that he would rather keep that

information private.

Determined not to give Snape an excuse to fail him

this lesson, Harry read and reread every line of the

instructions on the blackboard at least three times

before acting on them. His Strengthening Solution

was not precisely the clear turquoise shade of

Hermione’s but it was at least blue rather than pink,

like Neville’s, and he delivered a flask of it to Snape’s

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desk at the end of the lesson with a feeling of mingled defiance and relief.

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as last week, was it?” said

Hermione, as they climbed the steps out of the

dungeon and made their way across the entrance hall

toward lunch. “And the homework didn’t go too badly

either, did it?”

When neither Ron nor Harry answered, she pressed

on, “I mean, all right, I didn’t expect the top grade,

not if he’s marking to O.W.L. standard, but a pass is

quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“Of course, a lot can happen between now and the

exam, we’ve got plenty of time to improve, but the

grades we’re getting now are a sort of baseline, aren’t

they? Something we can build on …”

They sat down together at the Gryffindor table.

“Obviously, I’d have been thrilled if I’d gotten an O —”

“Hermione,” said Ron sharply, “if you want to know

what grades we got, ask.”

“I don’t — I didn’t mean — well, if you want to tell me

—”

“I got a P,” said Ron, ladling soup into his bowl.

“Happy?”

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Fred,

who had just arrived at the table with George and Lee

Jordan and was sitting down on Harry’s right.

“Nothing wrong with a good healthy P.”

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“But,” said Hermione, “doesn’t P stand for …”

“ ‘Poor,’ yeah,” said Lee Jordan. “Still, better than D,

isn’t it? ‘Dreadful’?”

Harry felt his face grow warm and faked a small

coughing fit over his roll. When he emerged from this

he was sorry to find that Hermione was still in full

flow about O.W.L. grades.

“So top grade’s O for ‘Outstanding,’ ” she was saying,

“and then there’s A —”

“No, E,” George corrected her, “E for ‘Exceeds

Expectations.’ And I’ve always thought Fred and I

should’ve got E in everything, because we exceeded

expectations just by turning up for the exams.”

They all laughed except Hermione, who plowed on,

“So after E, it’s A for ‘Acceptable,’ and that’s the last

pass grade, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” said Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup,

transferring it to his mouth, and swallowing it whole.

“Then you get P for ‘Poor’ ” — Ron raised both his

arms in mock celebration — “and D for ‘Dreadful.’ ”

“And then T,” George reminded him.

“T?” asked Hermione, looking appalled. “Even lower

than a D? What on earth does that stand for?”

“ ‘Troll,’ ” said George promptly.

Harry laughed again, though he was not sure whether

or not George was joking. He imagined trying to

conceal from Hermione that he had received T’s in all

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his O.W.L.s and immediately resolved to work harder

from now on.

“You lot had an inspected lesson yet?” Fred asked

them.

“No,” said Hermione at once, “have you?”

“Just now, before lunch,” said George. “Charms.”

“What was it like?” Harry and Hermione asked

together.

Fred shrugged.

“Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner

making notes on a clipboard. You know what

Flitwick’s like, he treated her like a guest, didn’t seem

to bother him at all. She didn’t say much. Asked

Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes

are normally like, Alicia told her they were really

good, that was it.”

“I can’t see old Flitwick getting marked down,” said

George, “he usually gets everyone through their

exams all right.”

“Who’ve you got this afternoon?” Fred asked Harry.

“Trelawney —”

“A T if ever I saw one —”

“— and Umbridge herself.”

“Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with

Umbridge today,” said George. “Angelina’ll do her nut

if you miss any more Quidditch practices.”

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But Harry did not have to wait for Defense Against

the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. He was

pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back

of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed

him in the ribs and, looking round, he saw Professor

Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor.

The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent

at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made

Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about

handing out Dream Oracles, look round.

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,” said Professor

Umbridge with her wide smile. “You received my note,

I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very

disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge

and continued to give out books. Still smiling,

Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest

armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that

it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney’s seat.

She then sat down, took her clipboard from her

flowery bag, and looked up expectantly, waiting for

the class to begin.

Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her

with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class

through her hugely magnifying lenses. “We shall be

continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,” she

said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones,

though her voice shook slightly. “Divide into pairs,

please, and interpret each other’s latest nighttime

visions with the aid of the Oracle. ”

She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw

Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and

immediately veered left toward Parvati and Lavender,

who were already deep in discussion about Parvati’s

most recent dream.

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Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly. She was making notes on her

clipboard now. After a few minutes she got to her feet

and began to pace the room in Trelawney’s wake,

listening to her conversations with students and

posing questions here and there. Harry bent his head

hurriedly over his book.

“Think of a dream, quick,” he told Ron, “in case the

old toad comes our way.”

“I did it last time,” Ron protested, “it’s your turn, you

tell me one.”

“Oh, I dunno …” said Harry desperately, who could

not remember dreaming anything at all over the last

few days. “Let’s say I dreamed I was … drowning

Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that’ll do...”

Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle.

“Okay, we’ve got to add your age to the date you had

the dream, the number of letters in the subject …

would that be ‘drowning’ or ‘cauldron’ or ‘Snape’?”

“It doesn’t matter, pick any of them,” said Harry,

chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge

was now standing at Professor Trelawney’s shoulder

making notes while the Divination teacher questioned

Neville about his dream diary.

“What night did you dream this again?” Ron said,

immersed in calculations.

“I dunno, last night, whenever you like,” Harry told

him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to

Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away

from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was

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making another note on her clipboard and Professor

Trelawney was looking extremely put out.

“Now,” said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney,

“you’ve been in this post how long, exactly?”

Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and

shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect

herself as much as possible from the indignity of the

inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed

to decide that the question was not so offensive that

she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply

resentful tone, “Nearly sixteen years.”

“Quite a period,” said Professor Umbridge, making a

note on her clipboard. “So it was Professor

Dumbledore who appointed you?”

“That’s right,” said Professor Trelawney shortly.

Professor Umbridge made another note.

“And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the

celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?”

“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a

little higher.

Another note on the clipboard.

“But I think — correct me if I am mistaken — that

you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be

possessed of second sight?”

“These things often skip — er — three generations,”

said Professor Trelawney.

Professor Umbridge’s toadlike smile widened.

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“Of course,” she said sweetly, making yet another

note. “Well, if you could just predict something for

me, then?”

She looked up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor

Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe

her ears.

“I don’t understand you,” said Professor Trelawney,

clutching convulsively at the shawl around her

scrawny neck.

“I’d like you to make a prediction for me,” said

Professor Umbridge very clearly.

Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and

listening sneakily from behind their books now; most

of the class were staring transfixed at Professor

Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height,

her beads and bangles clinking.

“The Inner Eye does not See upon command!” she

said in scandalized tones.

“I see,” said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet

another note on her clipboard.

“I — but — but … wait!” said Professor Trelawney

suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice,

though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by

the way it was shaking with anger. “I … I think I do

see something … something that concerns you... Why,

I sense something … something dark … some grave

peril …”

Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at

Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at

her, eyebrows raised.

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“I am afraid … I am afraid that you are in grave

danger!” Professor Trelawney finished dramatically.

There was a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows

were still raised.

“Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard

once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do

…”

She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney

standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry

caught Ron’s eye and knew that Ron was thinking

exactly the same as he was: They both knew that

Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the

other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they

felt very much on Trelawney’s side — until she

swooped down on them a few seconds later, that was.

“Well?” she said, snapping her long fingers under

Harry’s nose, uncharacteristically brisk. “Let me see

the start you’ve made on your dream diary, please.”

And by the time she had interpreted Harry’s dreams

at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that

involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a

gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less

sympathetic toward her. All the while, Professor

Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that

clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the

silver ladder first so that she was waiting for them all

when they reached their Defense Against the Dark

Arts lesson ten minutes later.

She was humming and smiling to herself when they

entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who

had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened

in Divination while they all took out their copies of

Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could

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ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called

them all to order and silence fell.

“Wands away,” she instructed them all smilingly, and

those people who had been hopeful enough to take

them out sadly returned them to their bags. “As we

finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all

to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter

two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their

Derivation.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat

down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it

turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered

dully whether there were enough chapters in the book

to keep them reading through all this year’s lessons

and was on the point of checking the contents when

he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air

again.

Professor Umbridge had noticed too, and what was

more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for

just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend

she had not noticed Hermione, she got to her feet and

walked around the front row of desks until they were

face-to-face, then she bent down and whispered, so

that the rest of the class could not hear, “What is it

this time, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve already read chapter two,” said Hermione.

“Well then, proceed to chapter three.”

“I’ve read that too. I’ve read the whole book.”

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise

almost instantly.

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“Well, then, you should be able to tell me what

Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter

fifteen.”

“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named,”

said Hermione promptly. “He says ‘counterjinx’ is just

a name people give their jinxes when they want to

make them sound more acceptable.”

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Harry

knew she was impressed against her will.

“But I disagree,” Hermione continued.

Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows rose a little higher and

her gaze became distinctly colder.

“You disagree?”

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge,

was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying

voice that had by now attracted the rest of the class’s

attention. “Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes, does he?

But I think they can be very useful when they’re used

defensively.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Professor Umbridge,

forgetting to whisper and straightening up. “Well, I’m

afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard’s opinion, and not yours,

that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.”

“But —” Hermione began.

“That is enough,” said Professor Umbridge. She

walked back to the front of the class and stood before

them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the

beginning of the lesson gone. “Miss Granger, I am

going to take five points from Gryffindor House.”

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There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

“What for?” said Harry angrily.

“Don’t you get involved!” Hermione whispered

urgently to him.

“For disrupting my class with pointless

interruptions,” said Professor Umbridge smoothly. “I

am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved

method that does not include inviting students to give

their opinions on matters about which they

understand very little. Your previous teachers in this

subject may have allowed you more license, but as

none of them — with the possible exception of

Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have

restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects —

would have passed a Ministry inspection —”

“Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher,” said Harry

loudly, “there was just that minor drawback of him

having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his

head.”

This pronouncement was followed by one of the

loudest silences Harry had ever heard. Then —

“I think another week’s detentions would do you some

good, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge sleekly.

* * *

The cut on the back of Harry’s hand had barely

healed and by the following morning, it was bleeding

again. He did not complain during the evening’s

detention; he was determined not to give Umbridge

the satisfaction; over and over again he wrote I must

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not tell lies and not a sound escaped his lips, though the cut deepened with every letter.

The very worst part of this second week’s worth of

detentions was, just as George had predicted,

Angelina’s reaction. She cornered him just as he

arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on

Tuesday and shouted so loudly that Professor

McGonagall came sweeping down upon the pair of

them from the staff table.

“Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in

the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!”

“But Professor — he’s gone and landed himself in

detention again —”

“What’s this, Potter?” said Professor McGonagall

sharply, rounding on Harry. “Detention? From

whom?”

“From Professor Umbridge,” muttered Harry, not

meeting Professor McGonagall’s beady, square-framed

eyes.

“Are you telling me,” she said, lowering her voice so

that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind them

could not hear, “that after the warning I gave you last

Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge’s

class again?”

“Yes,” Harry muttered, speaking to the floor.

“Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are

heading for serious trouble! Another five points from

Gryffindor!”

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“But — what? Professor, no!” Harry said, furious at

this injustice. “I’m already being punished by her,

why do you have to take points as well?”

“Because detentions do not appear to have any effect

on you whatsoever!” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

“No, not another word of complaint, Potter! And as for

you, Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting

matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk

losing the team Captaincy!”

She strode back toward the staff table. Angelina gave

Harry a look of deepest disgust and stalked away,

upon which Harry flung himself onto the bench

beside Ron, fuming.

“She’s taken points off Gryffindor because I’m having

my hand sliced open every night! How is that fair,

how?”

“I know, mate,” said Ron sympathetically, tipping

bacon onto Harry’s plate, “she’s bang out of order.”

Hermione, however, merely rustled the pages of her

Daily Prophet and said nothing.

“You think McGonagall was right, do you?” said Harry

angrily to the picture of Cornelius Fudge obscuring

Hermione’s face.

“I wish she hadn’t taken points from you, but I think

she’s right to warn you not to lose your temper with

Umbridge,” said Hermione’s voice, while Fudge

gesticulated forcefully from the front page, clearly

giving some kind of speech.

Harry did not speak to Hermione all through Charms,

but when they entered Transfiguration he forgot his

anger; Professor Umbridge and her clipboard were

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sitting in a corner and the sight of her drove the

memory of breakfast right out of his head.

“Excellent,” whispered Ron, as they sat down in their

usual seats. “Let’s see Umbridge get what she

deserves.”

Professor McGonagall marched into the room without

giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor

Umbridge was there.

“That will do,” she said and silence fell immediately.

“Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the

homework — Miss Brown, please take this box of

mice — don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you — and

hand one to each student —”

“Hem, hem, ” said Professor Umbridge, employing the

same silly little cough she had used to interrupt

Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor

McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back

Harry’s essay; Harry took it without looking at him

and saw, to his relief, that he had managed an A.

“Right then, everyone, listen closely — Dean Thomas,

if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in

detention — most of you have now successfully

vanished your snails and even those who were left

with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the

spell. Today we shall be —”

“Hem, hem, ” said Professor Umbridge.

“Yes?” said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her

eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one

long, severe line.

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“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you

received my note telling you of the date and time of

your inspec —”

“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you

what you are doing in my classroom,” said Professor

McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor

Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of

glee. “As I was saying, today we shall be practicing

the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now,

the Vanishing Spell —”

“Hem, hem. ”

“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury,

turning on Professor Umbridge, “how you expect to

gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you

continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally

permit people to talk when I am talking.”

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just

been slapped in the face. She did not speak, but

straightened the parchment on her clipboard and

began scribbling furiously. Looking supremely

unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the

class once more.

“As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more

difficult with the complexity of the animal to be

vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not

present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a

mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not,

therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind

on your dinner. So — you know the incantation, let

me see what you can do...”

“How she can lecture me about not losing my temper

with Umbridge!” Harry said to Ron under his voice,

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but he was grinning; his anger with Professor

McGonagall had quite evaporated.

Professor Umbridge did not follow Professor

McGonagall around the class as she had followed

Professor Trelawney; perhaps she thought that

Professor McGonagall would not permit it. She did,

however, take many more notes while she sat in her

corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told

them all to pack away, rose with a grim expression on

her face.

“Well, it’s a start,” said Ron, holding up a long,

wriggling mouse tail and dropping it back into the box

Lavender was passing around.

As they filed out of the classroom, Harry saw

Professor Umbridge approach the teacher’s desk; he

nudged Ron, who nudged Hermione in turn, and the

three of them deliberately fell back to eavesdrop.

“How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?”

Professor Umbridge asked.

“Thirty-nine years this December,” said Professor

McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut.

Professor Umbridge made a note.

“Very well,” she said, “you will receive the results of

your inspection in ten days’ time.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Professor McGonagall in a

coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off toward the

door. “Hurry up, you three,” she added, sweeping

Harry, Ron, and Hermione before her. Harry could not

help giving her a faint smile and could have sworn he

received one in return.

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He had thought that the next time he would see

Umbridge would be in his detention that evening, but

he was wrong. When they walked down the lawns

toward the forest for Care of Magical Creatures, they

found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside

Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“You do not usually take this class, is that correct?”

Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle

table where the group of captive bowtruckles were

scrabbling around for wood lice like so many living

twigs.

“Quite correct,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands

behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her

feet. “I am a substitute teacher standing in for

Professor Hagrid.”

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and

Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and

Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell

tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry.

“Hmm,” said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice,

though Harry could still hear her quite clearly, “I

wonder — the headmaster seems strangely reluctant

to give me any information on the matter — can you

tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid’s very

extended leave of absence?”

Harry saw Malfoy look up eagerly.

“ ’Fraid I can’t,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank

breezily. “Don’t know anything more about it than

you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a

couple of weeks teaching work, accepted — that’s as

much as I know. Well … shall I get started then?”

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“Yes, please do,” said Professor Umbridge, scribbling upon her clipboard.

Umbridge took a different tack in this class and

wandered among the students, questioning them on

magical creatures. Most people were able to answer

well and Harry’s spirits lifted somewhat; at least the

class was not letting Hagrid down.

“Overall,” said Professor Umbridge, returning to

Professor Grubbly-Plank’s side after a lengthy

interrogation of Dean Thomas, “how do you, as a

temporary member of staff — an objective outsider, I

suppose you might say — how do you find Hogwarts?

Do you feel you receive enough support from the

school management?”

“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” said Professor

Grubbly-Plank heartily. “No, I’m very happy with the

way things are run, very happy indeed.”

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny

note on her clipboard and went on, “And what are you

planning to cover with this class this year —

assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not

return?”

“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most

often come up in O.W.L.,” said Professor Grubbly-

Plank. “Not much left to do — they’ve studied

unicorns and nifflers, I thought we’d cover porlocks

and kneazles, make sure they can recognize crups

and knarls, you know...”

“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, at any

rate,” said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious

tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis

she put on “you” and liked it even less when she put

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her next question to Goyle: “Now, I hear there have

been injuries in this class?”

Goyle gave a stupid grin. Malfoy hastened to answer

the question.

“That was me,” he said. “I was slashed by a

hippogriff.”

“A hippogriff?” said Professor Umbridge, now

scribbling frantically.

“Only because he was too stupid to listen to what

Hagrid told him to do,” said Harry angrily.

Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge

turned her head slowly in Harry’s direction.

“Another night’s detention, I think,” she said softly.

“Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank,

I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the

results of your inspection within ten days.”

“Jolly good,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and

Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to

the castle.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge’s

office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely

that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around

it. He expected the common room to be empty when

he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up

waiting for him. He was pleased to see them,

especially as Hermione was disposed to be

sympathetic rather than critical.

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“Here,” she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of

yellow liquid toward him, “soak your hand in that, it’s

a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles,

it should help.”

Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl

and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief.

Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly,

and then leapt into his lap and settled down.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, scratching behind

Crookshanks’s ears with his left hand.

“I still reckon you should complain about this,” said

Ron in a low voice.

“No,” said Harry flatly.

“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew —”

“Yeah, she probably would,” said Harry. “And how

long d’you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another

Decree saying anyone who complains about the High

Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?”

Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out

and after a moment he closed it again in a defeated

sort of way.

“She’s an awful woman,” said Hermione in a small

voice. “Awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron

when you came in … we’ve got to do something about

her.”

“I suggested poison,” said Ron grimly.

“No … I mean, something about what a dreadful

teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any

defense from her at all,” said Hermione.

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“Well, what can we do about that?” said Ron,

yawning. “ ’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job, she’s

here to stay, Fudge’ll make sure of that.”

“Well,” said Hermione tentatively. “You know, I was

thinking today...” She shot a slightly nervous look at

Harry and then plunged on, “I was thinking that —

maybe the time’s come when we should just — just

do it ourselves.”

“Do what ourselves?” said Harry suspiciously, still

floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles.

“Well — learn Defense Against the Dark Arts

ourselves,” said Hermione.

“Come off it,” groaned Ron. “You want us to do extra

work? D’you realize Harry and I are behind on

homework again and it’s only the second week?”

“But this is much more important than homework!”

said Hermione.

Harry and Ron goggled at her.

“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe

more important than homework,” said Ron.

“Don’t be silly, of course there is!” said Hermione, and

Harry saw, with an ominous feeling, that her face was

suddenly alight with the kind of fervor that S.P.E.W.

usually inspired in her. “It’s about preparing

ourselves, like Harry said in Umbridge’s first lesson,

for what’s waiting out there. It’s about making sure

we really can defend ourselves. If we don’t learn

anything for a whole year —”

“We can’t do much by ourselves,” said Ron in a

defeated voice. “I mean, all right, we can go and look

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jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose —”

“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can

just learn things out of books,” said Hermione. “We

need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how

to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.”

“If you’re talking about Lupin …” Harry began.

“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” said Hermione.

“He’s too busy with the Order and anyway, the most

we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and

that’s not nearly often enough.”

“Who, then?” said Harry, frowning at her.

Hermione heaved a very deep sigh.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “I’m talking about you,

Harry.”

There was a moment’s silence. A light night breeze

rattled the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire

guttered.

“About me what?” said Harry.

“I’m talking about you teaching us Defense Against

the Dark Arts.”

Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, ready to

exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes

shared when Hermione elaborated on far-fetched

schemes like S.P.E.W. To Harry’s consternation,

however, Ron did not look exasperated. He was

frowning slightly, apparently thinking. Then he said,

“That’s an idea.”

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“What’s an idea?” said Harry.

“You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.”

“But …”

Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were

pulling his leg.

“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t —”

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against

the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.

“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than

ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test —”

“Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat

me in our third year — the only year we both sat the

test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject.

But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Look

what you’ve done!”

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this

stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking

slightly. He turned to Harry. “Let’s think,” he said,

pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh … first

year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“But that was luck,” said Harry, “that wasn’t skill —”

“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the

basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I —”

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“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred dementors at once —”

“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t

—”

“Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you

fought off You-Know-Who again —”

“Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily, because

Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. “Just

listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it

like that, but all that stuff was luck — I didn’t know

what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it,

I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly

always had help —”

Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt

his temper rise; he wasn’t even sure why he was

feeling so angry.

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I

do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know

what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any

of that because I was brilliant at Defense Against the

Dark Arts, I got through it all because — because

help came at the right time, or because I guessed

right — but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t

have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!”

The bowl of murtlap essence fell to the floor and

smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet,

though he couldn’t remember standing up.

Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa; Ron and

Hermione’s smiles had vanished.

“You don’t know what it’s like! You — neither of you

— you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think

it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing

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them at him, like you’re in class or something? The

whole time you know there’s nothing between you

and dying except your own — your own brain or guts

or whatever — like you can think straight when you

know you’re about a second from being murdered, or

tortured, or watching your friends die — they’ve never

taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal

with things like that — and you two sit there acting

like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive,

like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up — you just

don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it

would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me —”

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said

Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at

Diggory, we didn’t — you’ve got the wrong end of the

—”

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was

stricken.

“Harry,” she said timidly, “don’t you see? This … this

is exactly why we need you... We need to know what

it’s r-really like … facing him … facing V-Voldemort.”

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort’s

name, and it was this, more than anything else, that

calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into

his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand

was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not

smashed the bowl of murtlap essence.

“Well … think about it,” said Hermione quietly.

“Please?”

Harry could not think of anything to say. He was

feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded,

hardly aware of what he was agreeing to.

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Hermione stood up.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said in a voice that was

clearly as natural as she could make it. “Erm …

’night.”

Ron had gotten to his feet too.

“Coming?” he said awkwardly to Harry.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “In … in a minute. I’ll just clear

this up.”

He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron

nodded and left.

“Reparo, ” Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the

broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good

as new, but there was no returning the murtlap

essence to the bowl.

He was suddenly so tired that he was tempted to sink

back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead

he got to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His

restless night was punctuated once more by dreams

of long corridors and locked doors, and he awoke next

day with his scar prickling again.

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IN THE HOG’S HEAD

Hermione made no mention of Harry giving Defense

Against the Dark Arts lessons for two whole weeks

after her original suggestion. Harry’s detentions with

Umbridge were finally over (he doubted whether the

words now etched on the back of his hand would ever

fade entirely); Ron had had four more Quidditch

practices and not been shouted at during the last

two; and all three of them had managed to vanish

their mice in Transfiguration (Hermione had actually

progressed to vanishing kittens), before the subject

was broached again, on a wild, blustery evening at

the end of September, when the three of them were

sitting in the library, looking up potion ingredients for

Snape.

“I was wondering,” Hermione said suddenly, “whether

you’d thought any more about Defense Against the

Dark Arts, Harry.”

“ ’Course I have,” said Harry grumpily. “Can’t forget it,

can we, with that hag teaching us —”

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“I meant the idea Ron and I had” — Ron cast her an

alarmed, threatening kind of look; she frowned at him

— “oh, all right, the idea I had, then — about you

teaching us.”

Harry did not answer at once. He pretended to be

perusing a page of Asiatic Anti-Venoms, because he

did not want to say what was in his mind.

The fact was that he had given the matter a great deal

of thought over the past fortnight. Sometimes it

seemed an insane idea, just as it had on the night

Hermione had proposed it, but at others, he had

found himself thinking about the spells that had

served him best in his various encounters with Dark

creatures and Death Eaters — found himself, in fact,

subconsciously planning lessons...

“Well,” he said slowly, when he could not pretend to

find Asiatic anti-venoms interesting much longer,

“yeah, I — I’ve thought about it a bit.”

“And?” said Hermione eagerly.

“I dunno,” said Harry, playing for time. He looked up

at Ron.

“I thought it was a good idea from the start,” said

Ron, who seemed keener to join in this conversation

now that he was sure that Harry was not going to

start shouting again.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You did listen to what I said about a load of it being

luck, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Harry,” said Hermione gently, “but all the same,

there’s no point pretending that you’re not good at

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Defense Against the Dark Arts, because you are. You

were the only person last year who could throw off the

Imperius Curse completely, you can produce a

Patronus, you can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown

wizards can’t, Viktor always said —”

Ron looked around at her so fast he appeared to crick

his neck; rubbing it, he said, “Yeah? What did Vicky

say?”

“Ho ho,” said Hermione in a bored voice. “He said

Harry knew how to do stuff even he didn’t, and he

was in the final year at Durmstrang.”

Ron was looking at Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re not still in contact with him, are you?”

“So what if I am?” said Hermione coolly, though her

face was a little pink. “I can have a pen pal if I —”

“He didn’t only want to be your pen pal,” said Ron

accusingly.

Hermione shook her head exasperatedly and, ignoring

Ron, who was continuing to watch her, said to Harry,

“Well, what do you think? Will you teach us?”

“Just you and Ron, yeah?”

“Well,” said Hermione, now looking a mite anxious

again. “Well … now, don’t fly off the handle again,

Harry, please... But I really think you ought to teach

anyone who wants to learn. I mean, we’re talking

about defending ourselves against V-Voldemort — oh,

don’t be pathetic, Ron — it doesn’t seem fair if we

don’t offer the chance to other people.”

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Harry considered this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, but I doubt anyone except you two would want to be

taught by me. I’m a nutter, remember?”

“Well, I think you might be surprised how many

people would be interested in hearing what you’ve got

to say,” said Hermione seriously. “Look,” she leaned

toward him; Ron, who was still watching her with a

frown on his face, leaned forward to listen too, “you

know the first weekend in October’s a Hogsmeade

weekend? How would it be if we tell anyone who’s

interested to meet us in the village and we can talk it

over?”

“Why do we have to do it outside school?” said Ron.

“Because,” said Hermione, returning to the diagram of

the Chinese Chomping Cabbage she was copying, “I

don’t think Umbridge would be very happy if she

found out what we were up to.”

Harry had been looking forward to the weekend trip

into Hogsmeade, but there was one thing worrying

him. Sirius had maintained a stony silence since he

had appeared in the fire at the beginning of

September; Harry knew they had made him angry by

saying that they did not want him to come — but he

still worried from time to time that Sirius might throw

caution to the winds and turn up anyway. What were

they going to do if the great black dog came bounding

up the street toward them in Hogsmeade, perhaps

under the nose of Draco Malfoy?

“Well, you can’t blame him for wanting to get out and

about,” said Ron, when Harry discussed his fears

with him and Hermione. “I mean, he’s been on the

run for over two years, hasn’t he, and I know that

can’t have been a laugh, but at least he was free,

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wasn’t he? And now he’s just shut up all the time

with that lunatic elf.”

Hermione scowled at Ron, but otherwise ignored the

slight on Kreacher.

“The trouble is,” she said to Harry, “until V-Voldemort

— oh for heaven’s sake, Ron — comes out into the

open, Sirius is going to have to stay hidden, isn’t he? I

mean, the stupid Ministry isn’t going to realize Sirius

is innocent until they accept that Dumbledore’s been

telling the truth about him all along. And once the

fools start catching real Death Eaters again it’ll be

obvious Sirius isn’t one … I mean, he hasn’t got the

Mark, for one thing.”

“I don’t reckon he’d be stupid enough to turn up,”

said Ron bracingly. “Dumbledore’d go mad if he did

and Sirius listens to Dumbledore even if he doesn’t

like what he hears.”

When Harry continued to look worried, Hermione

said, “Listen, Ron and I have been sounding out

people who we thought might want to learn some

proper Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there are a

couple who seem interested. We’ve told them to meet

us in Hogsmeade.”

“Right,” said Harry vaguely, his mind still on Sirius.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “You’ve

got enough on your plate without Sirius too.”

She was quite right, of course; he was barely keeping

up with his homework, though he was doing much

better now that he was no longer spending every

evening in detention with Umbridge. Ron was even

further behind with his work than Harry, because

while they both had Quidditch practices twice a week,

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Ron also had prefect duties. However, Hermione, who

was taking more subjects than either of them, had

not only finished all her homework but was also

finding time to knit more elf clothes. Harry had to

admit that she was getting better; it was now almost

always possible to distinguish between the hats and

the socks.

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright

but windy. After breakfast they queued up in front of

Filch, who matched their names to the long list of

students who had permission from their parents or

guardian to visit the village. With a slight pang, Harry

remembered that if it hadn’t been for Sirius, he would

not have been going at all.

When Harry reached Filch, the caretaker gave a great

sniff as though trying to detect a whiff of something

from Harry. Then he gave a curt nod that set his jowls

aquiver again and Harry walked on, out onto the

stone steps and the cold, sunlit day.

“Er — why was Filch sniffing you?” asked Ron, as he,

Harry, and Hermione set off at a brisk pace down the

wide drive to the gates.

“I suppose he was checking for the smell of

Dungbombs,” said Harry with a small laugh. “I forgot

to tell you …”

And he recounted the story of sending his letter to

Sirius and Filch bursting in seconds later, demanding

to see the letter. To his slight surprise, Hermione

found this story highly interesting, much more,

indeed, than he did himself.

“He said he was tipped off you were ordering

Dungbombs? But who had tipped him off?”

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“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging. “Maybe Malfoy, he’d think it was a laugh.”

They walked between the tall stone pillars topped

with winged boars and turned left onto the road into

the village, the wind whipping their hair into their

eyes.

“Malfoy?” said Hermione, very skeptically. “Well … yes

… maybe …”

And she remained deep in thought all the way into

the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

“Where are we going anyway?” Harry asked. “The

Three Broomsticks?”

“Oh — no,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie,

“no, it’s always packed and really noisy. I’ve told the

others to meet us in the Hog’s Head, that other pub,

you know the one, it’s not on the main road. I think

it’s a bit … you know … dodgy … but students don’t

normally go in there, so I don’t think we’ll be

overheard.”

They walked down the main street past Zonko’s Joke

Shop, where they were unsurprised to see Fred,

George, and Lee Jordan, past the post office, from

which owls issued at regular intervals, and turned up

a side street at the top of which stood a small inn. A

battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over

the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar’s

severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth

around it. The sign creaked in the wind as they

approached. All three of them hesitated outside the

door.

“Well, come on,” said Hermione slightly nervously.

Harry led the way inside.

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It was not at all like the Three Broomsticks, whose

large bar gave an impression of gleaming warmth and

cleanliness. The Hog’s Head bar comprised one small,

dingy, and very dirty room that smelled strongly of

something that might have been goats. The bay

windows were so encrusted with grime that very little

daylight could permeate the room, which was lit

instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rough

wooden tables. The floor seemed at first glance to be

earthy, though as Harry stepped onto it he realized

that there was stone beneath what seemed to be the

accumulated filth of centuries.

Harry remembered Hagrid mentioning this pub in his

first year: “Yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s

Head, ” he had said, explaining how he had won a

dragons egg from a hooded stranger there. At the time

Harry had wondered why Hagrid had not found it odd

that the stranger kept his face hidden throughout

their encounter; now he saw that keeping your face

hidden was something of a fashion in the Hog’s Head.

There was a man at the bar whose whole head was

wrapped in dirty gray bandages, though he was still

managing to gulp endless glasses of some smoking,

fiery substance through a slit over his mouth. Two

figures shrouded in hoods sat at a table in one of the

windows; Harry might have thought them dementors

if they had not been talking in strong Yorkshire

accents; in a shadowy corner beside the fireplace sat

a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes.

They could just see the tip of her nose because it

caused the veil to protrude slightly.

“I don’t know about this, Hermione,” Harry muttered,

as they crossed to the bar. He was looking

particularly at the heavily veiled witch. “Has it

occurred to you Umbridge might be under that?”

Hermione cast an appraising eye at the veiled figure.

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“Umbridge is shorter than that woman,” she said

quietly. “And anyway, even if Umbridge does come in

here there’s nothing she can do to stop us, Harry,

because I’ve double- and triple-checked the school

rules. We’re not out-of-bounds; I specifically asked

Professor Flitwick whether students were allowed to

come in the Hog’s Head, and he said yes, but he

advised me strongly to bring our own glasses. And I’ve

looked up everything I can think of about study

groups and homework groups and they’re definitely

allowed. I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we parade

what we’re doing.”

“No,” said Harry dryly, “especially as it’s not exactly a

homework group you’re planning, is it?”

The barman sidled toward them out of a back room.

He was a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of

long gray hair and beard. He was tall and thin and

looked vaguely familiar to Harry.

“What?” he grunted.

“Three butterbeers, please,” said Hermione.

The man reached beneath the counter and pulled up

three very dusty, very dirty bottles, which he

slammed on the bar.

“Six Sickles,” he said.

“I’ll get them,” said Harry quickly, passing over the

silver. The barman’s eyes traveled over Harry, resting

for a fraction of a second on his scar. Then he turned

away and deposited Harry’s money in an ancient

wooden till whose drawer slid open automatically to

receive it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione retreated to the

farthest table from the bar and sat down, looking

around, while the man in the dirty gray bandages

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rapped the counter with his knuckles and received

another smoking drink from the barman.

“You know what?” Ron murmured, looking over at the

bar with enthusiasm. “We could order anything we

liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything,

he wouldn’t care. I’ve always wanted to try firewhisky

—”

“You — are — a — prefect, ” snarled Hermione.

“Oh,” said Ron, the smile fading from his face. “Yeah

…”

“So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?”

Harry asked, wrenching open the rusty top of his

butterbeer and taking a swig.

“Just a couple of people,” Hermione repeated,

checking her watch and then looking anxiously

toward the door. “I told them to be here about now

and I’m sure they all know where it is — oh look, this

might be them now —”

The door of the pub had opened. A thick band of

dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment

and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a

crowd of people.

First came Neville with Dean and Lavender, who were

closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with

(Harry’s stomach did a back flip) Cho and one of her

usually giggling girlfriends, then (on her own and

looking so dreamy that she might have walked in by

accident) Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia

Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis

Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley,

Hannah Abbott, and a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait

down her back whose name Harry did not know;

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three Ravenclaw boys he was pretty sure were called

Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot;

Ginny, followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an

upturned nose whom Harry recognized vaguely as

being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and

bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with

their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were

carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko’s

merchandise.

“A couple of people?” said Harry hoarsely to

Hermione. “A couple of people?”

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,” said

Hermione happily. “Ron, do you want to pull up some

more chairs?”

The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a

glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had

never been washed. Possibly he had never seen his

pub so full.

“Hi,” said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting

his companions quickly. “Could we have … twenty-

five butterbeers, please?”

The barman glared at him for a moment, then,

throwing down his rag irritably as though he had

been interrupted in something very important, he

started passing up dusty butterbeers from under the

bar.

“Cheers,” said Fred, handing them out. “Cough up,

everyone, I haven’t got enough gold for all of these...”

Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group

took their beers from Fred and rummaged in their

robes to find coins. He could not imagine what all

these people had turned up for until the horrible

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thought occurred to him that they might be expecting

some kind of speech, at which he rounded on

Hermione.

“What have you been telling people?” he said in a low

voice. “What are they expecting?”

“I’ve told you, they just want to hear what you’ve got

to say,” said Hermione soothingly; but Harry

continued to look at her so furiously that she added

quickly, “You don’t have to do anything yet, I’ll speak

to them first.”

“Hi, Harry,” said Neville, beaming and taking a seat

opposite Harry.

Harry tried to smile back, but did not speak; his

mouth was exceptionally dry. Cho had just smiled at

him and sat down on Ron’s right. Her friend, who had

curly reddish-blonde hair, did not smile, but gave

Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look that told Harry

plainly that, given her way, she would not be here at

all.

In twos and threes the new arrivals settled around

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, some looking rather

excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing

dreamily into space. When everybody had pulled up a

chair, the chatter died out. Every eye was upon

Harry.

“Er,” said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than

usual out of nerves. “Well — er — hi.”

The group focused its attention on her instead,

though eyes continued to dart back regularly to

Harry.

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“Well … erm … well, you know why you’re here. Erm

… well, Harry here had the idea — I mean” — Harry

had thrown her a sharp look — “I had the idea — that

it might be good if people who wanted to study

Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really

study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is

doing with us” — (Hermione’s voice became suddenly

much stronger and more confident) — “because

nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts”

— “Hear, hear,” said Anthony Goldstein, and

Hermione looked heartened — “well, I thought it

would be good if we, well, took matters into our own

hands.”

She paused, looked sideways at Harry, and went on,

“And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves

properly, not just theory but the real spells —”

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts

O.W.L. too though, I bet?” said Michael Corner.

“Of course I do,” said Hermione at once. “But I want

more than that, I want to be properly trained in

Defense because … because …” She took a great

breath and finished, “Because Lord Voldemort’s

back.”

The reaction was immediate and predictable. Cho’s

friend shrieked and slopped butterbeer down herself,

Terry Boot gave a kind of involuntary twitch, Padma

Patil shuddered, and Neville gave an odd yelp that he

managed to turn into a cough. All of them, however,

looked fixedly, even eagerly, at Harry.

“Well … that’s the plan anyway,” said Hermione. “If

you want to join us, we need to decide how we’re

going to —”

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“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” said the

blond Hufflepuff player in a rather aggressive voice.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it —” Hermione began.

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him, ” said the blond

boy, nodding at Harry.

“Who are y ou?” said Ron rather rudely.

“Zacharias Smith,” said the boy, “and I think we’ve

got the right to know exactly what makes him say

You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Look,” said Hermione, intervening swiftly, “that’s

really not what this meeting was supposed to be

about —”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry.

It had just dawned upon him why there were so many

people there. He felt that Hermione should have seen

this coming. Some of these people — maybe even

most of them — had turned up in the hope of hearing

Harry’s story firsthand.

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back?” he

asked, looking Zacharias straight in the face. “I saw

him. But Dumbledore told the whole school what

happened last year, and if you didn’t believe him, you

don’t believe me, and I’m not wasting an afternoon

trying to convince anyone.”

The whole group seemed to have held its breath while

Harry spoke. Harry had the impression that even the

barman was listening in. He was wiping the same

glass with the filthy rag; it was becoming steadily

dirtier.

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Zacharias said dismissively, “All Dumbledore told us

last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-

Know-Who and that you brought Diggory’s body back

to Hogwarts. He didn’t give us details, he didn’t tell us

exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we’d all

like to know —”

“If you’ve come to hear exactly what it looks like when

Voldemort murders someone I can’t help you,” Harry

said. His temper, always so close to the surface these

days, was rising again. He did not take his eyes from

Zacharias Smith’s aggressive face, determined not to

look at Cho. “I don’t want to talk about Cedric

Diggory, all right? So if that’s what you’re here for,

you might as well clear out.”

He cast an angry look in Hermione’s direction. This

was, he felt, all her fault; she had decided to display

him like some sort of freak and of course they had all

turned up to see just how wild his story was... But

none of them left their seats, not even Zacharias

Smith, though he continued to gaze intently at Harry.

“So,” said Hermione, her voice very high-pitched

again. “So … like I was saying … if you want to learn

some defense, then we need to work out how we’re

going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and

where we’re going to —”

“Is it true,” interrupted the girl with the long plait

down her back, looking at Harry, “that you can

produce a Patronus?”

There was a murmur of interest around the group at

this.

“Yeah,” said Harry slightly defensively.

“A corporeal Patronus?”

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The phrase stirred something in Harry’s memory.

“Er — you don’t know Madam Bones, do you?” he

asked.

The girl smiled.

“She’s my auntie,” she said. “I’m Susan Bones. She

told me about your hearing. So — is it really true?

You make a stag Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Blimey, Harry!” said Lee, looking deeply impressed. “I

never knew that!”

“Mum told Ron not to spread it around,” said Fred,

grinning at Harry. “She said you got enough attention

as it was.”

“She’s not wrong,” mumbled Harry and a couple of

people laughed. The veiled witch sitting alone shifted

very slightly in her seat.

“And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in

Dumbledore’s office?” demanded Terry Boot. “That’s

what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I

was in there last year...”

“Er — yeah, I did, yeah,” said Harry.

Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled, the Creevey brothers

exchanged awestruck looks, and Lavender Brown said

“wow” softly. Harry was feeling slightly hot around the

collar now; he was determinedly looking anywhere

but at Cho.

“And in our first year,” said Neville to the group at

large, “he saved that Sorcerous Stone —”

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“Sorcerer’s,” hissed Hermione.

“Yes, that, from You-Know-Who,” finished Neville.

Hannah Abbott’s eyes were as round as Galleons.

“And that’s not to mention,” said Cho (Harry’s eyes

snapped onto her, she was looking at him, smiling;

his stomach did another somersault), “all the tasks he

had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last

year — getting past dragons and merpeople and

acromantulas and things...”

There was a murmur of impressed agreement around

the table.

Harry’s insides were squirming. He was trying to

arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased

with himself. The fact that Cho had just praised him

made it much, much harder for him to say the thing

he had sworn to himself he would tell them.

“Look,” he said and everyone fell silent at once, “I … I

don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest or

anything, but … I had a lot of help with all that

stuff...”

“Not with the dragon, you didn’t,” said Michael Corner

at once. “That was a seriously cool bit of flying...”

“Yeah, well —” said Harry, feeling it would be churlish

to disagree.

“And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors

this summer,” said Susan Bones.

“No,” said Harry, “no, okay, I know I did bits of it

without help, but the point I’m trying to make is —”

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“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of

this stuff?” said Zacharias Smith.

“Here’s an idea,” said Ron loudly, before Harry could

speak, “why don’t you shut your mouth?”

Perhaps the word “weasel” had affected Ron

particularly strongly; in any case, he was now looking

at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better

than to thump him. Zacharias flushed.

“Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him, and now

he’s telling us he can’t really do any of it,” he said.

“That’s not what he said,” snarled Fred Weasley.

“Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?”

inquired George, pulling a long and lethal-looking

metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko’s bags.

“Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy

where we stick this,” said Fred.

“Yes, well,” said Hermione hastily, “moving on … the

point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from

Harry?”

There was a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias

folded his arms and said nothing, though perhaps

this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on

the instrument in George’s hand.

“Right,” said Hermione, looking relieved that

something had at last been settled. “Well, then, the

next question is how often we do it. I really don’t

think there’s any point in meeting less than once a

week —”

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“Hang on,” said Angelina, “we need to make sure this

doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.”

“No,” said Cho, “nor with ours.”

“Nor ours,” added Zacharias Smith.

“I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone,”

said Hermione, slightly impatiently, “but you know,

this is rather important, we’re talking about learning

to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort’s Death

Eaters —”

“Well said!” barked Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry had

been expecting to speak long before this. “Personally I

think this is really important, possibly more

important than anything else we’ll do this year, even

with our O.W.L.s coming up!”

He looked around impressively, as though waiting for

people to cry, “Surely not!” When nobody spoke, he

went on, “I, personally, am at a loss to see why the

Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us

at this critical period. Obviously they are in denial

about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a

teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from

using defensive spells —”

“We think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us

trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said

Hermione, “is that she’s got some … some mad idea

that Dumbledore could use the students in the school

as a kind of private army. She thinks he’d mobilize us

against the Ministry.”

Nearly everybody looked stunned at this news;

everybody except Luna Lovegood, who piped up,

“Well, that makes sense. After all, Cornelius Fudge

has got his own private army.”

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“What?” said Harry, completely thrown by this

unexpected piece of information.

“Yes, he’s got an army of heliopaths,” said Luna

solemnly.

“No, he hasn’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Yes, he has,” said Luna.

“What are heliopaths?” asked Neville, looking blank.

“They’re spirits of fire,” said Luna, her protuberant

eyes widening so that she looked madder than ever.

“Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the

ground burning everything in front of —”

“They don’t exist, Neville,” said Hermione tartly.

“Oh yes they do!” said Luna angrily.

“I’m sorry, but where’s the proof of that?” snapped

Hermione.

“There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just

because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have

everything shoved under your nose before you —”

“Hem, hem, ” said Ginny in such a good imitation of

Professor Umbridge that several people looked around

in alarm and then laughed. “Weren’t we trying to

decide how often we’re going to meet and get Defense

lessons?”

“Yes,” said Hermione at once, “yes, we were, you’re

right...”

“Well, once a week sounds cool,” said Lee Jordan.

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“As long as —” began Angelina.

“Yes, yes, we know about the Quidditch,” said

Hermione in a tense voice. “Well, the other thing to

decide is where we’re going to meet...”

This was rather more difficult; the whole group fell

silent.

“Library?” suggested Katie Bell after a few moments.

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us

doing jinxes in the library,” said Harry.

“Maybe an unused classroom?” said Dean.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “McGonagall might let us have hers,

she did when Harry was practicing for the

Triwizard...”

But Harry was pretty certain that McGonagall would

not be so accommodating this time. For all that

Hermione had said about study and homework

groups being allowed, he had the distinct feeling this

one might be considered a lot more rebellious.

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere,” said

Hermione. “We’ll send a message round to everybody

when we’ve got a time and a place for the first

meeting.”

She rummaged in her bag and produced parchment

and a quill, then hesitated, rather as though she was

steeling herself to say something.

“I-I think everybody should write their name down,

just so we know who was here. But I also think,” she

took a deep breath, “that we all ought to agree not to

shout about what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re

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agreeing not to tell Umbridge — or anybody else —

what we’re up to.”

Fred reached out for the parchment and cheerfully

put down his signature, but Harry noticed at once

that several people looked less than happy at the

prospect of putting their names on the list.

“Er …” said Zacharias slowly, not taking the

parchment that George was trying to pass him. “Well

… I’m sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is.”

But Ernie was looking rather hesitant about signing

too. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

“I — well, we are prefects, ” Ernie burst out. “And if

this list was found … well, I mean to say … you said

yourself, if Umbridge finds out …”

“You just said this group was the most important

thing you’d do this year,” Harry reminded him.

“I — yes,” said Ernie, “yes, I do believe that, it’s just

…”

“Ernie, do you really think I’d leave that list lying

around?” said Hermione testily.

“No. No, of course not,” said Ernie, looking slightly

less anxious. “I — yes, of course I’ll sign.”

Nobody raised objections after Ernie, though Harry

saw Cho’s friend give her a rather reproachful look

before adding her name. When the last person —

Zacharias — had signed, Hermione took the

parchment back and slipped it carefully into her bag.

There was an odd feeling in the group now. It was as

though they had just signed some kind of contract.

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“Well, time’s ticking on,” said Fred briskly, getting to his feet. “George, Lee, and I have got items of a

sensitive nature to purchase, we’ll be seeing you all

later.”

In twos and threes the rest of the group took their

leave too. Cho made rather a business of fastening

the catch on her bag before leaving, her long dark

curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face, but

her friend stood beside her, arms folded, clicking her

tongue, so that Cho had little choice but to leave with

her. As her friend ushered her through the door, Cho

looked back and waved at Harry.

“Well, I think that went quite well,” said Hermione

happily, as she, Harry, and Ron walked out of the

Hog’s Head into the bright sunlight a few moments

later, Harry and Ron still clutching their bottles of

butterbeer.

“That Zacharias bloke’s a wart,” said Ron, who was

glowering after the figure of Smith just discernible in

the distance.

“I don’t like him much either,” admitted Hermione,

“but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at

the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested

in coming, so what could I say? But the more people

the better really — I mean, Michael Corner and his

friends wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going

out with Ginny —”

Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from

his butterbeer bottle, gagged and sprayed butterbeer

down his front.

“He’s WHAT?” said Ron, outraged, his ears now

resembling curls of raw beef. “She’s going out with —

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my sister’s going — what d’you mean, Michael

Corner?”

“Well, that’s why he and his friends came, I think —

well, they’re obviously interested in learning defense,

but if Ginny hadn’t told Michael what was going on —

”

“When did this — when did she — ?”

“They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at

the end of last year,” said Hermione composedly. They

had turned into the High Street and she paused

outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, where there was a

handsome display of pheasant-feather quills in the

window. “Hmm … I could do with a new quill.”

She turned into the shop. Harry and Ron followed

her.

“Which one was Michael Corner?” Ron demanded

furiously.

“The dark one,” said Hermione.

“I didn’t like him,” said Ron at once.

“Big surprise,” said Hermione under her breath.

“But,” said Ron, following Hermione along a row of

quills in copper pots, “I thought Ginny fancied Harry!”

Hermione looked at him rather pityingly and shook

her head.

“Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him

months ago. Not that she doesn’t like you, of course,”

she added kindly to Harry while she examined a long

black-and-gold quill.

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Harry, whose head was still full of Cho’s parting wave, did not find this subject quite as interesting as Ron,

who was positively quivering with indignation, but it

did bring something home to him that until now he

had not really registered.

“So that’s why she talks now?” he asked Hermione.

“She never used to talk in front of me.”

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “Yes, I think I’ll have this

one...”

She went up to the counter and handed over fifteen

Sickles and two Knuts, Ron still breathing down her

neck.

“Ron,” she said severely as she turned and trod on his

feet, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s

seeing Michael, she knew you’d take it badly. So don’t

harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.”

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly? I’m

not going to harp on about anything …”

Ron continued to chunter under his breath all the

way down the street. Hermione rolled her eyes at

Harry and then said in an undertone, while Ron was

muttering imprecations about Michael Corner, “And

talking about Michael and Ginny … what about Cho

and you?”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly.

It was as though boiling water was rising rapidly

inside him; a burning sensation that was causing his

face to smart in the cold — had he been that obvious?

“Well,” said Hermione, smiling slightly, “she just

couldn’t keep her eyes off you, could she?”

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Harry had never before appreciated just how beautiful the village of Hogsmeade was.

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EDUCATIONAL DECREE NUMBER

TWENTY-FOUR

Harry felt happier for the rest of the weekend than he

had done all term. He and Ron spent much of Sunday

catching up with all their homework again, and

although this could hardly be called fun, the last

burst of autumn sunshine persisted, so rather than

sitting hunched over tables in the common room, they

took their work outside and lounged in the shade of a

large beech tree on the edge of the lake. Hermione,

who of course was up to date with all her work,

brought more wool outside with her and bewitched

her knitting needles so that they flashed and clicked

in midair beside her, producing more hats and

scarves.

The knowledge that they were doing something to

resist Umbridge and the Ministry, and that he was a

key part of the rebellion, gave Harry a feeling of

immense satisfaction. He kept reliving Saturday’s

meeting in his mind: all those people, coming to him

to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts … and the

looks on their faces as they had heard some of the

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things he had done … and Cho praising his

performance in the Triwizard Tournament... The

knowledge that all those people did not think him a

lying weirdo, but someone to be admired, buoyed him

up so much that he was still cheerful on Monday

morning, despite the imminent prospect of all his

least favorite classes.

He and Ron headed downstairs from their dormitory

together, discussing Angelina’s idea that they were to

work on a new move called the Sloth Grip Roll during

that night’s Quidditch practice, and not until they

were halfway across the sunlit common room did they

notice the addition to the room that had already

attracted the attention of a small group of people.

A large sign had been affixed to the Gryffindor notice

board, so large that it covered everything else on there

— the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale, the

regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch,

the Quidditch team training schedule, the offers to

barter certain Chocolate Frog cards for others, the

Weasleys’ new advertisement for testers, the dates of

the Hogsmeade weekends, and the lost-and-found

notices. The new sign was printed in large black

letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at

the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.

— BY ORDER OF —

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups,

and Clubs are henceforth disbanded.

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An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is

hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more

students.

Permission to re-form may be sought from the High

Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).

No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or

Club may exist without the knowledge and approval

of the High Inquisitor.

Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an

Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has

not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be

expelled.

The above is in accordance with

Educational Decree Number Twenty-four.

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

HIGH INQUISITOR

Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some

anxious-looking second years.

“Does this mean they’re going to shut down the

Gobstones Club?” one of them asked his friend.

“I reckon you’ll be okay with Gobstones,” Ron said

darkly, making the second year jump. “I don’t think

we’re going to be as lucky, though, do you?” he asked

Harry as the second years hurried away.

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Harry was reading the notice through again. The

happiness that had filled him since Saturday was

gone. His insides were pulsing with rage.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” he said, his hands forming

fists. “She knows.”

“She can’t,” said Ron at once.

“There were people listening in that pub. And let’s

face it, we don’t know how many of the people who

turned up we can trust... Any of them could have run

off and told Umbridge...”

And he had thought they believed him, thought they

even admired him …

“Zacharias Smith!” said Ron at once, punching a fist

into his hand. “Or — I thought that Michael Corner

had a really shifty look too —”

“I wonder if Hermione’s seen this yet?” Harry said,

looking around at the door to the girls’ dormitories.

“Let’s go and tell her,” said Ron. He bounded forward,

pulled open the door, and set off up the spiral

staircase.

He was on the sixth stair when it happened. There

was a loud, wailing, klaxonlike sound and the steps

melted together to make a long, smooth stone slide.

There was a brief moment when Ron tried to keep

running, arms working madly like windmills, then he

toppled over backward and shot down the newly

created slide, coming to rest on his back at Harry’s

feet.

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“Er — I don’t think we’re allowed in the girls’

dormitories,” said Harry, pulling Ron to his feet and

trying not to laugh.

Two fourth-year girls came zooming gleefully down

the stone slide.

“Oooh, who tried to get upstairs?” they giggled

happily, leaping to their feet and ogling Harry and

Ron.

“Me,” said Ron, who was still rather disheveled. “I

didn’t realize that would happen. It’s not fair!” he

added to Harry, as the girls headed off for the portrait

hole, still giggling madly. “Hermione’s allowed in our

dormitory, how come we’re not allowed — ?”

“Well, it’s an old-fashioned rule,” said Hermione, who

had just slid neatly onto a rug in front of them and

was now getting to her feet, “but it says in Hogwarts,

A History that the founders thought boys were less

trustworthy than girls. Anyway, why were you trying

to get in there?”

“To see you — look at this!” said Ron, dragging her

over to the notice board.

Hermione’s eyes slid rapidly down the notice. Her

expression became stony.

“Someone must have blabbed to her!” Ron said

angrily.

“They can’t have done,” said Hermione in a low voice.

“You’re so naive,” said Ron, “you think just because

you’re all honorable and trustworthy —”

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“No, they can’t have done because I put a jinx on that piece of parchment we all signed,” said Hermione

grimly. “Believe me, if anyone’s run off and told

Umbridge, we’ll know exactly who they are and they

will really regret it.”

“What’ll happen to them?” said Ron eagerly.

“Well, put it this way,” said Hermione, “it’ll make

Eloise Midgen’s acne look like a couple of cute

freckles. Come on, let’s get down to breakfast and see

what the others think... I wonder whether this has

been put up in all the Houses?”

It was immediately apparent on entering the Great

Hall that Umbridge’s sign had not only appeared in

Gryffindor Tower. There was a peculiar intensity

about the chatter and an extra measure of movement

in the Hall as people scurried up and down their

tables conferring on what they had read. Harry, Ron,

and Hermione had barely taken their seats when

Neville, Dean, Fred, George, and Ginny descended

upon them.

“Did you see it?”

“D’you reckon she knows?”

“What are we going to do?”

They were all looking at Harry. He glanced around to

make sure there were no teachers near them.

“We’re going to do it anyway, of course,” he said

quietly.

“Knew you’d say that,” said George, beaming and

thumping Harry on the arm.

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“The prefects as well?” said Fred, looking quizzically at Ron and Hermione.

“Of course,” said Hermione coolly.

“Here comes Ernie and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron,

looking over his shoulder. “And those Ravenclaw

blokes and Smith … and no one looks very spotty.”

Hermione looked alarmed.

“Never mind spots, the idiots can’t come over here

now, it’ll look really suspicious — sit down!” she

mouthed to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically

to them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. “Later! We’ll —

talk — to — you — later!”

“I’ll tell Michael,” said Ginny impatiently, swinging

herself off her bench. “The fool, honestly …”

She hurried off toward the Ravenclaw table; Harry

watched her go. Cho was sitting not far away, talking

to the curly-haired friend she had brought along to

the Hog’s Head. Would Umbridge’s notice scare her off

meeting them again?

But the full repercussions of the sign were not felt

until they were leaving the Great Hall for History of

Magic.

“Harry! Ron!”

It was Angelina and she was hurrying toward them

looking perfectly desperate.

“It’s okay,” said Harry quietly, when she was near

enough to hear him. “We’re still going to —”

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“You realize she’s including Quidditch in this?”

Angelina said over him. “We have to go and ask

permission to re-form the Gryffindor team!”

“What?” said Harry.

“No way,” said Ron, appalled.

“You read the sign, it mentions teams too! So listen,

Harry … I am saying this for the last time... Please,

please don’t lose your temper with Umbridge again or

she might not let us play anymore!”

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, for Angelina looked as

though she was on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry, I’ll

behave myself...”

“Bet Umbridge is in History of Magic,” said Ron

grimly, as they set off for Binns’s lesson. “She hasn’t

inspected Binns yet... Bet you anything she’s there...”

But he was wrong; the only teacher present when

they entered was Professor Binns, floating an inch or

so above his chair as usual and preparing to continue

his monotonous drone on giant wars. Harry did not

even attempt to follow what he was saying today; he

doodled idly on his parchment ignoring Hermione’s

frequent glares and nudges, until a particularly

painful poke in the ribs made him look up angrily.

“What?”

She pointed at the window. Harry looked around.

Hedwig was perched on the narrow window ledge,

gazing through the thick glass at him, a letter tied to

her leg. Harry could not understand it; they had just

had breakfast, why on earth hadn’t she delivered the

letter then, as usual? Many of his classmates were

pointing out Hedwig to each other too.

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“Oh, I’ve always loved that owl, she’s so beautiful,”

Harry heard Lavender sigh to Parvati.

He glanced around at Professor Binns who continued

to read his notes, serenely unaware that the class’s

attention was even less focused upon him than usual.

Harry slipped quietly off his chair, crouched down,

and hurried along the row to the window, where he

slid the catch and opened it very slowly.

He had expected Hedwig to hold out her leg so that he

could remove the letter and then fly off to the Owlery,

but the moment the window was open wide enough

she hopped inside, hooting dolefully. He closed the

window with an anxious glance at Professor Binns,

crouched low again, and sped back to his seat with

Hedwig on his shoulder. He regained his seat,

transferred Hedwig to his lap, and made to remove

the letter tied to her leg.

It was only then that he realized that Hedwig’s

feathers were oddly ruffled; some were bent the wrong

way, and she was holding one of her wings at an odd

angle.

“She’s hurt!” Harry whispered, bending his head low

over her. Hermione and Ron leaned in closer;

Hermione even put down her quill. “Look — there’s

something wrong with her wing —”

Hedwig was quivering; when Harry made to touch the

wing she gave a little jump, all her feathers on end as

though she was inflating herself, and gazed at him

reproachfully.

“Professor Binns,” said Harry loudly, and everyone in

the class turned to look at him. “I’m not feeling well.”

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Professor Binns raised his eyes from his notes,

looking amazed, as always, to find the room in front

of him full of people.

“Not feeling well?” he repeated hazily.

“Not at all well,” said Harry firmly, getting to his feet

while concealing Hedwig behind his back. “So I think

I’ll need to go to the hospital wing.”

“Yes,” said Professor Binns, clearly very much wrong-

footed. “Yes … yes, hospital wing … well, off you go,

then, Perkins …”

Once outside the room Harry returned Hedwig to his

shoulder and hurried off up the corridor, pausing to

think only when he was out of sight of Binns’s door.

His first choice of somebody to cure Hedwig would

have been Hagrid, of course, but as he had no idea

where Hagrid was, his only remaining option was to

find Professor Grubbly-Plank and hope she would

help.

He peered out of a window at the blustery, overcast

grounds. There was no sign of her anywhere near

Hagrid’s cabin; if she was not teaching, she was

probably in the staffroom. He set off downstairs,

Hedwig hooting feebly as she swayed on his shoulder.

Two stone gargoyles flanked the staffroom door. As

Harry approached, one of them croaked, “You should

be in class, sunny Jim.”

“This is urgent,” said Harry curtly.

“Ooooh, urgent, is it?” said the other gargoyle in a

high-pitched voice. “Well, that’s put us in our place,

hasn’t it?”

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Harry knocked; he heard footsteps and then the door

opened and he found himself face-to-face with

Professor McGonagall.

“You haven’t been given another detention!” she said

at once, her square spectacles flashing alarmingly.

“No, Professor!” said Harry hastily.

“Well then, why are you out of class?”

“It’s urgent, apparently,” said the second gargoyle

snidely.

“I’m looking for Professor Grubbly-Plank,” Harry

explained. “It’s my owl, she’s injured.”

“Injured owl, did you say?”

Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared at Professor

McGonagall’s shoulder, smoking a pipe and holding a

copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Yes,” said Harry, lifting Hedwig carefully off his

shoulder, “she turned up after the other post owls

and her wing’s all funny, look —”

Professor Grubbly-Plank stuck her pipe firmly

between her teeth and took Hedwig from Harry while

Professor McGonagall watched.

“Hmm,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, her pipe

waggling slightly as she talked. “Looks like

something’s attacked her. Can’t think what would

have done it, though... Thestrals will sometimes go for

birds, of course, but Hagrid’s got the Hogwarts

thestrals well trained not to touch owls …”

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Harry neither knew nor cared what thestrals were, he

just wanted to know that Hedwig was going to be all

right. Professor McGonagall, however, looked sharply

at Harry and said, “Do you know how far this owl’s

traveled, Potter?”

“Er,” said Harry. “From London, I think.”

He met her eyes briefly and knew that she understood

“London” to mean “number twelve, Grimmauld Place”

by the way her eyebrows had joined in the middle.

Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled a monocle out of the

inside of her robes and screwed it into her eye to

examine Hedwig’s wing closely. “I should be able to

sort this out if you leave her with me, Potter,” she

said. “She shouldn’t be flying long distances for a few

days, in any case.”

“Er — right — thanks,” said Harry, just as the bell

rang for break.

“No problem,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank gruffly,

turning back into the staffroom.

“Just a moment, Wilhelmina!” said Professor

McGonagall. “Potter’s letter!”

“Oh yeah!” said Harry, who had momentarily

forgotten the scroll tied to Hedwig’s leg. Professor

Grubbly-Plank handed it over and then disappeared

into the staffroom carrying Hedwig, who was staring

at Harry as though unable to believe he would give

her away like this. Feeling slightly guilty, he turned to

go, but Professor McGonagall called him back.

“Potter!”

“Yes, Professor?”

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She glanced up and down the corridor; there were

students coming from both directions.

“Bear in mind,” she said quickly and quietly, her eyes

on the scroll in his hand, “that channels of

communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being

watched, won’t you?”

“I —” said Harry, but the flood of students rolling

along the corridor was almost upon him. Professor

McGonagall gave him a curt nod and retreated into

the staffroom, leaving Harry to be swept out into the

courtyard with the crowd. Here he spotted Ron and

Hermione already standing in a sheltered corner,

their cloak collars turned up against the wind. Harry

slit open the scroll as he hurried toward them and

found five words in Sirius’s handwriting:

Today, same time, same place.

“Is Hedwig okay?” asked Hermione anxiously, the

moment he was within earshot.

“Where did you take her?” asked Ron.

“To Grubbly-Plank,” said Harry. “And I met

McGonagall... Listen...”

And he told them what Professor McGonagall had

said. To his surprise, neither of the others looked

shocked; on the contrary, they exchanged significant

looks.

“What?” said Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione

and back again.

“Well, I was just saying to Ron … what if someone

had tried to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she’s never

been hurt on a flight before, has she?”

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“Who’s the letter from anyway?” asked Ron, taking

the note from Harry.

“Snuffles,” said Harry quietly.

“ ‘Same time, same place’? Does he mean the fire in

the common room?”

“Obviously,” said Hermione, also reading the note.

She looked uneasy. “I just hope nobody else has read

this...”

“But it was still sealed and everything,” said Harry,

trying to convince himself as much as her. “And

nobody would understand what it meant if they didn’t

know where we’d spoken to him before, would they?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione anxiously, hitching her

bag back over her shoulder as the bell rang again. “It

wouldn’t be exactly difficult to reseal the scroll by

magic... And if anyone’s watching the Floo Network …

but I don’t really see how we can warn him not to

come without that being intercepted too!”

They trudged down the stone steps to the dungeons

for Potions, all three of them lost in thought, but as

they reached the bottom of the stairs they were

recalled to themselves by the voice of Draco Malfoy,

who was standing just outside Snape’s classroom

door, waving around an official-looking piece of

parchment and talking much louder than was

necessary so that they could hear every word.

“Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team

permission to continue playing straightaway, I went

to ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty

much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really

well, he’s always popping in and out of the Ministry...

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It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are

allowed to keep playing, wont it?”

“Don’t rise,” Hermione whispered imploringly to Harry

and Ron, who were both watching Malfoy, faces set

and fists clenched. “It’s what he wants...”

“I mean,” said Malfoy, raising his voice a little more,

his gray eyes glittering malevolently in Harry and

Ron’s direction, “if it’s a question of influence with the

Ministry, I don’t think they’ve got much chance...

From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an

excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years... And as for

Potter … My father says it’s a matter of time before

the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo’s...

apparently they’ve got a special ward for people whose

brains have been addled by magic...”

Malfoy made a grotesque face, his mouth sagging

open and his eyes rolling. Crabbe and Goyle gave

their usual grunts of laughter, Pansy Parkinson

shrieked with glee.

Something collided hard with Harry’s shoulder,

knocking him sideways. A split second later he

realized that Neville had just charged past him,

heading straight for Malfoy.

“Neville, no!”

Harry leapt forward and seized the back of Neville’s

robes; Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing,

trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a

moment, extremely shocked.

“Help me!” Harry flung at Ron, managing to get an

arm around Neville’s neck and dragging him

backward, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and

Goyle were now flexing their arms, closing in front of

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Malfoy, ready for the fight. Ron hurried forward and

seized Neville’s arms; together, he and Harry

succeeded in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor

line. Neville’s face was scarlet; the pressure Harry was

exerting on his throat rendered him quite

incomprehensible, but odd words spluttered from his

mouth.

“Not… funny … don’t … Mungo’s … show … him …”

The dungeon door opened. Snape appeared there. His

black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the point

where Harry and Ron were wrestling with Neville.

“Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?” Snape said

in his cold, sneering voice. “Ten points from

Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be

detention. Inside, all of you.”

Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring

at him.

“I had to stop you,” Harry gasped, picking up his bag.

“Crabbe and Goyle would’ve torn you apart.”

Neville said nothing, he merely snatched up his own

bag and stalked off into the dungeon.

“What in the name of Merlin,” said Ron slowly, as

they followed Neville, “was that about?”

Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the

subject of people who were in St. Mungo’s because of

magical damage to their brains was highly distressing

to Neville, but he had sworn to Dumbledore that he

would not tell anyone Neville’s secret. Even Neville did

not know that Harry knew.

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Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their usual seats at

the back of the class and pulled out parchment,

quills, and their copies of One Thousand Magical

Herbs and Fungi. The class around them was

whispering about what Neville had just done, but

when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing

bang everybody fell silent immediately.

“You will notice,” said Snape in his low, sneering

voice, “that we have a guest with us today.”

He gestured toward the dim corner of the dungeon,

and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there,

clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron

and Hermione, his eyebrows raised. Snape and

Umbridge, the two teachers he hated most … it was

hard to decide which he wanted to triumph over the

other.

“We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions

today, you will find your mixtures as you left them

last lesson, if correctly made they should have

matured well over the weekend — instructions” — he

waved his wand again — “on the board. Carry on.”

Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the

lesson making notes in her corner. Harry was very

interested in hearing her question Snape, so

interested, that he was becoming careless with his

potion again.

“Salamander blood, Harry!” Hermione moaned,

grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong

ingredient for the third time. “Not pomegranate juice!”

“Right,” said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle

and continuing to watch the corner. Umbridge had

just gotten to her feet. “Ha,” he said softly, as she

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strode between two lines of desks toward Snape, who

was bending over Dean Thomas’s cauldron.

“Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level,”

she said briskly to Snape’s back. “Though I would

question whether it is advisable to teach them a

potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the

Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the

syllabus.”

Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at

her.

“Now … how long have you been teaching at

Hogwarts?” she asked, her quill poised over her

clipboard.

“Fourteen years,” Snape replied. His expression was

unfathomable. His eyes on Snape, Harry added a few

drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned

from turquoise to orange.

“You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark

Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge asked

Snape.

“Yes,” said Snape quietly.

“But you were unsuccessful?”

Snape’s lip curled.

“Obviously.”

Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard.

“And you have applied regularly for the Defense

Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the

school, I believe?”

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“Yes,” said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very angry.

“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has

consistently refused to appoint you?” asked

Umbridge.

“I suggest you ask him,” said Snape jerkily.

“Oh I shall,” said Professor Umbridge with a sweet

smile.

“I suppose this is relevant?” Snape asked, his black

eyes narrowed.

“Oh yes,” said Professor Umbridge. “Yes, the Ministry

wants a thorough understanding of teachers’ — er —

backgrounds...”

She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson

and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape

looked around at Harry and their eyes met for a

second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion,

which was now congealing foully and giving off a

strong smell of burned rubber.

“No marks again, then, Potter,” said Snape

maliciously, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a wave of

his wand. “You will write me an essay on the correct

composition of this potion, indicating how and why

you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you

understand?”

“Yes,” said Harry furiously. Snape had already given

them homework, and he had Quidditch practice this

evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless

nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken

that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a

fervent desire for this day to end as soon as possible.

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“Maybe I’ll skive off Divination,” he said glumly as

they stood again in the courtyard after lunch, the

wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of

hats. “I’ll pretend to be ill and do Snape’s essay

instead, then I won’t have to stay up half the night...”

“You can’t skive off Divination,” said Hermione

severely.

“Hark who’s talking, you walked out of Divination,

you hate Trelawney!” said Ron indignantly.

“I don’t hate her,” said Hermione loftily. “I just think

she’s an absolutely appalling teacher and a real old

fraud... But Harry’s already missed History of Magic

and I don’t think he ought to miss anything else

today!”

There was too much truth in this to ignore, so half an

hour later Harry took his seat in the hot, over-

perfumed atmosphere of the Divination classroom

feeling angry at everybody. Professor Trelawney was

handing out copies of The Dream Oracle yet again; he

would surely be much better employed doing Snape’s

punishment essay than sitting here trying to find

meaning in a lot of made-up dreams.

It seemed, however, that he was not the only person

in Divination who was in a temper. Professor

Trelawney slammed a copy of the Oracle down on the

table between Harry and Ron and swept away, her

lips pursed; she threw the next copy of the Oracle at

Seamus and Dean, narrowly avoiding Seamus’s head,

and thrust the final one into Neville’s chest with such

force that he slipped off his pouf.

“Well, carry on!” said Professor Trelawney loudly, her

voice high pitched and somewhat hysterical. “You

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know what to do! Or am I such a substandard teacher

that you have never learned how to open a book?”

The class stared perplexedly at her and then at each

other. Harry, however, thought he knew what was the

matter. As Professor Trelawney flounced back to the

high-backed teacher’s chair, her magnified eyes full of

angry tears, he leaned his head closer to Ron’s and

muttered, “I think she’s got the results of her

inspection back.”

“Professor?” said Parvati Patil in a hushed voice (she

and Lavender had always rather admired Professor

Trelawney). “Professor, is there anything — er —

wrong?”

“Wrong!” cried Professor Trelawney in a voice

throbbing with emotion. “Certainly not! I have been

insulted, certainly... Insinuations have been made

against me... Unfounded accusations levelled … but

no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not...”

She took a great shuddering breath and looked away

from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under her

glasses.

“I say nothing,” she choked, “of sixteen years’ devoted

service... It has passed, apparently, unnoticed... But I

shall not be insulted, no, I shall not!”

“But Professor, who’s insulting you?” asked Parvati

timidly.

“The establishment!” said Professor Trelawney in a

deep, dramatic, wavering voice. “Yes, those with eyes

too clouded by the Mundane to See as I See, to Know

as I Know … Of course, we Seers have always been

feared, always persecuted... It is — alas — our fate...”

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She gulped, dabbed at her wet cheeks with the end of

her shawl, and then pulled a small, embroidered

handkerchief from her sleeve, into which she blew her

nose very hard with a sound like Peeves blowing a

raspberry. Ron sniggered. Lavender shot him a

disgusted look.

“Professor,” said Parvati, “do you mean … is it

something Professor Umbridge … ?”

“Do not speak to me about that woman!” cried

Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet, her beads

rattling and her spectacles flashing. “Kindly continue

with your work!”

And she spent the rest of the lesson striding among

them, tears still leaking from behind her glasses,

muttering what sounded like threats under her

breath.

“… may well choose to leave … the indignity of it … on

probation … we shall see … how she dares …”

“You and Umbridge have got something in common,”

Harry told Hermione quietly when they met again in

Defense Against the Dark Arts. “She obviously

reckons Trelawney’s an old fraud too... Looks like

she’s put her on probation.”

Umbridge entered the room as he spoke, wearing her

black velvet bow and an expression of great

smugness.

“Good afternoon, class.”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted

drearily.

“Wands away, please …”

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But there was no answering flurry of movement this

time; nobody had bothered to take out their wands.

“Please turn to page thirty-four of Defensive Magical

Theory and read the third chapter, entitled ‘The Case

for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack.’ There

will be —”

“— no need to talk,” Harry, Ron, and Hermione said

together under their breaths.

“No Quidditch practice,” said Angelina in hollow tones

when Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the common

room that night after dinner.

“But I kept my temper!” said Harry, horrified. “I didn’t

say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I —”

“I know, I know,” said Angelina miserably. “She just

said she needed a bit of time to consider.”

“Consider what?” said Ron angrily. “She’s given the

Slytherins permission, why not us?”

But Harry could imagine how much Umbridge was

enjoying holding the threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch

team over their heads and could easily understand

why she would not want to relinquish that weapon

over them too soon.

“Well,” said Hermione, “look on the bright side — at

least now you’ll have time to do Snape’s essay!”

“That’s a bright side, is it?” snapped Harry, while Ron

stared incredulously at Hermione. “No Quidditch

practice and extra Potions?”

Harry slumped down into a chair, dragged his Potions

essay reluctantly from his bag, and set to work.

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It was very hard to concentrate; even though he knew

that Sirius was not due in the fire until much later he

could not help glancing into the flames every few

minutes just in case. There was also an incredible

amount of noise in the room: Fred and George

appeared finally to have perfected one type of Skiving

Snackbox, which they were taking turns to

demonstrate to a cheering and whooping crowd.

First, Fred would take a bite out of the orange end of

a chew, at which he would vomit spectacularly into a

bucket they had placed in front of them. Then he

would force down the purple end of the chew, at

which the vomiting would immediately cease. Lee

Jordan, who was assisting the demonstration, was

lazily vanishing the vomit at regular intervals with the

same Vanishing Spell Snape kept using on Harry’s

potions.

What with the regular sounds of retching, cheering,

and Fred and George taking advance orders from the

crowd, Harry was finding it exceptionally difficult to

focus on the correct method for Strengthening

Solutions. Hermione was not helping matters; the

cheers and sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred

and George’s bucket were punctuated by loud and

disapproving sniffs that Harry found, if anything,

more distracting.

“Just go and stop them, then!” he said irritably, after

crossing out the wrong weight of powdered griffin

claw for the fourth time.

“I can’t, they’re not technically doing anything wrong,”

said Hermione through gritted teeth. “They’re quite

within their rights to eat the foul things themselves,

and I can’t find a rule that says the other idiots aren’t

entitled to buy them, not unless they’re proven to be

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dangerous in some way, and it doesn’t look as though

they are...”

She, Harry, and Ron watched George projectile-vomit

into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew, and

straighten up, beaming with his arms wide to

protracted applause.

“You know, I don’t get why Fred and George only got

three O.W.L.s each,” said Harry, watching as Fred,

George, and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd.

“They really know their stuff...”

“Oh, they only know flashy stuff that’s no real use to

anyone,” said Hermione disparagingly.

“No real use?” said Ron in a strained voice.

“Hermione, they’ve got about twenty-six Galleons

already...”

It was a long while before the crowd around the

Weasleys dispersed, and then Fred, Lee, and George

sat up counting their takings even longer, so that it

was well past midnight when Harry, Ron, and

Hermione finally had the common room to themselves

again. At long last, Fred closed the doorway to the

boys’ dormitories behind him, rattling his box of

Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowled.

Harry, who was making very little progress with his

Potions essay, decided to give it up for the night. As

he put his books away, Ron, who was dozing lightly in

an armchair, gave a muffled grunt, awoke, looked

blearily into the fire and said, “Sirius!”

Harry whipped around; Sirius’s untidy dark head was

sitting in the fire again.

“Hi,” he said, grinning.

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“Hi,” chorused Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all three

kneeling down upon the hearthrug. Crookshanks

purred loudly and approached the fire, trying, despite

the heat, to put his face close to Sirius’s.

“How’re things?” said Sirius.

“Not that good,” said Harry, as Hermione pulled

Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers.

“The Ministry’s forced through another decree, which

means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams —”

“— or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?”

said Sirius.

There was a short pause.

“How did you know about that?” Harry demanded.

“You want to choose your meeting places more

carefully,” said Sirius, grinning still more broadly.

“The Hog’s Head, I ask you …”

“Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!” said

Hermione defensively. “That’s always packed with

people —”

“— which means you’d have been harder to overhear,”

said Sirius. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Hermione.”

“Who overheard us?” Harry demanded.

“Mundungus, of course,” said Sirius, and when they

all looked puzzled he laughed. “He was the witch

under the veil.”

“That was Mundungus?” Harry said, stunned. “What

was he doing in the Hog’s Head?”

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“What do you think he was doing?” said Sirius

impatiently. “Keeping an eye on you, of course.”

“I’m still being followed?” asked Harry angrily.

“Yeah, you are,” said Sirius, “and just as well, isn’t it,

if the first thing you’re going to do on your weekend

off is organize an illegal defense group.”

But he looked neither angry nor worried; on the

contrary, he was looking at Harry with distinct pride.

“Why was Dung hiding from us?” asked Ron,

sounding disappointed. “We’d’ve liked to’ve seen him.”

“He was banned from the Hog’s Head twenty years

ago,” said Sirius, “and that barman’s got a long

memory. We lost Moody’s spare Invisibility Cloak

when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung’s been dressing

as a witch a lot lately... Anyway … First of all, Ron —

I’ve sworn to pass on a message from your mother.”

“Oh yeah?” said Ron, sounding apprehensive.

“She says on no account whatsoever are you to take

part in an illegal secret Defense Against the Dark Arts

group. She says you’ll be expelled for sure and your

future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of

time to learn how to defend yourself later and that

you are too young to be worrying about that right

now. She also” — Sirius’s eyes turned to the other two

— “advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with

the group, though she accepts that she has no

authority over either of them and simply begs them to

remember that she has their best interests at heart.

She would have written all this to you, but if the owl

had been intercepted you’d all have been in real

trouble, and she can’t say it for herself because she’s

on duty tonight.”

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“On duty doing what?” said Ron quickly.

“Never you mind, just stuff for the Order,” said Sirius.

“So it’s fallen to me to be the messenger and make

sure you tell her I passed it all on, because I don’t

think she trusts me to.”

There was another pause in which Crookshanks,

mewing, attempted to paw Sirius’s head, and Ron

fiddled with a hole in the hearthrug.

“So you want me to say I’m not going to take part in

the defense group?” he muttered finally.

“Me? Certainly not!” said Sirius, looking surprised. “I

think it’s an excellent idea!”

“You do?” said Harry, his heart lifting.

“Of course I do!” said Sirius. “D’you think your father

and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an

old hag like Umbridge?”

“But — last term all you did was tell me to be careful

and not take risks —”

“Last year all the evidence was that someone inside

Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!” said Sirius

impatiently. “This year we know that there’s someone

outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think

learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good

idea!”

“And if we do get expelled?” Hermione asked, a

quizzical look on her face.

“Hermione, this whole thing was your idea!” said

Harry, staring at her.

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“I know it was... I just wondered what Sirius

thought,” she said, shrugging.

“Well, better expelled and able to defend yourselves

than sitting safely in school without a clue,” said

Sirius.

“Hear, hear,” said Harry and Ron enthusiastically.

“So,” said Sirius, “how are you organizing this group?

Where are you meeting?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a problem now,” said Harry.

“Dunno where we’re going to be able to go...”

“How about the Shrieking Shack?” suggested Sirius.

“Hey, that’s an idea!” said Ron excitedly, but

Hermione made a skeptical noise and all three of

them looked at her, Sirius’s head turning in the

flames.

“Well, Sirius, it’s just that there were only four of you

meeting in the Shrieking Shack when you were at

school,” said Hermione, “and all of you could

transform into animals and I suppose you could all

have squeezed under a single Invisibility Cloak if

you’d wanted to. But there are twenty-eight of us and

none of us is an Animagus, so we wouldn’t need so

much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility Marquee

—”

“Fair point,” said Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with somewhere...

There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway

behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might

have enough space to practice jinxes in there —”

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“Fred and George told me it’s blocked,” said Harry,

shaking his head. “Caved in or something.”

“Oh …” said Sirius, frowning. “Well, I’ll have a think

and get back to —”

He broke off. His face was suddenly tense, alarmed.

He turned sideways, apparently looking into the solid

brick wall of the fireplace.

“Sirius?” said Harry anxiously.

But he had vanished. Harry gaped at the flames for a

moment, then turned to look at Ron and Hermione.

“Why did he — ?”

Hermione gave a horrified gasp and leapt to her feet,

still staring at the fire.

A hand had appeared amongst the flames, groping as

though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short-

fingered hand covered in ugly old-fashioned rings...

The three of them ran for it; at the door of the boys’

dormitory Harry looked back. Umbridge’s hand was

still making snatching movements amongst the

flames, as though she knew exactly where Sirius’s

hair had been moments before and was determined to

seize it.

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DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY

“Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There’s

no other explanation.”

“You think Umbridge attacked Hedwig?” he said,

outraged.

“I’m almost certain of it,” said Hermione grimly.

“Watch your frog, it’s escaping.”

Harry pointed his wand at the bullfrog that had been

hopping hopefully toward the other side of the table

— “Accio!”— and it zoomed gloomily back into his

hand.

Charms was always one of the best lessons in which

to enjoy a private chat: There was generally so much

movement and activity that the danger of being

overheard was very slight. Today, with the room full of

croaking bullfrogs and cawing ravens, and with a

heavy downpour of rain clattering and pounding

against the classroom windows, Harry, Ron, and

Hermione’s whispered discussion about how

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Umbridge had nearly caught Sirius went quite

unnoticed.

“I’ve been suspecting this ever since Filch accused

you of ordering Dungbombs, because it seemed such

a stupid lie,” Hermione whispered. “I mean, once your

letter had been read, it would have been quite clear

you weren’t ordering them, so you wouldn’t have been

in trouble at all — it’s a bit of a feeble joke, isn’t it?

But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an

excuse to read your mail? Well then, it would be a

perfect way for Umbridge to manage it — tip off Filch,

let him do the dirty work and confiscate the letter,

then either find a way of stealing it from him or else

demand to see it — I don’t think Filch would object,

when’s he ever stuck up for a student’s rights? Harry,

you’re squashing your frog.”

Harry looked down; he was indeed squeezing his

bullfrog so tightly its eyes were popping; he replaced

it hastily upon the desk.

“It was a very, very close call last night,” said

Hermione. “I just wonder if Umbridge knows how

close it was. Silencio!”

The bullfrog on which she was practicing her

Silencing Charm was struck dumb mid-croak and

glared at her reproachfully.

“If she’d caught Snuffles …”

Harry finished the sentence for her.

“He’d probably be back in Azkaban this morning.” He

waved his wand without really concentrating; his

bullfrog swelled like a green balloon and emitted a

high-pitched whistle.

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“Silencio!” said Hermione hastily, pointing her wand at Harry’s frog, which deflated silently before them.

“Well, he mustn’t do it again, that’s all. I just don’t

know how we’re going to let him know. We can’t send

him an owl.”

“I don’t reckon he’ll risk it again,” said Ron. “He’s not

stupid, he knows she nearly got him. Silencio!”

The large and ugly raven in front of him let out a

derisive caw.

“Silencio! SILENCIO!”

The raven cawed more loudly.

“It’s the way you’re moving your wand,” said

Hermione, watching Ron critically. “You don’t want to

wave it, it’s more a sharp jab. ”

“Ravens are harder than frogs,” said Ron testily.

“Fine, let’s swap,” said Hermione, seizing Ron’s raven

and replacing it with her own fat bullfrog. “Silencio!”

The raven continued to open and close its sharp beak,

but no sound came out.

“Very good, Miss Granger!” said Professor Flitwick’s

squeaky little voice and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all

jumped. “Now, let me see you try, Mr. Weasley!”

“Wha — ? Oh — oh, right,” said Ron, very flustered.

“Er — Silencio!”

He jabbed at the bullfrog so hard that he poked it in

the eye; the frog gave a deafening croak and leapt off

the desk.

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It came as no surprise to any of them that Harry and

Ron were given additional practice of the Silencing

Charm for homework.

They were allowed to remain inside over break due to

the downpour outside. They found seats in a noisy

and overcrowded classroom on the first floor in which

Peeves was floating dreamily up near the chandelier,

occasionally blowing an ink pellet at the top of

somebody’s head. They had barely sat down when

Angelina came struggling toward them through the

groups of gossiping students.

“I’ve got permission!” she said. “To re-form the

Quidditch team!”

“Excellent!” said Ron and Harry together.

“Yeah,” said Angelina, beaming. “I went to

McGonagall and I think she might have appealed to

Dumbledore — anyway, Umbridge had to give in. Ha!

So I want you down at the pitch at seven o’clock

tonight, all right, because we’ve got to make up time,

you realize we’re only three weeks away from our first

match?”

She squeezed away from them, narrowly dodged an

ink pellet from Peeves, which hit a nearby first year

instead, and vanished from sight.

Ron’s smile slipped slightly as he looked out of the

window, which was now opaque with hammering

rain.

“Hope this clears up … What’s up with you,

Hermione?”

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She too was gazing at the window, but not as though

she really saw it. Her eyes were unfocused and there

was a frown on her face.

“Just thinking …” she said, still frowning at the rain-

washed window.

“About Siri … Snuffles?” said Harry.

“No … not exactly …” said Hermione slowly. “More …

wondering … I suppose we’re doing the right thing …

I think … aren’t we?

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

“Well, that clears that up,” said Ron. “It would’ve been

really annoying if you hadn’t explained yourself

properly.”

Hermione looked at him as though she had only just

realized he was there.

“I was just wondering,” she said, her voice stronger

now, “whether we’re doing the right thing, starting

this Defense Against the Dark Arts group.”

“What!” said Harry and Ron together.

“Hermione, it was your idea in the first place!” said

Ron indignantly.

“I know,” said Hermione, twisting her fingers together.

“But after talking to Snuffles …”

“But he’s all for it!” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Hermione, staring at the window again.

“Yes, that’s what made me think maybe it wasn’t a

good idea after all...”

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Peeves floated over them on his stomach, peashooter

at the ready; automatically all three of them lifted

their bags to cover their heads until he had passed.

“Let’s get this straight,” said Harry angrily, as they

put their bags back on the floor, “Sirius agrees with

us, so you don’t think we should do it anymore?”

Hermione looked tense and rather miserable. Now

staring at her own hands she said, “Do you honestly

trust his judgment?”

“Yes, I do!” said Harry at once. “He’s always given us

great advice!”

An ink pellet whizzed past them, striking Katie Bell

squarely in the ear. Hermione watched Katie leap to

her feet and start throwing things at Peeves; it was a

few moments before Hermione spoke again and it

sounded as though she was choosing her words very

carefully.

“You don’t think he has become … sort of … reckless

… since he’s been cooped up in Grimmauld Place?

You don’t think he’s … kind of … living through us?”

“What d’you mean, ‘living through us’?” Harry

retorted.

“I mean … well, I think he’d love to be forming secret

defense societies right under the nose of someone

from the Ministry... I think he’s really frustrated at

how little he can do where he is … so I think he’s

keen to kind of … egg us on.”

Ron looked utterly perplexed.

“Sirius is right,” he said, “you do sound just like my

mother.”

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Hermione bit her lip and did not answer. The bell

rang just as Peeves swooped down upon Katie and

emptied an entire ink bottle over her head.

The weather did not improve as the day wore on, so

that at seven o’clock that evening, when Harry and

Ron went down to the Quidditch pitch for practice,

they were soaked through within minutes, their feet

slipping and sliding on the sodden grass. The sky was

a deep, thundery gray and it was a relief to gain the

warmth and light of the changing rooms, even if they

knew the respite was only temporary. They found

Fred and George debating whether to use one of their

own Skiving Snackboxes to get out of flying.

“— but I bet she’d know what we’d done,” Fred said

out of the corner of his mouth. “If only I hadn’t offered

to sell her some Puking Pastilles yesterday —”

“We could try the Fever Fudge,” George muttered, “no

one’s seen that yet —”

“Does it work?” inquired Ron hopefully, as the

hammering of rain on the roof intensified and wind

howled around the building.

“Well, yeah,” said Fred, “your temperature’ll go right

up —”

“— but you get these massive pus-filled boils too,”

said George, “and we haven’t worked out how to get

rid of them yet.”

“I can’t see any boils,” said Ron, staring at the twins.

“No, well, you wouldn’t,” said Fred darkly, “they’re not

in a place we generally display to the public —”

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“— but they make sitting on a broom a right pain in

the —”

“All right, everyone, listen up,” said Angelina loudly,

emerging from the Captain’s office. “I know it’s not

ideal weather, but there’s a good chance we’ll be

playing Slytherin in conditions like this so it’s a good

idea to work out how we’re going to cope with them.

Harry, didn’t you do something to your glasses to stop

the rain fogging them up when we played Hufflepuff

in that storm?”

“Hermione did it,” said Harry. He pulled out his wand,

tapped his glasses and said, “Impervius!”

“I think we all ought to try that,” said Angelina. “If we

could just keep the rain off our faces it would really

help visibility — all together, come on — Impervius!

Okay. Let’s go.”

They all stowed their wands back in the inside

pockets of their robes, shouldered their brooms, and

followed Angelina out of the changing rooms.

They squelched through the deepening mud to the

middle of the pitch; visibility was still very poor even

with the Impervius Charm; light was fading fast and

curtains of rain were sweeping the grounds.

“All right, on my whistle,” shouted Angelina.

Harry kicked off from the ground, spraying mud in all

directions, and shot upward, the wind pulling him

slightly off course. He had no idea how he was going

to see the Snitch in this weather; he was having

enough difficulty seeing the one Bludger with which

they were practicing; a minute into the practice it

almost unseated him and he had to use the Sloth

Grip Roll to avoid it. Unfortunately Angelina did not

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see this; in fact, she did not appear to be able to see anything; none of them had a clue what the others

were doing. The wind was picking up; even at a

distance Harry could hear the swishing, pounding

sounds of the rain pummeling the surface of the lake.

Angelina kept them at it for nearly an hour before

conceding defeat. She led her sodden and disgruntled

team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the

practice had not been a waste of time, though without

any real conviction in her voice. Fred and George were

looking particularly annoyed; both were bandy-legged

and winced with every movement. Harry could hear

them complaining in low voices as he toweled his hair

dry.

“I think a few of mine have ruptured,” said Fred in a

hollow voice.

“Mine haven’t,” said George, wincing. “They’re

throbbing like mad … feel bigger if anything …”

“OUCH!” said Harry.

He pressed the towel to his face, his eyes screwed

tight with pain. The scar on his forehead had seared

again, more painfully than in months.

“What’s up?” said several voices.

Harry emerged from behind his towel; the changing

room was blurred because he was not wearing his

glasses; but he could still tell that everyone’s face was

turned toward him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, “I — poked myself in the eye,

that’s all...”

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But he gave Ron a significant look and the two of

them hung back as the rest of the team filed back

outside, muffled in their cloaks, their hats pulled low

over their ears.

“What happened?” said Ron, the moment that Alicia

had disappeared through the door. “Was it your

scar?”

Harry nodded.

“But …” Looking scared, Ron strode across to the

window and stared out into the rain, “He — he can’t

be near us now, can he?”

“No,” Harry muttered, sinking onto a bench and

rubbing his forehead. “He’s probably miles away. It

hurt because … he’s … angry.”

Harry had not meant to say that at all, and heard the

words as though a stranger had spoken them — yet

he knew at once that they were true. He did not know

how he knew it, but he did; Voldemort, wherever he

was, whatever he was doing, was in a towering

temper.

“Did you see him?” said Ron, looking horrified. “Did

you … get a vision, or something?”

Harry sat quite still, staring at his feet, allowing his

mind and his memory to relax in the aftermath of the

pain...

A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices

…

“He wants something done, and it’s not happening

fast enough,” he said.

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Again, he felt surprised to hear the words coming out of his mouth, and yet quite certain that they were

true.

“But … how do you know?” said Ron.

Harry shook his head and covered his eyes with his

hands, pressing down upon them with his palms.

Little stars erupted in them. He felt Ron sit down on

the bench beside him and knew Ron was staring at

him.

“Is this what it was about last time?” said Ron in a

hushed voice. “When your scar hurt in Umbridge’s

office? You-Know-Who was angry?”

Harry shook his head.

“What is it, then?”

Harry was thinking himself back. He had been

looking into Umbridge’s face... His scar had hurt …

and he had had that odd feeling in his stomach … a

strange, leaping feeling … a happy feeling... But, of

course, he had not recognized it for what it was, as he

had been feeling so miserable himself...

“Last time, it was because he was pleased,” he said.

“Really pleased.

“He thought … something good was going to happen.

And the night before we came back to Hogwarts …”

He thought back to the moment when his scar had

hurt so badly in his and Ron’s bedroom in

Grimmauld Place. “He was furious...”

He looked around at Ron, who was gaping at him.

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“You could take over from Trelawney, mate,” he said

in an awed voice.

“I’m not making prophecies,” said Harry.

“No, you know what you’re doing?” Ron said,

sounding both scared and impressed. “Harry, you’re

reading You-Know-Who’s mind... ”

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s more like …

his mood, I suppose. I’m just getting flashes of what

mood he’s in... Dumbledore said something like this

was happening last year... He said that when

Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling

hatred, I could tell. Well, now I’m feeling it when he’s

pleased too...”

There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the

building.

“You’ve got to tell someone,” said Ron.

“I told Sirius last time.”

“Well, tell him about this time!”

“Can’t, can I?” said Harry grimly. “Umbridge is

watching the owls and the fires, remember?”

“Well then, Dumbledore —”

“I’ve just told you, he already knows,” said Harry

shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg,

and swinging it around himself. “There’s no point

telling him again.”

Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching

Harry thoughtfully.

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“Dumbledore’d want to know,” he said.

Harry shrugged.

“C’mon … we’ve still got Silencing Charms to practice

…”

They hurried back through the dark grounds, sliding

and stumbling up the muddy lawns, not talking.

Harry was thinking hard. What was it that Voldemort

wanted done that was not happening quickly enough?

“He’s got other plans … plans he can put into operation

very quietly indeed … stuff he can only get by stealth

… like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time. ”

He had not thought about those words in weeks; he

had been too absorbed in what was going on at

Hogwarts, too busy dwelling on the ongoing battles

with Umbridge, the injustice of all the Ministry

interference... But now they came back to him and

made him wonder... Voldemort’s anger would make

sense if he was no nearer laying hands on the

weapon, whatever it was... Had the Order thwarted

him, stopped him from seizing it? Where was it kept?

Who had it now?

“Mimbulus mimbletonia, ” said Ron’s voice and Harry

came back to his senses just in time to clamber

through the portrait hole into the common room.

It appeared that Hermione had gone to bed early,

leaving Crookshanks curled in a nearby chair and an

assortment of knobbly, knitted elf hats lying on a

table by the fire. Harry was rather grateful that she

was not around because he did not much want to

discuss his scar hurting and have her urge him to go

to Dumbledore too. Ron kept throwing him anxious

glances, but Harry pulled out his Potions book and

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set to work to finish his essay, though he was only

pretending to concentrate and, by the time that Ron

said he was going to bed too, had written hardly

anything.

Midnight came and went while Harry was reading and

rereading a passage about the uses of scurvy-grass,

lovage, and sneezewort and not taking in a word of

it...

These plantes are moste efficacious in the inflaming

of the braine, and are therefore much used in

Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts, where the

wizard is desirous of producing hot-headedness and

recklessness...

… Hermione said Sirius was becoming reckless

cooped up in Grimmauld Place...

… moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and

are therefore much used …

… the Daily Prophet would think his brain was

inflamed if they found out that he knew what

Voldemort was feeling …

… therefore much used in Confusing and

Befuddlement Draughts …

… confusing was the word, all right; why did he know

what Voldemort was feeling? What was this weird

connection between them, which Dumbledore had

never been able to explain satisfactorily?

… where the wizard is desirous …

… how he would like to sleep …

… of producing hot-headedness …

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… It was warm and comfortable in his armchair

before the fire, with the rain still beating heavily on

the windowpanes and Crookshanks purring and the

crackling of the flames...

The book slipped from Harry’s slack grip and landed

with a dull thud on the hearthrug. His head fell

sideways...

He was walking once more along a windowless

corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the

door at the end of the passage loomed larger his heart

beat fast with excitement... If he could only open it …

enter beyond …

He stretched out his hand... His fingertips were

inches from it...

“Harry Potter, sir!”

He awoke with a start. The candles had all been

extinguished in the common room, but there was

something moving close by.

“Whozair?” said Harry, sitting upright in his chair.

The fire was almost extinguished, the room very dark.

“Dobby has your owl, sir!” said a squeaky voice.

“Dobby?” said Harry thickly, peering through the

gloom toward the source of the voice.

Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table on

which Hermione had left her half a dozen knitted

hats. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out

from beneath what looked like all the hats that

Hermione had ever knitted; he was wearing one on

top of the other, so that his head seemed elongated by

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two or three feet, and on the very topmost bobble sat Hedwig, hooting serenely and obviously cured.

“Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter’s owl!” said

the elf squeakily, with a look of positive adoration on

his face. “Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well

now, sir!”

He sank into a deep bow so that his pencil-like nose

brushed the threadbare surface of the hearthrug and

Hedwig gave an indignant hoot and fluttered onto the

arm of Harry’s chair.

“Thanks, Dobby!” said Harry, stroking Hedwig’s head

and blinking hard, trying to rid himself of the image

of the door in his dream... It had been very vivid...

Looking back at Dobby, he noticed that the elf was

also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks,

so that his feet looked far too big for his body.

“Er … have you been taking all the clothes

Hermione’s been leaving out?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Dobby happily, “Dobby has been

taking some for Winky too, sir.”

“Yeah, how is Winky?” asked Harry.

Dobby’s ears drooped slightly.

“Winky is still drinking lots, sir,” he said sadly, his

enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls,

downcast. “She still does not care for clothes, Harry

Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them

will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, not with the

hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them

insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but

Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet

Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!”

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Dobby sank into a deep bow again. “But Harry Potter

does not seem happy,” Dobby went on, straightening

up again and looking timidly at Harry. “Dobby heard

him muttering in his sleep. Was Harry Potter having

bad dreams?”

“Not really bad,” said Harry, yawning and rubbing his

eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

The elf surveyed Harry out of his vast, orblike eyes.

Then he said very seriously, his ears drooping,

“Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry

Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much

happier now...”

Harry smiled.

“You can’t help me, Dobby, but thanks for the offer...”

He bent and picked up his Potions book. He’d have to

try and finish the essay tomorrow. He closed the book

and as he did so the firelight illuminated the thin

white scars on the back of his hand — the result of

his detention with Umbridge.

“Wait a moment — there is something you can do for

me, Dobby,” said Harry slowly.

The elf looked around, beaming.

“Name it, Harry Potter, sir!”

“I need to find a place where twenty-eight people can

practice Defense Against the Dark Arts without being

discovered by any of the teachers. Especially,” Harry

clenched his hand on the book, so that the scars

shone pearly white, “Professor Umbridge.”

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He expected the elf’s smile to vanish, his ears to

droop; he expected him to say that this was

impossible, or else that he would try, but his hopes

were not high... What he had not expected was for

Dobby to give a little skip, his ears waggling happily,

and clap his hands together.

“Dobby knows the perfect place, sir!” he said happily.

“Dobby heard tell of it from the other house-elves

when he came to Hogwarts, sir. It is known by us as

the Come and Go Room, sir, or else as the Room of

Requirement!”

“Why?” said Harry curiously.

“Because it is a room that a person can only enter,”

said Dobby seriously, “when they have real need of it.

Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not, but

when it appears, it is always equipped for the seeker’s

needs. Dobby has used it, sir,” said the elf, dropping

his voice and looking guilty, “when Winky has been

very drunk. He has hidden her in the Room of

Requirement and he has found antidotes to

butterbeer there, and a nice elf-sized bed to settle her

on while she sleeps it off, sir... And Dobby knows Mr.

Filch has found extra cleaning materials there when

he has run short, sir, and —”

“— and if you really needed a bathroom,” said Harry,

suddenly remembering something Dumbledore had

said at the Yule Ball the previous Christmas, “would

it fill itself with chamber pots?”

“Dobby expects so, sir,” said Dobby, nodding

earnestly. “It is a most amazing room, sir.”

“How many people know about it?” said Harry, sitting

up straighter in his chair.

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“Very few, sir. Mostly people stumbles across it when they needs it, sir, but often they never finds it again,

for they do not know that it is always there waiting to

be called into service, sir.”

“It sounds brilliant,” said Harry, his heart racing. “It

sounds perfect, Dobby. When can you show me where

it is?”

“Anytime, Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby, looking

delighted at Harry’s enthusiasm. “We could go now, if

you like!”

For a moment Harry was tempted to go now; he was

halfway out of his seat, intending to hurry upstairs

for his Invisibility Cloak when, not for the first time, a

voice very much like Hermione’s whispered in his ear:

reckless. It was, after all, very late, he was exhausted

and had Snape’s essay to finish.

“Not tonight, Dobby,” said Harry reluctantly, sinking

back into his chair. “This is really important... I don’t

want to blow it, it’ll need proper planning... Listen,

can you just tell me exactly where this Room of

Requirement is and how to get in there?”

Their robes billowed and swirled around them as they

splashed across the flooded vegetable patch to double

Herbology, where they could hardly hear what

Professor Sprout was saying over the hammering of

raindrops hard as hailstones on the greenhouse roof.

The afternoon’s Care of Magical Creatures lesson was

to be relocated from the storm-swept grounds to a

free classroom on the ground floor and, to their

intense relief, Angelina sought out her team at lunch

to tell them that Quidditch practice was canceled.

“Good,” said Harry quietly, when she told him,

“because we’ve found somewhere to have our first

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Defense meeting. Tonight, eight o’clock, seventh floor opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being

clubbed by those trolls. Can you tell Katie and

Alicia?”

She looked slightly taken aback but promised to tell

the others; Harry returned hungrily to his sausages

and mash. When he looked up to take a drink of

pumpkin juice, he found Hermione watching him.

“What?” he said thickly.

“Well … it’s just that Dobby’s plans aren’t always that

safe. Don’t you remember when he lost you all the

bones in your arm?”

“This room isn’t just some mad idea of Dobby’s;

Dumbledore knows about it too, he mentioned it to

me at the Yule Ball.”

Hermione’s expression cleared.

“Dumbledore told you about it?”

“Just in passing,” said Harry, shrugging.

“Oh well, that’s all right then,” said Hermione briskly

and she raised no more objections.

Together with Ron they had spent most of the day

seeking out those people who had signed their names

to the list in the Hog’s Head and telling them where to

meet that evening. Somewhat to Harry’s

disappointment, it was Ginny who managed to find

Cho Chang and her friend first; however, by the end

of dinner he was confident that the news had been

passed to every one of the twenty-five people who had

turned up in the Hog’s Head.

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At half-past seven Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the

Gryffindor common room, Harry clutching a certain

piece of aged parchment in his hand. Fifth years were

allowed to be out in the corridors until nine o’clock,

but all three of them kept looking around nervously

as they made their way up to the seventh floor.

“Hold it,” said Harry warningly, unfolding the piece of

parchment at the top of the last staircase, tapping it

with his wand, and muttering, “I solemnly swear that

I am up to no good.”

A map of Hogwarts appeared upon the blank surface

of the parchment. Tiny black moving dots, labeled

with names, showed where various people were.

“Filch is on the second floor,” said Harry, holding the

map close to his eyes and scanning it closely, “and

Mrs. Norris is on the fourth.”

“And Umbridge?” said Hermione anxiously.

“In her office,” said Harry, pointing. “Okay, let’s go.”

They hurried along the corridor to the place Dobby

had described to Harry, a stretch of blank wall

opposite an enormous tapestry depicting Barnabas

the Barmy’s foolish attempt to train trolls for the

ballet.

“Okay,” said Harry quietly, while a moth-eaten troll

paused in his relentless clubbing of the would-be

ballet teacher to watch. “Dobby said to walk past this

bit of wall three times, concentrating hard on what we

need.”

They did so, turning sharply at the window just

beyond the blank stretch of wall, then at the man-size

vase on its other side. Ron had screwed up his eyes in

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concentration, Hermione was whispering something

under her breath, Harry’s fists were clenched as he

stared ahead of him.

We need somewhere to learn to fight... he thought.

Just give us a place to practice … somewhere they

can’t find us …

“Harry,” said Hermione sharply, as they wheeled

around after their third walk past.

A highly polished door had appeared in the wall. Ron

was staring at it, looking slightly wary. Harry reached

out, seized the brass handle, pulled open the door,

and led the way into a spacious room lit with

flickering torches like those that illuminated the

dungeons eight floors below.

The walls were lined with wooden bookcases, and

instead of chairs there were large silk cushions on the

floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room

carried a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes,

Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass that

Harry was sure had hung, the previous year, in the

fake Moody’s office.

“These will be good when we’re practicing Stunning,”

said Ron enthusiastically, prodding one of the

cushions with his foot.

“And just look at these books!” said Hermione

excitedly, running a finger along the spines of the

large leather-bound tomes. “A Compendium of

Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions … The

Dark Arts Outsmarted … Self-Defensive Spellwork …

wow …” She looked around at Harry, her face

glowing, and he saw that the presence of hundreds of

books had finally convinced Hermione that what they

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were doing was right. “Harry, this is wonderful,

there’s everything we need here!”

And without further ado she slid Jinxes for the Jinxed

from its shelf, sank onto the nearest cushion, and

began to read.

There was a gentle knock on the door. Harry looked

around; Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean

had arrived.

“Whoa,” said Dean, staring around, impressed. “What

is this place?”

Harry began to explain, but before he had finished

more people had arrived, and he had to start all over

again. By the time eight o’clock arrived, every cushion

was occupied. Harry moved across to the door and

turned the key protruding from the lock; it clicked in

a satisfyingly loud way and everybody fell silent,

looking at him. Hermione carefully marked her page

of Jinxes for the Jinxed and set the book aside.

“Well,” said Harry, slightly nervously. “This is the

place we’ve found for practices, and you’ve — er —

obviously found it okay —”

“It’s fantastic!” said Cho, and several people

murmured their agreement.

“It’s bizarre,” said Fred, frowning around at it. “We

once hid from Filch in here, remember, George? But it

was just a broom cupboard then...”

“Hey, Harry, what’s this stuff?” asked Dean from the

rear of the room, indicating the Sneakoscopes and the

Foe-Glass.

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“Dark Detectors,” said Harry, stepping between the

cushions to reach them. “Basically they all show

when Dark wizards or enemies are around, but you

don’t want to rely on them too much, they can be

fooled...”

He gazed for a moment into the cracked Foe-Glass;

shadowy figures were moving around inside it, though

none was recognizable. He turned his back on it.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we

ought to do first and — er —” He noticed a raised

hand. “What, Hermione?”

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” said Hermione.

“Harry’s leader,” said Cho at once, looking at

Hermione as though she were mad, and Harry’s

stomach did yet another back flip.

“Yes, but I think we ought to vote on it properly,” said

Hermione, unperturbed. “It makes it formal and it

gives him authority. So — everyone who thinks Harry

ought to be our leader?”

Everybody put up their hands, even Zacharias Smith,

though he did it very halfheartedly.

“Er — right, thanks,” said Harry, who could feel his

face burning. “And — what, Hermione?”

“I also think we ought to have a name,” she said

brightly, her hand still in the air. “It would promote a

feeling of team spirit and unity, don’t you think?”

“Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” said Angelina

hopefully.

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“Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?”

suggested Fred.

“I was thinking,” said Hermione, frowning at Fred,

“more of a name that didn’t tell everyone what we

were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside

meetings.”

“The Defense Association?” said Cho. “The D.A. for

short, so nobody knows what we’re talking about?”

“Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” said Ginny. “Only let’s make

it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the

Ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

There was a good deal of appreciative murmuring and

laughter at this.

“All in favor of the D.A.?” said Hermione bossily,

kneeling up on her cushion to count. “That’s a

majority — motion passed!”

She pinned the piece of paper with all of their names

on it on the wall and wrote DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY

across the top in large letters.

“Right,” said Harry, when she had sat down again,

“shall we get practicing then? I was thinking, the first

thing we should do is Expelliarmus, you know, the

Disarming Charm. I know it’s pretty basic but I’ve

found it really useful —”

“Oh please, ” said Zacharias Smith, rolling his eyes

and folding his arms. “I don’t think Expelliarmus is

exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do

you?”

“I’ve used it against him,” said Harry quietly. “It saved

my life last June.”

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Smith opened his mouth stupidly. The rest of the

room was very quiet.

“But if you think it’s beneath you, you can leave,”

Harry said.

Smith did not move. Nor did anybody else.

“Okay,” said Harry, his mouth slightly drier than

usual with all those eyes upon him, “I reckon we

should all divide into pairs and practice.”

It felt very odd to be issuing instructions, but not

nearly as odd as seeing them followed. Everybody got

to their feet at once and divided up. Predictably,

Neville was left partnerless.

“You can practice with me,” Harry told him. “Right —

on the count of three, then — one, two, three —”

The room was suddenly full of shouts of

“Expelliarmus!”: Wands flew in all directions, missed

spells hit books on shelves and sent them flying into

the air. Harry was too quick for Neville, whose wand

went spinning out of his hand, hit the ceiling in a

shower of sparks, and landed with a clatter on top of

a bookshelf, from which Harry retrieved it with a

Summoning Charm. Glancing around he thought he

had been right to suggest that they practice the

basics first; there was a lot of shoddy spellwork going

on; many people were not succeeding in disarming

their opponents at all, but merely causing them to

jump backward a few paces or wince as the feeble

spell whooshed over them.

“Expelliarmus!” said Neville, and Harry, caught

unawares, felt his wand fly out of his hand.

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“I DID IT!” said Neville gleefully. “I’ve never done it before — I DID IT!”

“Good one!” said Harry encouragingly, deciding not to

point out that in a real duel situation Neville’s

opponent was unlikely to be staring in the opposite

direction with his wand held loosely at his side.

“Listen, Neville, can you take it in turns to practice

with Ron and Hermione for a couple of minutes so I

can walk around and see how the rest are doing?”

Harry moved off into the middle of the room.

Something very odd was happening to Zacharias

Smith; every time he opened his mouth to disarm

Anthony Goldstein, his own wand would fly out of his

hand, yet Anthony did not seem to be making a

sound. Harry did not have to look far for the solution

of the mystery, however; Fred and George were

several feet from Smith and taking it in turns to point

their wands at his back.

“Sorry, Harry,” said George hastily, when Harry

caught his eye. “Couldn’t resist …”

Harry walked around the other pairs, trying to correct

those who were doing the spell wrong. Ginny was

teamed with Michael Corner; she was doing very well,

whereas Michael was either very bad or unwilling to

jinx her. Ernie Macmillan was flourishing his wand

unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under

his guard; the Creevey brothers were enthusiastic but

erratic and mainly responsible for all the books

leaping off the shelves around them. Luna Lovegood

was similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin

Finch-Fletchley’s wand spinning out of his hand, at

other times merely causing his hair to stand on end.

“Okay, stop!” Harry shouted. “Stop! STOP!”

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I need a whistle, he thought, and immediately spotted one lying on top of the nearest row of books. He

caught it up and blew hard. Everyone lowered their

wands.

“That wasn’t bad,” said Harry, “but there’s definite

room for improvement.” Zacharias Smith glared at

him. “Let’s try again...”

He moved off around the room again, stopping here

and there to make suggestions. Slowly the general

performance improved. He avoided going near Cho

and her friend for a while, but after walking twice

around every other pair in the room felt he could not

ignore them any longer.

“Oh no,” said Cho rather wildly as he approached.

“Expelliarmious! I mean, Expellimellius! I — oh, sorry, Marietta!”

Her curly-haired friend’s sleeve had caught fire;

Marietta extinguished it with her own wand and

glared at Harry as though it was his fault.

“You made me nervous, I was doing all right before

then!” Cho told Harry ruefully.

“That was quite good,” Harry lied, but when she

raised her eyebrows he said, “Well, no, it was lousy,

but I know you can do it properly, I was watching

from over there...”

She laughed. Her friend Marietta looked at them

rather sourly and turned away.

“Don’t mind her,” Cho muttered. “She doesn’t really

want to be here but I made her come with me. Her

parents have forbidden her to do anything that might

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upset Umbridge, you see — her mum works for the

Ministry.”

“What about your parents?” asked Harry.

“Well, they’ve forbidden me to get on the wrong side of

Umbridge too,” said Cho, drawing herself up proudly.

“But if they think I’m not going to fight You-Know-

Who after what happened to Cedric —”

She broke off, looking rather confused, and an

awkward silence fell between them; Terry Boot’s wand

went whizzing past Harry’s ear and hit Alicia Spinnet

hard on the nose.

“Well, my father is very supportive of any anti-

Ministry action!” said Luna Lovegood proudly from

just behind Harry; evidently she had been

eavesdropping on his conversation while Justin

Finch-Fletchley attempted to disentangle himself from

the robes that had flown up over his head. “He’s

always saying he’d believe anything of Fudge, I mean,

the number of goblins Fudge has had assassinated!

And of course he uses the Department of Mysteries to

develop terrible poisons, which he feeds secretly to

anybody who disagrees with him. And then there’s his

Umgubular Slashkilter —”

“Don’t ask,” Harry muttered to Cho as she opened her

mouth, looking puzzled. She giggled.

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione called from the other end of

the room, “have you checked the time?”

He looked down at his watch and received a shock —

it was already ten past nine, which meant they

needed to get back to their common rooms

immediately or risk being caught and punished by

Filch for being out-of-bounds. He blew his whistle;

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everybody stopped shouting, “Expelliarmus!” and the last couple of wands clattered to the floor.

“Well, that was pretty good,” said Harry, “but we’ve

overrun, we’d better leave it here. Same time, same

place next week?”

“Sooner!” said Dean Thomas eagerly and many people

nodded in agreement.

Angelina, however, said quickly, “The Quidditch

season’s about to start, we need team practices too!”

“Let’s say next Wednesday night, then,” said Harry,

“and we can decide on additional meetings then...

Come on, we’d better get going...”

He pulled out the Marauder’s Map again and checked

it carefully for signs of teachers on the seventh floor.

He let them all leave in threes and fours, watching

their tiny dots anxiously to see that they returned

safely to their dormitories: the Hufflepuffs to the

basement corridor that also led to the kitchens, the

Ravenclaws to a tower on the west side of the castle,

and the Gryffindors along the corridor to the seventh

floor and the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“That was really, really good, Harry,” said Hermione,

when finally it was just her, Harry, and Ron left.

“Yeah, it was!” said Ron enthusiastically, as they

slipped out of the door and watched it melt back into

stone behind them. “Did you see me disarm

Hermione, Harry?”

“Only once,” said Hermione, stung. “I got you loads

more than you got me —”

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“I did not only get you once, I got you at least three times —”

“Well, if you’re counting the one where you tripped

over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my

hand —”

They argued all the way back to the common room,

but Harry was not listening to them. He had one eye

on the Marauder’s Map, but he was also thinking of

how Cho had said he made her nervous...

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THE LION AND THE SERPENT

Harry felt as though he were carrying some kind of

talisman inside his chest over the following two

weeks, a glowing secret that supported him through

Umbridge’s classes and even made it possible for him

to smile blandly as he looked into her horrible bulging

eyes. He and the D.A. were resisting her under her

very nose, doing the very thing that she and the

Ministry most feared, and whenever he was supposed

to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard’s book during her

lessons he dwelled instead on satisfying memories of

their most recent meetings, remembering how Neville

had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin

Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after

three meetings’ hard effort, how Parvati Patil had

produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had

reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to

dust.

He was finding it almost impossible to fix a regular

night of the week for D.A. meetings, as they had to

accommodate three separate Quidditch teams’

practices, which were often rearranged depending on

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the weather conditions; but Harry was not sorry

about this, he had a feeling that it was probably

better to keep the timing of their meetings

unpredictable. If anyone was watching them, it would

be hard to make out a pattern.

Hermione soon devised a very clever method of

communicating the time and date of the next meeting

to all the members in case they needed to change it at

short notice, because it would look so suspicious if

people from different Houses were seen crossing the

Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gave

each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron

became very excited when he saw the basket at first,

convinced that she was actually giving out gold).

“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?”

Hermione said, holding one up for examination at the

end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and

yellow in the light from the torches. “On real Galleons

that’s just a serial number referring to the goblin who

cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the

numbers will change to reflect the time and date of

the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the

date changes, so if you’re carrying them in a pocket

you’ll be able to feel them. We take one each, and

when Harry sets the date of the next meeting he’ll

change the numbers on his coin, and because I’ve put

a Protean Charm on them, they’ll all change to mimic

his.”

A blank silence greeted Hermione’s words. She looked

around at all the faces upturned to her, rather

disconcerted.

“Well — I thought it was a good idea,” she said

uncertainly, “I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to

turn out our pockets, there’s nothing fishy about

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carrying a Galleon, is there? But … well, if you don’t want to use them …”

“You can do a Protean Charm?” said Terry Boot.

“Yes,” said Hermione.

“But that’s … that’s N.E.W.T. standard, that is,” he

said weakly.

“Oh,” said Hermione, trying to look modest. “Oh …

well … yes, I suppose it is...”

“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw?” he demanded,

staring at Hermione with something close to wonder.

“With brains like yours?”

“Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting

me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting,” said Hermione

brightly, “but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So

does that mean we’re using the Galleons?”

There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved

forward to collect one from the basket. Harry looked

sideways at Hermione.

“You know what these remind me of?”

“No, what’s that?”

“The Death Eaters’ scars. Voldemort touches one of

them, and all their scars burn, and they know they’ve

got to join him.”

“Well … yes,” said Hermione quietly. “That is where I

got the idea … but you’ll notice I decided to engrave

the date on bits of metal rather than on our members’

skin...”

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“Yeah … I prefer your way,” said Harry, grinning, as

he slipped his Galleon into his pocket. “I suppose the

only danger with these is that we might accidentally

spend them.”

“Fat chance,” said Ron, who was examining his own

fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. “I haven’t

got any real Galleons to confuse it with.”

As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor

versus Slytherin, drew nearer, their D.A. meetings

were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost

daily practices. The fact that the Quidditch Cup had

not been held for so long added considerably to the

interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming

game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a

lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course,

would be playing both teams over the coming year;

and the Heads of House of the competing teams,

though they attempted to disguise it under a decent

pretense of sportsmanship, were determined to see

their side’s victory. Harry realized how much

Professor McGonagall cared about beating Slytherin

when she abstained from giving them homework in

the week leading up to the match.

“I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with at the

moment,” she said loftily. Nobody could quite believe

their ears until she looked directly at Harry and Ron

and said grimly, “I’ve become accustomed to seeing

the Quidditch Cup in my study, boys, and I really

don’t want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape,

so use the extra time to practice, won’t you?”

Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked

the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often

that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to

play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many

reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor

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players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet turned

up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so

thick and fast that they obscured her vision and

obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must

have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself

and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who

insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper,

Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while

she worked in the library.

Harry felt optimistic about Gryffindor’s chances; they

had, after all, never lost to Malfoy’s team. Admittedly

Ron was still not performing to Wood’s standard, but

he was working extremely hard to improve. His

greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence

when he made a blunder; if he let in one goal he

became flustered and was therefore likely to miss

more. On the other hand, Harry had seen Ron make

some truly spectacular saves when he was on form:

During one memorable practice, he had hung one-

handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so

hard away from the goal hoop that it soared the

length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the

other end. The rest of the team felt this save

compared favorably with one made recently by Barry

Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland’s

top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. Even Fred had said

that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and

that they were seriously considering admitting that he

was related to them, something he assured Ron they

had been trying to deny for four years.

The only thing really worrying Harry was how much

Ron was allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to

upset him before they even got onto the pitch. Harry,

of course, had endured their snide comments for

more than four years, so whispers of, “Hey, Potty, I

heard Warrington’s sworn to knock you off your

broom on Saturday,” far from chilling his blood, made

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him laugh. “Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be

more worried if he was aiming for the person next to

me,” he retorted, which made Ron and Hermione

laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinson’s face.

But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of

insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins,

some of them seventh years and considerably larger

than he was, muttered as they passed in the

corridors, “Got your bed booked in the hospital wing,

Weasley?” he did not laugh, but turned a delicate

shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitated Ron

dropping the Quaffle (which he did whenever they

were within sight of each other), Ron’s ears glowed

red and his hands shook so badly that he was likely

to drop whatever he was holding at the time too.

October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds

and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen

iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts

that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and

the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly

gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became

snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle

dropped so far that many students wore their thick

protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between

lessons.

The morning of the match dawned bright and cold.

When Harry awoke he looked around at Ron’s bed

and saw him sitting bolt upright, his arms around his

knees, staring fixedly into space.

“You all right?” said Harry.

Ron nodded but did not speak. Harry was reminded

forcibly of the time that Ron had accidentally put a

slug-vomiting charm on himself. He looked just as

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pale and sweaty as he had done then, not to mention

as reluctant to open his mouth.

“You just need some breakfast,” Harry said bracingly.

“C’mon.”

The Great Hall was filling up fast when they arrived,

the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than

usual. As they passed the Slytherin table there was

an upsurge of noise; Harry looked around and saw

that nearly everyone there was wearing, in addition to

the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver

badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns. For

some reason many of them waved at Ron, laughing

uproariously. Harry tried to see what was written on

the badges as he walked by, but he was too

concerned to get Ron past their table quickly to linger

long enough to read them.

They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor

table, where everyone was wearing red and gold, but

far from raising Ron’s spirits the cheers seemed to

sap the last of his morale; he collapsed onto the

nearest bench looking as though he were facing his

final meal.

“I must’ve been mental to do this,” he said in a croaky

whisper. “Mental. ”

“Don’t be thick,” said Harry firmly, passing him a

choice of cereals. “You’re going to be fine. It’s normal

to be nervous.”

“I’m rubbish,” croaked Ron. “I’m lousy. I can’t play to

save my life. What was I thinking?”

“Get a grip,” said Harry sternly. “Look at that save

you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and

George said it was brilliant —”

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Ron turned a tortured face to Harry.

“That was an accident,” he whispered miserably. “I

didn’t mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when

none of you were looking and I was trying to get back

on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident.”

“Well,” said Harry, recovering quickly from this

unpleasant surprise, “a few more accidents like that

and the game’s in the bag, isn’t it?”

Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them wearing

red-and-gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes.

“How’re you feeling?” Ginny asked Ron, who was now

staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his

empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering

attempting to drown himself in them.

“He’s just nervous,” said Harry.

“Well, that’s a good sign, I never feel you perform as

well in exams if you’re not a bit nervous,” said

Hermione heartily.

“Hello,” said a vague and dreamy voice from behind

them. Harry looked up: Luna Lovegood had drifted

over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were

staring at her and a few openly laughing and

pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped

like a life-size lion’s head, which was perched

precariously on her head.

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” said Luna, pointing

unnecessarily at her hat. “Look what it does...”

She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It

opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic

roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump.

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“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna happily. “I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin,

you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway … good

luck, Ronald!”

She drifted away. They had not quite recovered from

the shock of Luna’s hat before Angelina came

hurrying toward them, accompanied by Katie and

Alicia, whose eyebrows had mercifully been returned

to normal by Madam Pomfrey.

“When you’re ready,” she said, “we’re going to go

straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and

change.”

“We’ll be there in a bit,” Harry assured her. “Ron’s

just got to have some breakfast.”

It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron

was not capable of eating anything more and Harry

thought it best to get him down to the changing

rooms. As they rose from the table, Hermione got up

too, and taking Harry’s arm, she drew him to one

side.

“Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’

badges,” she whispered urgently.

Harry looked questioningly at her, but she shook her

head warningly; Ron had just ambled over to them,

looking lost and desperate.

“Good luck, Ron,” said Hermione, standing on tiptoe

and kissing him on the cheek. “And you, Harry —”

Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as they

walked back across the Great Hall. He touched the

spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him,

looking puzzled, as though he was not quite sure

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what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to

notice much around him, but Harry cast a curious

glance at the crown-shaped badges as they passed

the Slytherin table, and this time he made out the

words etched onto them:

WEASLEY

IS OUR KING

With an unpleasant feeling that this could mean

nothing good, he hurried Ron across the entrance

hall, down the stone steps, and out into the icy air.

The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they

hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium.

There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform

pearly white, which meant that visibility would be

good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the

eyes. Harry pointed out these encouraging factors to

Ron as they walked, but he was not sure that Ron

was listening.

Angelina had changed already and was talking to the

rest of the team when they entered. Harry and Ron

pulled on their robes (Ron attempted to do his up

back-to-front for several minutes before Alicia took

pity on him and went to help) and then sat down to

listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices

outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came

pouring out of the castle toward the pitch.

“Okay, I’ve only just found out the final lineup for

Slytherin,” said Angelina, consulting a piece of

parchment. “Last year’s Beaters, Derrick and Bole,

have left now, but it looks as though Montague’s

replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than

anyone who can fly particularly well. They’re two

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blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don’t know much

about them —”

“We do,” said Harry and Ron together.

“Well, they don’t look bright enough to tell one end of

a broom from another,” said Angelina, pocketing her

parchment, “but then I was always surprised Derrick

and Bole managed to find their way onto the pitch

without signposts.”

“Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mold,” Harry

assured her.

They could hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the

banked benches of the spectators’ stands now. Some

people were singing, though Harry could not make

out the words. He was starting to feel nervous, but he

knew his butterflies were as nothing to Ron’s, who

was clutching his stomach and staring straight ahead

again, his jaw set and his complexion pale gray.

“It’s time,” said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at

her watch. “C’mon everyone … good luck.”

The team rose, shouldered their brooms, and

marched in single file out of the changing room and

into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted

them in which Harry could still hear singing, though

it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.

The Slytherin team were standing waiting for them.

They too were wearing those silver crown-shaped

badges. The new captain, Montague, was built along

the same lines as Dudley, with massive forearms like

hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle,

almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight,

swinging their new Beaters’ bats. Malfoy stood to one

side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head.

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He caught Harry’s eye and smirked, tapping the

crown-shaped badge on his chest.

“Captains shake hands,” ordered the umpire, Madam

Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each

other. Harry could tell that Montague was trying to

crush Angelina’s fingers, though she did not wince.

“Mount your brooms...”

Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and

blew.

The balls were released and the fourteen players shot

upward; out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Ron

streak off toward the goal hoops. He zoomed higher,

dodging a Bludger, and set off on a wide lap of the

pitch, gazing around for a glint of gold; on the other

side of the stadium, Draco Malfoy was doing exactly

the same.

“And it’s Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a

player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for years but she

still won’t go out with me —”

“JORDAN!” yelled Professor McGonagall.

“Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest —

and she’s ducked Warrington, she’s passed

Montague, she’s — ouch — been hit from behind by a

Bludger from Crabbe... Montague catches the Quaffle,

Montague heading back up the pitch and — nice

Bludger there from George Weasley, that’s a Bludger

to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle,

caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse

passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet’s away —”

Lee Jordan’s commentary rang through the stadium

and Harry listened as hard as he could through the

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wind whistling in his ears and the din of the crowd,

all yelling and booing and singing —

“— dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger — close call,

Alicia — and the crowd are loving this, just listen to

them, what’s that they’re singing?”

And as Lee paused to listen the song rose loud and

clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin

section of the stands:

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That’s why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King.

Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley will make sure we win,

Weasley is our King.

“— and Alicia passes back to Angelina!” Lee shouted,

and as Harry swerved, his insides boiling at what he

had just heard, he knew Lee was trying to drown out

the sound of the singing. “Come on now, Angelina —

looks like she’s got just the Keeper to beat! — SHE

SHOOTS — SHE — aaaah …”

Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal;

he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with

it, zigzagging in between Alicia and Katie; the singing

from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer

and nearer Ron —

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King.

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Harry could not help himself: Abandoning his search

for the Snitch, he turned his Firebolt toward Ron, a

lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before

the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington

pelted toward him …

“— and it’s Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington

heading for goal, he’s out of Bludger range with just

the Keeper ahead —”

A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands

below:

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring …

“— so it’s the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper,

Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a

promising new talent on the team — come on, Ron!”

But the scream of delight came from the Slytherin

end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the

Quaffle had soared between them, straight through

Ron’s central hoop.

“Slytherin score!” came Lee’s voice amid the cheering

and booing from the crowds below. “So that’s ten-nil

to Slytherin — bad luck, Ron …”

The Slytherins sang even louder:

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN …

“— and Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie

Bell tanking up the pitch —” cried Lee valiantly,

though the singing was now so deafening that he

could hardly make himself heard above it.

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WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN,

WEASLEY IS OUR KING …

“Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” screamed Angelina,

soaring past him to keep up with Katie. “GET

GOING!”

Harry realized that he had been stationary in midair

for more than a minute, watching the progress of the

match without sparing a thought for the whereabouts

of the Snitch; horrified, he went into a dive and

started circling the pitch again, staring around, trying

to ignore the chorus now thundering through the

stadium:

WEASLEY IS OUR KING,

WEASLEY IS OUR KING …

There was no sign of the Snitch anywhere he looked;

Malfoy was still circling the stadium just like Harry.

They passed midway around the pitch going in

opposite directions and Harry heard Malfoy singing

loudly,

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN …

“— and it’s Warrington again,” bellowed Lee, “who

passes to Pucey, Pucey’s off past Spinnet, come on

now Angelina, you can take him — turns out you

can’t — but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean,

George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway,

and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell — er

— drops it too — so that’s Montague with the Quaffle,

Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and

he’s off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block

him!”

Harry zoomed around the end of the stadium behind

the Slytherin goal hoops, willing himself not to look at

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what was going on at Ron’s end; as he sped past the

Slytherin Keeper, he heard Bletchley singing along

with the crowd below,

WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING …

“— and Pucey’s dodged Alicia again, and he’s heading

straight for goal, stop it, Ron!”

Harry did not have to look to see what had happened:

There was a terrible groan from the Gryffindor end,

coupled with fresh screams and applause from the

Slytherins. Looking down, Harry saw the pug-faced

Pansy Parkinson right at the front of the stands, her

back to the pitch as she conducted the Slytherin

supporters who were roaring:

THAT’S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING:

WEASLEY IS OUR KING.

But twenty-nil was nothing, there was still time for

Gryffindor to catch up or catch the Snitch, a few goals

and they would be in the lead as usual, Harry

assured himself, bobbing and weaving through the

other players in pursuit of something shiny that

turned out to be Montague’s watch strap...

But Ron let in two more goals. There was an edge of

panic in Harry’s desire to find the Snitch now. If he

could just get it soon and finish the game quickly …

“— and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks

Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to

Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she’s

past Warrington, she’s heading for goal, come on now

Angelina — GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It’s forty-ten, forty-

ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle...”

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Harry could hear Luna’s ludicrous lion hat roaring

amidst the Gryffindor cheers and felt heartened; only

thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull

back easily. Harry ducked a Bludger that Crabbe had

sent rocketing in his direction and resumed his

frantic scouring of the pitch for the Snitch, keeping

one eye on Malfoy in case he showed signs of having

spotted it, but Malfoy, like him, was continuing to

soar around the stadium, searching fruitlessly …

“— Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to

Montague, Montague back to Pucey — Johnson

intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to

Bell, this looks good — I mean bad — Bell’s hit by a

Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it’s Pucey in

possession again …”

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN,

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN —

But Harry had seen it at last: The tiny fluttering

Golden Snitch was hovering feet from the ground at

the Slytherin end of the pitch.

He dived...

In a matter of seconds, Malfoy was streaking out of

the sky on Harry’s left, a green-and-silver blur lying

flat on his broom...

The Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goal hoops

and scooted off toward the other side of the stands;

its change of direction suited Malfoy, who was nearer.

Harry pulled his Firebolt around, he and Malfoy were

now neck and neck …

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Feet from the ground, Harry lifted his right hand from his broom, stretching toward the Snitch … to his

right, Malfoy’s arm extended too, reaching, groping …

It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept

seconds — Harry’s fingers closed around the tiny,

struggling ball — Malfoy’s fingernails scrabbled the

back of Harry’s hand hopelessly — Harry pulled his

broom upward, holding the struggling ball in his

hand and the Gryffindor spectators screamed their

approval...

They were saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in

those goals, nobody would remember as long as

Gryffindor had won —

WHAM!

A Bludger hit Harry squarely in the small of the back

and he flew forward off his broom; luckily he was only

five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low

to catch the Snitch, but he was winded all the same

as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch. He

heard Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle, an uproar in the

stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and

jeering, a thud, then Angelina’s frantic voice.

“Are you all right?”

“ ’Course I am,” said Harry grimly, taking her hand

and allowing her to pull him to his feet. Madam

Hooch was zooming toward one of the Slytherin

players above him, though he could not see who it

was at this angle.

“It was that thug, Crabbe,” said Angelina angrily. “He

whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you’d

got the Snitch — but we won, Harry, we won!”

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Harry heard a snort from behind him and turned

around, still holding the Snitch tightly in his hand:

Draco Malfoy had landed close by; white-faced with

fury, he was still managing to sneer.

“Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you?” he said to

Harry. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper … but then he

was born in a bin... Did you like my lyrics, Potter?”

Harry did not answer; he turned away to meet the

rest of the team who were now landing one by one,

yelling and punching the air in triumph, all except

Ron, who had dismounted from his broom over by the

goalposts and was making his way slowly back to the

changing rooms alone.

“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Malfoy

called, as Katie and Alicia hugged Harry. “But we

couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly — we wanted to

sing about his mother, see —”

“Talk about sour grapes,” said Angelina, casting

Malfoy a disgusted look.

“— we couldn’t fit in useless loser either — for his

father, you know —”

Fred and George had realized what Malfoy was talking

about. Halfway through shaking Harry’s hand they

stiffened, looking around at Malfoy.

“Leave it,” said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the

arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he’s just sore he

lost, the jumped-up little —”

“— but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” said

Malfoy, sneering. “Spend holidays there and

everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the

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stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by

Muggles even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay —”

Harry grabbed hold of George; meanwhile it was

taking the combined efforts of Angelina, Alicia, and

Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was

laughing openly. Harry looked around for Madam

Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for his illegal

Bludger attack.

“Or perhaps,” said Malfoy, leering as he backed away,

“you can remember what your mother’s house stank

like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it —”

Harry was not aware of releasing George, all he knew

was that a second later both of them were sprinting at

Malfoy. He had completely forgotten the fact that all

the teachers were watching: All he wanted to do was

cause Malfoy as much pain as possible. With no time

to draw out his wand, he merely drew back the fist

clutching the Snitch and sank it as hard as he could

into Malfoy’s stomach —

“Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! NO!”

He could hear girls’ voices screaming, Malfoy yelling,

George swearing, a whistle blowing, and the bellowing

of the crowd around him, but he did not care, not

until somebody in the vicinity yelled “IMPEDIMENTA!”

and only when he was knocked over backward by the

force of the spell did he abandon the attempt to

punch every inch of Malfoy he could reach...

“What do you think you’re doing?” screamed Madam

Hooch, as Harry leapt to his feet again; it was she

who had hit him with the Impediment Jinx. She was

holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the

other, her broom lay abandoned several feet away.

Malfoy was curled up on the ground, whimpering and

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moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a

swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by

the three Chasers, and Crabbe was cackling in the

background. “I’ve never seen behavior like it — back

up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your

Head of House’s office! Go! Now!”

Harry and George marched off the pitch, both

panting, neither saying a word to each other. The

howling and jeering of the crowd grew fainter and

fainter until they reached the entrance hall, where

they could hear nothing except the sound of their own

footsteps. Harry became aware that something was

still struggling in his right hand, the knuckles of

which he had bruised against Malfoy’s jaw; looking

down he saw the Snitch’s silver wings protruding

from between his fingers, struggling for release.

They had barely reached the door of Professor

McGonagall’s office when she came marching along

the corridor behind them. She was wearing a

Gryffindor scarf, but tore it from her throat with

shaking hands as she strode toward them, looking

livid.

“In!” she said furiously, pointing to the door. Harry

and George entered. She strode around behind her

desk and faced them, quivering with rage as she

threw the Gryffindor scarf aside onto the floor.

“Well?” she said. “I have never seen such a disgraceful

exhibition. Two onto one! Explain yourselves!”

“Malfoy provoked us,” said Harry stiffly.

“Provoked you?” shouted Professor McGonagall,

slamming a fist onto her desk so that her tartan

biscuit tin slid sideways off it and burst open, littering

the floor with Ginger Newts. “He’d just lost, hadn’t he,

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of course he wanted to provoke you! But what on

earth he can have said that justified what you two —”

“He insulted my parents,” snarled George. “And

Harry’s mother.”

“But instead of leaving it to Madam Hooch to sort out,

you two decided to give an exhibition of Muggle

dueling, did you?” bellowed Professor McGonagall.

“Have you any idea what you’ve — ?”

“Hem, hem. ”

George and Harry both spun around. Dolores

Umbridge was standing in the doorway wrapped in a

green tweed cloak that greatly enhanced her

resemblance to a giant toad, and smiling in the

horribly sickly, ominous way that Harry had come to

associate with imminent misery.

“May I help, Professor McGonagall?” asked Professor

Umbridge in her most poisonously sweet voice.

Blood rushed into Professor McGonagall’s face.

“Help?” she repeated in a constricted voice. “What do

you mean, ‘help’?”

Professor Umbridge moved forward into the office, still

smiling her sickly smile.

“Why, I thought you might be grateful for a little extra

authority.”

Harry would not have been surprised to see sparks fly

from Professor McGonagall’s nostrils.

“You thought wrong,” she said, turning her back on

Umbridge. “Now, you two had better listen closely. I

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do not care what provocation Malfoy offered you, I do not care if he insulted every family member you

possess, your behavior was disgusting and I am

giving each of you a week’s worth of detention! Do not

look at me like that, Potter, you deserve it! And if

either of you ever —”

“Hem, hem. ”

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes as though

praying for patience as she turned her face toward

Professor Umbridge again.

“Yes?”

“I think they deserve rather more than detentions,”

said Umbridge, smiling still more broadly.

Professor McGonagall’s eyes flew open. “But

unfortunately,” she said, with an attempt at a

reciprocal smile that made her look as though she

had lockjaw, “it is what I think that counts, as they

are in my House, Dolores.”

“Well, actually, Minerva,” simpered Umbridge, “I think

you’ll find that what I think does count. Now, where

is it? Cornelius just sent it... I mean,” she gave a little

false laugh as she rummaged in her handbag, “the

Minister just sent it... Ah yes …”

She had pulled out a piece of parchment that she now

unfurled, clearing her throat fussily before starting to

read what it said.

“Hem, hem … ‘Educational Decree Number Twenty-

five …’ ”

“Not another one!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall

violently.

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“Well, yes,” said Umbridge, still smiling. “As a matter of fact, Minerva, it was you who made me see that we

needed a further amendment... You remember how

you overrode me, when I was unwilling to allow the

Gryffindor Quidditch team to re-form? How you took

the case to Dumbledore, who insisted that the team

be allowed to play? Well, now, I couldn’t have that. I

contacted the Minister at once, and he quite agreed

with me that the High Inquisitor has to have the

power to strip pupils of privileges, or she — that is to

say, I — would have less authority than common

teachers! And you see now, don’t you, Minerva, how

right I was in attempting to stop the Gryffindor team

re-forming? Dreadful tempers … Anyway, I was

reading out our amendment … hem, hem … ‘The High

Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority

over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of

privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and

the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and

removals of privileges as may have been ordered by

other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge,

Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc.,

etc...’ ”

She rolled up the parchment and put it back into her

handbag, still smiling.

“So … I really think I will have to ban these two from

playing Quidditch ever again,” she said, looking from

Harry to George and back again.

Harry felt the Snitch fluttering madly in his hand.

“Ban us?” he said, and his voice sounded strangely

distant. “From playing … ever again?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the

trick,” said Umbridge, her smile widening still further

as she watched him struggle to comprehend what she

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had said. “You and Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to be safe, this young man’s twin ought to be stopped

too — if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel

sure he would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as

well. I will want their broomsticks confiscated, of

course; I shall keep them safely in my office, to make

sure there is no infringement of my ban. But I am not

unreasonable, Professor McGonagall,” she continued,

turning back to Professor McGonagall who was now

standing as still as though carved from ice, staring at

her. “The rest of the team can continue playing, I saw

no signs of violence from any of them. Well … good

afternoon to you.” And with a look of the utmost

satisfaction Umbridge left the room, leaving a

horrified silence in her wake.

“Banned,” said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that

evening in the common room. “Banned. No Seeker

and no Beaters … What on earth are we going to do?”

It did not feel as though they had won the match at

all. Everywhere Harry looked there were disconsolate

and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped

around the fire, all apart from Ron, who had not been

seen since the end of the match.

“It’s just so unfair,” said Alicia numbly. “I mean, what

about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the

whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?”

“No,” said Ginny miserably; she and Hermione were

sitting on either side of Harry. “He just got lines, I

heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”

“And banning Fred when he didn’t even do anything!”

said Alicia furiously, pummeling her knee with her

fist.

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“It’s not my fault I didn’t,” said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. “I would’ve pounded the little

scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn’t been holding

me back.”

Harry stared miserably at the dark window. Snow was

falling. The Snitch he had caught earlier was now

zooming around and around the common room;

people were watching its progress as though

hypnotized and Crookshanks was leaping from chair

to chair, trying to catch it.

“I’m going to bed,” said Angelina, getting slowly to her

feet.

“Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad

dream... Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we

haven’t played yet...”

She was soon followed by Alicia and Katie. Fred and

George sloped off to bed some time later, glowering at

everyone they passed, and Ginny went not long after

that. Only Harry and Hermione were left beside the

fire.

“Have you seen Ron?” Hermione asked in a low voice.

Harry shook his head.

“I think he’s avoiding us,” said Hermione. “Where do

you think he — ?”

But at that precise moment, there was a creaking

sound behind them as the Fat Lady swung forward

and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole.

He was very pale indeed and there was snow in his

hair. When he saw Harry and Hermione he stopped

dead in his tracks.

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“Where have you been?” said Hermione anxiously,

springing up.

“Walking,” Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his

Quidditch things.

“You look frozen,” said Hermione. “Come and sit

down!”

Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair

farthest from Harry’s, not looking at him. The stolen

Snitch zoomed over their heads.

“I’m sorry,” Ron mumbled, looking at his feet.

“What for?” said Harry.

“For thinking I can play Quidditch,” said Ron. “I’m

going to resign first thing tomorrow.”

“If you resign,” said Harry testily, “there’ll only be

three players left on the team.” And when Ron looked

puzzled, he said, “I’ve been given a lifetime ban. So’ve

Fred and George.”

“What?” Ron yelped.

Hermione told him the full story; Harry could not bear

to tell it again. When she had finished, Ron looked

more anguished than ever.

“This is all my fault —”

“You didn’t make me punch Malfoy,” said Harry

angrily.

“— if I wasn’t so lousy at Quidditch —”

“— it’s got nothing to do with that —”

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“— it was that song that wound me up —”

“— it would’ve wound anyone up —”

Hermione got up and walked to the window, away

from the argument, watching the snow swirling down

against the pane.

“Look, drop it, will you!” Harry burst out. “It’s bad

enough without you blaming yourself for everything!”

Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the

damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in a dull

voice, “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Join the club,” said Harry bitterly.

“Well,” said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. “I

can think of one thing that might cheer you both up.”

“Oh yeah?” said Harry skeptically.

“Yeah,” said Hermione, turning away from the pitch-

black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading

across her face. “Hagrid’s back.”

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HAGRID’S TALE

Harry sprinted up to the boys’ dormitory to fetch the

Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map from his

trunk; he was so quick that he and Ron were ready to

leave at least five minutes before Hermione hurried

back down from the girls’ dormitories, wearing scarf,

gloves, and one of her own knobbly elf hats.

“Well, it’s cold out there!” she said defensively, as Ron

clicked his tongue impatiently.

They crept through the portrait hole and covered

themselves hastily in the cloak — Ron had grown so

much he now needed to crouch to prevent his feet

showing — then, moving slowly and cautiously, they

proceeded down the many staircases, pausing at

intervals to check the map for signs of Filch or Mrs.

Norris. They were lucky; they saw nobody but Nearly

Headless Nick, who was gliding along absentmindedly

humming something that sounded horribly like

“Weasley Is Our King.” They crept across the entrance

hall and then out into the silent, snowy grounds.

With a great leap of his heart, Harry saw little golden

squares of light ahead and smoke coiling up from

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Hagrid’s chimney. He set off at a quick march, the

other two jostling and bumping along behind him,

and they crunched excitedly through the thickening

snow until at last they reached the wooden front door;

when Harry raised his fist and knocked three times, a

dog started barking frantically inside.

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry called through the keyhole.

“Shoulda known!” said a gruff voice.

They beamed at one another under the cloak; they

could tell that Hagrid’s voice was pleased. “Bin home

three seconds … Out the way, Fang … Out the way,

yeh dozy dog …”

The bolt was drawn back, the door creaked open, and

Hagrid’s head appeared in the gap.

Hermione screamed.

“Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” said Hagrid hastily,

staring wildly over their heads. “Under that cloak, are

yeh? Well, get in, get in!”

“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasped, as the three of them

squeezed past Hagrid into the house and pulled the

cloak off themselves so he could see them. “I just —

oh, Hagrid!”

“It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid hastily,

shutting the door behind them and hurrying to close

all the curtains, but Hermione continued to gaze up

at him in horror.

Hagrid’s hair was matted with congealed blood, and

his left eye had been reduced to a puffy slit amid a

mass of purple-and-black bruises. There were many

cuts on his face and hands, some of them still

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bleeding, and he was moving gingerly, which made

Harry suspect broken ribs. It was obvious that he had

only just got home; a thick black traveling cloak lay

over the back of a chair and a haversack large enough

to carry several small children leaned against the wall

inside the door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a

normal man and three times as broad, was now

limping over to the fire and placing a copper kettle

over it.

“What happened to you?” Harry demanded, while

Fang danced around them all, trying to lick their

faces.

“Told yeh, nuthin’,” said Hagrid firmly. “Want a

cuppa?”

“Come off it,” said Ron, “you’re in a right state!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, I’m fine,” said Hagrid, straightening

up and turning to beam at them all, but wincing.

“Blimey, it’s good ter see you three again — had good

summers, did yeh?”

“Hagrid, you’ve been attacked!” said Ron.

“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid firmly.

“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up

with a pound of mince instead of a face?” Ron

demanded.

“You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid,”

said Hermione anxiously. “Some of those cuts look

nasty.”

“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” said Hagrid repressively.

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He walked across to the enormous wooden table that

stood in the middle of his cabin and twitched aside a

tea towel that had been lying on it. Underneath was a

raw, bloody, green-tinged steak slightly larger than

the average car tire.

“You’re not going to eat that, are you, Hagrid?” said

Ron, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks poisonous.”

“It’s s’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,”

Hagrid said. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.”

He picked up the steak and slapped it over the left

side of his face. Greenish blood trickled down into his

beard as he gave a soft moan of satisfaction.

“Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.”

“So are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?”

Harry asked.

“Can’, Harry. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter

tell yeh that.”

“Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” asked Hermione

quietly.

Hagrid’s fingers slipped on the dragon steak, and it

slid squelchily onto his chest.

“Giants?” said Hagrid, catching the steak before it

reached his belt and slapping it back over his face.

“Who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’

to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve — who’s said I’ve bin —

eh?”

“We guessed,” said Hermione apologetically.

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“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” said Hagrid, fixing her sternly with the eye that was not hidden by the steak.

“It was kind of … obvious,” said Ron. Harry nodded.

Hagrid glared at them, then snorted, threw the steak

onto the table again and strode back to the kettle,

which was now whistling.

“Never known kids like you three fer knowin’ more’n

yeh oughta,” he muttered, splashing boiling water

into three of his bucket-shaped mugs. “An’ I’m not

complimentin’ yeh, neither. Nosy, some’d call it.

Interferin’.”

But his beard twitched.

“So you have been to look for giants?” said Harry,

grinning as he sat down at the table.

Hagrid set tea in front of each of them, sat down,

picked up his steak again, and slapped it back over

his face.

“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunted, “I have.”

“And you found them?” said Hermione in a hushed

voice.

“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,”

said Hagrid. “Pretty big, see.”

“Where are they?” said Ron.

“Mountains,” said Hagrid unhelpfully.

“So why don’t Muggles — ?”

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“They do,” said Hagrid darkly. “O’ny their deaths are always put down ter mountaineerin’ accidents, aren’

they?”

He adjusted the steak a little so that it covered the

worst of the bruising.

“Come on, Hagrid, tell us what you’ve been up to!”

said Ron. “Tell us about being attacked by the giants

and Harry can tell you about being attacked by the

dementors —”

Hagrid choked in his mug and dropped his steak at

the same time; a large quantity of spit, tea, and

dragon blood was sprayed over the table as Hagrid

coughed and spluttered and the steak slid, with a soft

splat, onto the floor.

“Whadda yeh mean, attacked by dementors?” growled

Hagrid.

“Didn’t you know?” Hermione asked him, wide-eyed.

“I don’ know anything that’s been happenin’ since I

left. I was on a secret mission, wasn’ I, didn’ wan’

owls followin’ me all over the place — ruddy

dementors! Yeh’re not serious?”

“Yeah, I am, they turned up in Little Whinging and

attacked my cousin and me, and then the Ministry of

Magic expelled me —”

“WHAT?”

“— and I had to go to a hearing and everything, but

tell us about the giants first.”

“You were expelled?”

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“Tell us about your summer and I’ll tell you about

mine.”

Hagrid glared at him through his one open eye. Harry

looked right back, an expression of innocent

determination on his face.

“Oh, all righ’,” Hagrid said in a resigned voice.

He bent down and tugged the dragon steak out of

Fang’s mouth.

“Oh, Hagrid, don’t, it’s not hygien —” Hermione

began, but Hagrid had already slapped the meat back

over his swollen eye. He took another fortifying gulp of

tea and then said, “Well, we set off righ’ after term

ended —”

“Madame Maxime went with you, then?” Hermione

interjected.

“Yeah, tha’s right,” said Hagrid, and a softened

expression appeared on the few inches of face that

were not obscured by beard or green steak. “Yeah, it

was jus’ the pair of us. An’ I’ll tell yeh this, she’s not

afraid of roughin’ it, Olympe. Yeh know, she’s a fine,

well-dressed woman, an’ knowin’ where we was goin’ I

wondered ’ow she’d feel abou’ clamberin’ over

boulders an’ sleepin’ in caves an’ tha’, bu’ she never

complained once.”

“You knew where you were going?” Harry asked. “You

knew where the giants were?”

“Well, Dumbledore knew, an’ he told us,” said Hagrid.

“Are they hidden?” asked Ron. “Is it a secret, where

they are?”

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“Not really,” said Hagrid, shaking his shaggy head.

“It’s jus’ that mos’ wizards aren’ bothered where they

are, s’ long as it’s a good long way away. But where

they are’s very difficult ter get ter, fer humans

anyway, so we needed Dumbledore’s instructions.

Took us abou’ a month ter get there —”

“A month?” said Ron, as though he had never heard of

a journey lasting such a ridiculously long time. “But

— why couldn’t you just grab a Portkey or

something?”

There was an odd expression in Hagrid’s unobscured

eye as he squinted at Ron; it was almost pitying.

“We’re bein’ watched, Ron,” he said gruffly.

“What d’you mean?”

“Yeh don’ understand,” said Hagrid. “The Ministry’s

keepin’ an eye on Dumbledore an’ anyone they

reckon’s in league with him, an’ —”

“We know about that,” said Harry quickly, keen to

hear the rest of Hagrid’s story. “We know about the

Ministry watching Dumbledore —”

“So you couldn’t use magic to get there?” asked Ron,

looking thunderstruck. “You had to act like Muggles

all the way?”

“Well, not exactly all the way,” said Hagrid cagily. “We

jus’ had ter be careful, ’cause Olympe an’ me, we

stick out a bit —”

Ron made a stifled noise somewhere between a snort

and a sniff and hastily took a gulp of tea.

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“— so we’re not hard ter follow. We was pretendin’ we was goin’ on holiday together, so we got inter France

an’ we made like we was headin’ fer where Olympe’s

school is, ’cause we knew we was bein’ tailed by

someone from the Ministry. We had to go slow, ’cause

I’m not really s’posed ter use magic an’ we knew the

Ministry’d be lookin’ fer a reason ter run us in. But

we managed ter give the berk tailin’ us the slip round

abou’ Dee-John —”

“Ooooh, Dijon?” said Hermione excitedly. “I’ve been

there on holiday, did you see — ?”

She fell silent at the look on Ron’s face.

“We chanced a bit o’ magic after that, and it wasn’ a

bad journey. Ran inter a couple o’ mad trolls on the

Polish border, an’ I had a sligh’ disagreement with a

vampire in a pub in Minsk, but apart from tha’,

couldn’t’a bin smoother.

“An’ then we reached the place, an’ we started

trekkin’ up through the mountains, lookin’ fer signs

of ’em …

“We had ter lay off the magic once we got near ’em.

Partly ’cause they don’ like wizards an’ we didn’ want

ter put their backs up too soon, and partly ’cause

Dumbledore had warned us You-Know-Who was

bound ter be after the giants an’ all. Said it was odds

on he’d sent a messenger off ter them already. Told us

ter be very careful of drawin’ attention ter ourselves

as we got nearer in case there was Death Eaters

around.”

Hagrid paused for a long draft of tea.

“Go on!” said Harry urgently.

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“Found ’em,” said Hagrid baldly. “Went over a ridge

one nigh’ an’ there they was, spread ou’ underneath

us. Little fires burnin’ below an’ huge shadows … It

was like watchin’ bits o’ the mountain movin’.”

“How big are they?” asked Ron in a hushed voice.

“ ’Bout twenty feet,” said Hagrid casually. “Some o’

the bigger ones mighta bin twenty-five.”

“And how many were there?” asked Harry.

“I reckon abou’ seventy or eighty,” said Hagrid.

“Is that all?” said Hermione.

“Yep,” said Hagrid sadly, “eighty left, an’ there was

loads once, musta bin a hundred diff’rent tribes from

all over the world. But they’ve bin dyin’ out fer ages.

Wizards killed a few, o’ course, but mostly they killed

each other, an’ now they’re dyin’ out faster than ever.

They’re not made ter live bunched up together like

tha’. Dumbledore says it’s our fault, it was the

wizards who forced ’em to go an’ made ’em live a good

long way from us an’ they had no choice but ter stick

together fer their own protection.”

“So,” said Harry, “you saw them and then what?”

“Well, we waited till morning, didn’ want ter go

sneakin’ up on ’em in the dark, fer our own safety,”

said Hagrid. “ ’Bout three in the mornin’ they fell

asleep jus’ where they was sittin’. We didn’ dare sleep.

Fer one thing, we wanted ter make sure none of ’em

woke up an’ came up where we were, an’ fer another,

the snorin’ was unbelievable. Caused an avalanche

near mornin’.

“Anyway, once it was light we wen’ down ter see ’em.”

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“Just like that?” said Ron, looking awestruck. “You

just walked right into a giant camp?”

“Well, Dumbledore’d told us how ter do it,” said

Hagrid. “Give the Gurg gifts, show some respect, yeh

know.”

“Give the what gifts?” asked Harry.

“Oh, the Gurg — means the chief.”

“How could you tell which one was the Gurg?” asked

Ron.

Hagrid grunted in amusement.

“No problem,” he said. “He was the biggest, the

ugliest, an’ the laziest. Sittin’ there waitin’ ter be

brought food by the others. Dead goats an’ such like.

Name o’ Karkus. I’d put him at twenty-two, twenty-

three feet, an’ the weight of a couple o’ bull elephants.

Skin like rhino hide an’ all.”

“And you just walked up to him?” said Hermione

breathlessly.

“Well … down ter him, where he was lyin’ in the

valley. They was in this dip between four pretty high

mountains, see, beside a mountain lake, an’ Karkus

was lyin’ by the lake roarin’ at the others ter feed him

an’ his wife. Olympe an’ I went down the

mountainside —”

“But didn’t they try and kill you when they saw you?”

asked Ron incredulously.

“It was def’nitely on some of their minds,” said

Hagrid, shrugging, “but we did what Dumbledore told

us ter do, which was ter hold our gift up high an’

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keep our eyes on the Gurg an’ ignore the others. So

tha’s what we did. An’ the rest of ’em went quiet an’

watched us pass an’ we got right up ter Karkus’s feet

an’ we bowed an’ put our present down in front o’

him.”

“What do you give a giant?” asked Ron eagerly.

“Food?”

“Nah, he can get food all righ’ fer himself,” said

Hagrid. “We took him magic. Giants like magic, jus’

don’t like us usin’ it against ’em. Anyway, that firs’

day we gave him a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.”

Hermione said “wow” softly, but Harry and Ron both

frowned in puzzlement.

“A branch of — ?”

“Everlasting fire,” said Hermione irritably, “you ought

to know that by now, Professor Flitwick’s mentioned it

at least twice in class!”

“Well anyway,” said Hagrid quickly, intervening before

Ron could answer back, “Dumbledore’d bewitched

this branch to burn evermore, which isn’ somethin’

any wizard could do, an’ so I lies it down in the snow

by Karkus’s feet and says, ‘A gift to the Gurg of the

giants from Albus Dumbledore, who sends his

respectful greetings.’ ”

“And what did Karkus say?” asked Harry eagerly.

“Nothin’,” said Hagrid. “Didn’ speak English.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Didn’ matter,” said Hagrid imperturbably,

“Dumbledore had warned us tha’ migh’ happen.

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Karkus knew enough to yell fer a couple o’ giants who knew our lingo an’ they translated fer us.”

“And did he like the present?” asked Ron.

“Oh yeah, it went down a storm once they understood

what it was,” said Hagrid, turning his dragon steak

over to press the cooler side to his swollen eye. “Very

pleased. So then I said, ‘Albus Dumbledore asks the

Gurg to speak with his messenger when he returns

tomorrow with another gift.’ ”

“Why couldn’t you speak to them that day?” asked

Hermione.

“Dumbledore wanted us ter take it very slow,” said

Hagrid. “Let ’em see we kept our promises. We’ll come

back tomorrow with another present, an’ then we do

come back with another present — gives a good

impression, see? An’ gives them time ter test out the

firs’ present an’ find out it’s a good one, an’ get ’em

eager fer more. In any case, giants like Karkus —

overload ’em with information an’ they’ll kill yeh jus’

to simplify things. So we bowed outta the way an’

went off an’ found ourselves a nice little cave ter

spend that night in, an’ the followin’ mornin’ we went

back an’ this time we found Karkus sittin’ up waitin’

fer us lookin’ all eager.”

“And you talked to him?”

“Oh yeah. Firs’ we presented him with a nice battle

helmet — goblin-made an’ indestructible, yeh know —

an’ then we sat down an’ we talked.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much,” said Hagrid. “Listened mostly. But there

were good signs. He’d heard o’ Dumbledore, heard

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he’d argued against the killin’ of the last giants in Britain. Karkus seemed ter be quite int’rested in what

Dumbledore had ter say. An’ a few o’ the others,

’specially the ones who had some English, they

gathered round an’ listened too. We were hopeful

when we left that day. Promised ter come back next

day with another present.

“But that night it all wen’ wrong.”

“What d’you mean?” said Ron quickly.

“Well, like I say, they’re not meant ter live together,

giants,” said Hagrid sadly. “Not in big groups like

that. They can’ help themselves, they half kill each

other every few weeks. The men fight each other an’

the women fight each other, the remnants of the old

tribes fight each other, an’ that’s even without

squabbles over food an’ the best fires an’ sleepin’

spots. Yeh’d think, seein’ as how their whole race is

abou’ finished, they’d lay off each other, but …”

Hagrid sighed deeply

“That night a fight broke out, we saw it from the

mouth of our cave, lookin’ down on the valley. Went

on fer hours, yeh wouldn’ believe the noise. An’ when

the sun came up the snow was scarlet an’ his head

was lyin’ at the bottom o’ the lake.”

“Whose head?” gasped Hermione.

“Karkus’s,” said Hagrid heavily. “There was a new

Gurg, Golgomath.” He sighed deeply. “Well, we hadn’

bargained on a new Gurg two days after we’d made

friendly contact with the firs’ one, an’ we had a funny

feelin’ Golgomath wouldn’ be so keen ter listen to us,

but we had ter try.”

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“You went to speak to him?” asked Ron incredulously.

“After you’d watched him rip off another giant’s

head?”

“ ’Course we did,” said Hagrid, “we hadn’ gone all that

way ter give up after two days! We wen’ down with the

next present we’d meant ter give ter Karkus.

“I knew it was no go before I’d opened me mouth. He

was sitting there wearin’ Karkus’s helmet, leerin’ at

us as we got nearer. He’s massive, one o’ the biggest

ones there. Black hair an’ matchin’ teeth an’ a

necklace o’ bones. Human-lookin’ bones, some of ’em.

Well, I gave it a go — held out a great roll o’ dragon

skin — an’ said A gift fer the Gurg of the giants —’

Nex’ thing I knew, I was hangin’ upside down in the

air by me feet, two of his mates had grabbed me.”

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth.

“How did you get out of that?” asked Harry.

“Wouldn’ta done if Olympe hadn’ bin there,” said

Hagrid. “She pulled out her wand an’ did some o’ the

fastes’ spellwork I’ve ever seen. Ruddy marvelous. Hit

the two holdin’ me right in the eyes with

Conjunctivitus Curses an’ they dropped me

straightaway — bu’ we were in trouble then, ’cause

we’d used magic against ’em, an’ that’s what giants

hate abou’ wizards. We had ter leg it an’ we knew

there was no way we was going ter be able ter march

inter camp again.”

“Blimey, Hagrid,” said Ron quietly.

“So how come it’s taken you so long to get home if you

were only there for three days?” asked Hermione.

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“We didn’ leave after three days!” said Hagrid, looking outraged. “Dumbledore was relyin’ on us!”

“But you’ve just said there was no way you could go

back!”

“Not by daylight, we couldn’, no. We just had ter

rethink a bit. Spent a couple o’ days lyin’ low up in

the cave an’ watchin’. An’ wha’ we saw wasn’ good.”

“Did he rip off more heads?” asked Hermione,

sounding squeamish.

“No,” said Hagrid. “I wish he had.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean we soon found out he didn’ object ter all

wizards — just us.”

“Death Eaters?” said Harry quickly.

“Yep,” said Hagrid darkly. “Couple of ’em were visitin’

him ev’ry day, bringin’ gifts ter the Gurg, an’ he wasn’

dangling them upside down.”

“How d’you know they were Death Eaters?” said Ron.

“Because I recognized one of ’em,” Hagrid growled.

“Macnair, remember him? Bloke they sent ter kill

Buckbeak? Maniac, he is. Likes killin’ as much as

Golgomath, no wonder they were gettin’ on so well.”

“So Macnair’s persuaded the giants to join You-Know-

Who?” said Hermione desperately.

“Hold yer hippogriffs, I haven’ finished me story yet!”

said Hagrid indignantly, who, considering he had not

wanted to tell them anything in the first place, now

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seemed to be rather enjoying himself. “Me an’ Olympe

talked it over an’ we agreed, jus’ ’cause the Gurg

looked like favorin’ You-Know-Who didn’ mean all of

’em would. We had ter try an’ persuade some o’ the

others, the ones who hadn’ wanted Golgomath as

Gurg.”

“How could you tell which ones they were?” asked

Ron.

“Well, they were the ones bein’ beaten to a pulp,

weren’ they?” said Hagrid patiently. “The ones with

any sense were keepin’ outta Golgomath’s way, hidin’

out in caves roun’ the gully jus’ like we were. So we

decided we’d go pokin’ round the caves by night an’

see if we couldn’ persuade a few o’ them.”

“You went poking around dark caves looking for

giants?” said Ron with awed respect in his voice.

“Well, it wasn’ the giants who worried us most,” said

Hagrid. “We were more concerned abou’ the Death

Eaters. Dumbledore had told us before we wen’ not

ter tangle with ’em if we could avoid it, an’ the trouble

was they knew we was around — ’spect Golgomath

told him abou’ us. At night when the giants were

sleepin’ an’ we wanted ter be creepin’ inter the caves,

Macnair an’ the other one were sneakin’ round the

mountains lookin’ fer us. I was hard put to stop

Olympe jumpin’ out at them,” said Hagrid, the

corners of his mouth lifting his wild beard. “She was

rarin’ ter attack ’em... she’s somethin’ when she’s

roused, Olympe... Fiery, yeh know … ’spect it’s the

French in her …”

Hagrid gazed misty-eyed into the fire. Harry allowed

him thirty seconds’ reminiscence before clearing his

throat loudly.

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“So what happened? Did you ever get near any of the

other giants?”

“What? Oh … oh yeah, we did. Yeah, on the third

night after Karkus was killed, we crept outta the cave

we’d bin hidin’ in and headed back down inter the

gully, keepin’ our eyes skinned fer the Death Eaters.

Got inside a few o’ the caves, no go — then, in abou’

the sixth one, we found three giants hidin’.”

“Cave must’ve been cramped,” said Ron.

“Wasn’ room ter swing a kneazle,” said Hagrid.

“Didn’t they attack you when they saw you?” asked

Hermione.

“Probably woulda done if they’d bin in any condition,”

said Hagrid, “but they was badly hurt, all three o’

them. Golgomath’s lot had beaten ’em unconscious;

they’d woken up an’ crawled inter the nearest shelter

they could find. Anyway, one o’ them had a bit of

English an’ ’e translated fer the others, an’ what we

had ter say didn’ seem ter go down too badly. So we

kep’ goin’ back, visitin’ the wounded... I reckon we

had abou’ six or seven o’ them convinced at one

poin’.”

“Six or seven?” said Ron eagerly. “Well that’s not bad

— are they going to come over here and start fighting

You-Know-Who with us?”

But Hermione said, “What do you mean ‘at one point,’

Hagrid?”

Hagrid looked at her sadly.

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“Golgomath’s lot raided the caves. The ones tha’

survived didn’ wan’ no more ter to do with us after

that.”

“So … so there aren’t any giants coming?” said Ron,

looking disappointed.

“Nope,” said Hagrid, heaving a deep sigh as he turned

over his steak again and applied the cooler side to his

face, “but we did wha’ we meant ter do, we gave ’em

Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’ them heard it an’ I

’spect some o’ them’ll remember it. Jus’ maybe, them

that don’ want ter stay around Golgomath’ll move

outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance

they’ll remember Dumbledore’s friendly to ’em...

Could be they’ll come …”

Snow was filling up the window now. Harry became

aware that the knees of his robes were soaked

through; Fang was drooling with his head in Harry’s

lap.

“Hagrid?” said Hermione quietly after a while.

“Mmm?”

“Did you … was there any sign of … did you hear

anything about your … your … mother while you were

there?”

Hagrid’s unobscured eye rested upon her, and

Hermione looked rather scared.

“I’m sorry … I … forget it —”

“Dead,” Hagrid grunted. “Died years ago. They told

me.”

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“Oh … I’m … I’m really sorry,” said Hermione in a

very small voice.

Hagrid shrugged his massive shoulders. “No need,” he

said shortly. “Can’ remember her much. Wasn’ a great

mother.”

They were silent again. Hermione glanced nervously

at Harry and Ron, plainly wanting them to speak.

“But you still haven’t explained how you got in this

state, Hagrid,” Ron said, gesturing toward Hagrid’s

bloodstained face.

“Or why you’re back so late,” said Harry. “Sirius says

Madame Maxime got back ages ago —”

“Who attacked you?” said Ron.

“I haven’ bin attacked!” said Hagrid emphatically. “I —

”

But the rest of his words were drowned in a sudden

outbreak of rapping on the door. Hermione gasped;

her mug slipped through her fingers and smashed on

the floor; Fang yelped. All four of them stared at the

window beside the doorway. The shadow of somebody

small and squat rippled across the thin curtain.

“It’s her!” Ron whispered.

“Get under here!” Harry said quickly; seizing the

Invisibility Cloak he whirled it over himself and

Hermione while Ron tore around the table and dived

beneath the cloak as well. Huddled together they

backed away into a corner. Fang was barking madly

at the door. Hagrid looked thoroughly confused.

“Hagrid, hide our mugs!”

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Hagrid seized Harry’s and Ron’s mugs and shoved

them under the cushion in Fang’s basket. Fang was

now leaping up at the door; Hagrid pushed him out of

the way with his foot and pulled it open.

Professor Umbridge was standing in the doorway

wearing her green tweed cloak and a matching hat

with earflaps. Lips pursed, she leaned back so as to

see Hagrid’s face; she barely reached his navel.

“So, ” she said slowly and loudly, as though speaking

to somebody deaf. “You’re Hagrid, are you?”

Without waiting for an answer she strolled into the

room, her bulging eyes rolling in every direction.

“Get away,” she snapped, waving her handbag at

Fang, who had bounded up to her and was

attempting to lick her face.

“Er — I don’ want ter be rude,” said Hagrid, staring at

her, “but who the ruddy hell are you?”

“My name is Dolores Umbridge.”

Her eyes were sweeping the cabin. Twice they stared

directly into the corner where Harry stood,

sandwiched between Ron and Hermione.

“Dolores Umbridge?” Hagrid said, sounding

thoroughly confused. “I thought you were one o’ them

Ministry — don’ you work with Fudge?”

“I was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, yes,”

said Umbridge, now pacing around the cabin, taking

in every tiny detail within, from the haversack against

the wall to the abandoned traveling cloak. “I am now

the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher —”

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“Tha’s brave of yeh,” said Hagrid, “there’s not many’d take tha’ job anymore —”

“— and Hogwarts High Inquisitor,” said Umbridge,

giving no sign that she had heard him.

“Wha’s that?” said Hagrid, frowning.

“Precisely what I was going to ask,” said Umbridge,

pointing at the broken shards of china on the floor

that had been Hermione’s mug.

“Oh,” said Hagrid, with a most unhelpful glance

toward the corner where Harry, Ron, and Hermione

stood hidden, “oh, tha’ was … was Fang. He broke a

mug. So I had ter use this one instead.”

Hagrid pointed to the mug from which he had been

drinking, one hand still clamped over the dragon

steak pressed to his eye. Umbridge stood facing him

now, taking in every detail of his appearance instead

of the cabin’s.

“I heard voices,” she said quietly.

“I was talkin’ ter Fang,” said Hagrid stoutly.

“And was he talking back to you?”

“Well … in a manner o’ speakin’,” said Hagrid, looking

uncomfortable. “I sometimes say Fang’s near enough

human —”

“There are three sets of footprints in the snow leading

from the castle doors to your cabin,” said Umbridge

sleekly.

Hermione gasped; Harry clapped a hand over her

mouth. Luckily, Fang was sniffing loudly around the

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hem of Professor Umbridge’s robes, and she did not

appear to have heard.

“Well, I on’y jus’ got back,” said Hagrid, waving an

enormous hand at the haversack. “Maybe someone

came ter call earlier an’ I missed em.

“There are no footsteps leading away from your cabin

door.”

“Well I … I don’ know why that’d be...” said Hagrid,

tugging nervously at his beard and again glancing

toward the corner where Harry, Ron, and Hermione

stood, as though asking for help. “Erm …”

Umbridge wheeled around and strode the length of

the cabin, looking around carefully. She bent and

peered under the bed. She opened Hagrid’s

cupboards. She passed within two inches of where

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood pressed against the

wall; Harry actually pulled in his stomach as she

walked by. After looking carefully inside the

enormous cauldron Hagrid used for cooking she

wheeled around again and said, “What has happened

to you? How did you sustain those injuries?”

Hagrid hastily removed the dragon steak from his

face, which in Harry’s opinion was a mistake, because

the black-and-purple bruising all around his eye was

now clearly visible, not to mention the large amount

of fresh and congealed blood on his face. “Oh, I … had

a bit of an accident,” he said lamely.

“What sort of accident?”

“I-I tripped.”

“You tripped,” she repeated coolly.

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“Yeah, tha’s right. Over … over a friends broomstick. I don’ fly, meself. Well, look at the size o’ me, I don’

reckon there’s a broomstick that’d hold me. Friend o’

mine breeds Abraxan horses, I dunno if you’ve ever

seen ’em, big beasts, winged, yeh know, I’ve had a bit

of a ride on one o’ them an’ it was —”

“Where have you been?” asked Umbridge, cutting

coolly through Hagrid’s babbling.

“Where’ve I … ?”

“Been, yes,” she said. “Term started more than two

months ago. Another teacher has had to cover your

classes. None of your colleagues has been able to give

me any information as to your whereabouts. You left

no address. Where have you been?”

There was a pause in which Hagrid stared at her with

his newly uncovered eye. Harry could almost hear his

brain working furiously.

“I — I’ve been away for me health,” he said.

“For your health,” said Umbridge. Her eyes traveled

over Hagrid’s discolored and swollen face; dragon

blood dripped gently onto his waistcoat in the silence.

“I see.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “bit o’ — o’ fresh air, yeh know —

”

“Yes, as gamekeeper fresh air must be so difficult to

come by,” said Umbridge sweetly. The small patch of

Hagrid’s face that was not black or purple flushed.

“Well — change o’ scene, yeh know —”

“Mountain scenery?” said Umbridge swiftly.

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She knows, Harry thought desperately.

“Mountains?” Hagrid repeated, clearly thinking fast.

“Nope, South of France fer me. Bit o’ sun an’ … an’

sea.”

“Really?” said Umbridge. “You don’t have much of a

tan.”

“Yeah … well … sensitive skin,” said Hagrid,

attempting an ingratiating smile. Harry noticed that

two of his teeth had been knocked out. Umbridge

looked at him coldly; his smile faltered. Then she

hoisted her handbag a little higher into the crook of

her arm and said, “I shall, of course, be informing the

Minister of your late return.”

“Righ’,” said Hagrid, nodding.

“You ought to know too that as High Inquisitor it is

my unfortunate but necessary duty to inspect my

fellow teachers. So I daresay we shall meet again soon

enough.”

She turned sharply and marched back to the door.

“You’re inspectin’ us?” Hagrid echoed blankly, looking

after her.

“Oh yes,” said Umbridge softly, looking back at him

with her hand on the door handle. “The Ministry is

determined to weed out unsatisfactory teachers,

Hagrid. Good night.”

She left, closing the door behind her with a snap.

Harry made to pull off the Invisibility Cloak but

Hermione seized his wrist.

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“Not yet,” she breathed in his ear. “She might not be gone yet.”

Hagrid seemed to be thinking the same way; he

stumped across the room and pulled back the curtain

an inch or so.

“She’s goin’ back ter the castle,” he said in a low

voice. “Blimey … inspectin’ people, is she?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling the cloak off. “Trelawney’s

on probation already...”

“Um … what sort of thing are you planning to do with

us in class, Hagrid?” asked Hermione.

“Oh, don’ you worry abou’ that, I’ve got a great load o’

lessons planned,” said Hagrid enthusiastically,

scooping up his dragon steak from the table and

slapping it over his eye again. “I’ve bin keepin’ a

couple o’ creatures saved fer yer O.W.L. year, you

wait, they’re somethin’ really special.”

“Erm … special in what way?” asked Hermione

tentatively.

“I’m not sayin’,” said Hagrid happily. “I don’ want ter

spoil the surprise.”

“Look, Hagrid,” said Hermione urgently, dropping all

pretense, “Professor Umbridge won’t be at all happy if

you bring anything to class that’s too dangerous —”

“Dangerous?” said Hagrid, looking genially bemused.

“Don’ be silly, I wouldn’ give yeh anythin’ dangerous! I

mean, all righ’, they can look after themselves —”

“Hagrid, you’ve got to pass Umbridge’s inspection,

and to do that it would really be better if she saw you

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teaching us how to look after porlocks, how to tell the difference between knarls and hedgehogs, stuff like

that!” said Hermione earnestly.

“But tha’s not very interestin’, Hermione,” said

Hagrid. “The stuff I’ve got’s much more impressive,

I’ve bin bringin’ ’em on fer years, I reckon I’ve got the

on’y domestic herd in Britain —”

“Hagrid … please …” said Hermione, a note of real

desperation in her voice. “Umbridge is looking for any

excuse to get rid of teachers she thinks are too close

to Dumbledore. Please, Hagrid, teach us something

dull that’s bound to come up in our O.W.L...”

But Hagrid merely yawned widely and cast a one-eyed

look of longing toward the vast bed in the corner.

“Lis’en, it’s bin a long day an’ it’s late,” he said,

patting Hermione gently on the shoulder, so that her

knees gave way and hit the floor with a thud. “Oh —

sorry —” He pulled her back up by the neck of her

robes. “Look, don’ you go worryin’ abou’ me, I promise

yeh I’ve got really good stuff planned fer yer lessons

now I’m back... Now you lot had better get back up to

the castle, an’ don’ forget ter wipe yer footprints out

behind yeh!”

“I dunno if you got through to him,” said Ron a short

while later when, having checked that the coast was

clear, they walked back up to the castle through the

thickening snow, leaving no trace behind them due to

the Obliteration Charm Hermione was performing as

they went.

“Then I’ll go back again tomorrow,” said Hermione

determinedly. “I’ll plan his lessons for him if I have to.

I don’t care if she throws out Trelawney but she’s not

taking Hagrid!”

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THE EYE OF THE SNAKE

Hermione plowed her way back to Hagrid’s cabin

through two feet of snow on Sunday morning. Harry

and Ron wanted to go with her, but their mountain of

homework had reached an alarming height again, so

they grudgingly remained in the common room, trying

to ignore the gleeful shouts drifting up from the

grounds outside, where students were enjoying

themselves skating on the frozen lake, tobogganing,

and worst of all, bewitching snowballs to zoom up to

Gryffindor Tower and rap hard on the windows.

“Oy!” bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and

sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect

and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!”

He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in

snow.

“It’s Fred and George,” he said bitterly, slamming the

window behind him. “Gits …”

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Hermione returned from Hagrid’s just before lunch,

shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees.

“So?” said Ron, looking up when she entered. “Got all

his lessons planned for him?”

“Well, I tried,” she said dully, sinking into a chair

beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a

complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of

the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which

began to steam as they dried out. “He wasn’t even

there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half

an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest

—”

Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming

with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid

the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?”

asked Harry.

“No,” said Hermione miserably. “He says he wants

them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about

Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying

nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls

than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a

chimaera,” she added at the appalled look on Harry

and Ron’s faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from

what he said about how hard it is to get eggs... I don’t

know how many times I told him he’d be better off

following Grubbly-Plank’s plan, I honestly don’t think

he listened to half of what I said. He’s in a bit of a

funny mood, you know. He still won’t say how he got

all those injuries...”

Hagrid’s reappearance at the staff table at breakfast

next day was not greeted by enthusiasm from all

students. Some, like Fred, George, and Lee, roared

with delight and sprinted up the aisle between the

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables to wring Hagrid’s

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enormous hand; others, like Parvati and Lavender,

exchanged gloomy looks and shook their heads. Harry

knew that many of them preferred Professor Grubbly-

Plank’s lessons, and the worst of it was that a very

small, unbiased part of him knew that they had good

reason: Grubbly-Plank’s idea of an interesting class

was not one where there was a risk that somebody

might have their head ripped off.

It was with a certain amount of apprehension that

Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed down to Hagrid’s

on Tuesday, heavily muffled against the cold. Harry

was worried, not only about what Hagrid might have

decided to teach them, but also about how the rest of

the class, particularly Malfoy and his cronies, would

behave if Umbridge was watching them.

However, the High Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen

as they struggled through the snow toward Hagrid,

who stood waiting for them on the edge of the forest.

He did not present a reassuring sight; the bruises

that had been purple on Saturday night were now

tinged with green and yellow and some of his cuts still

seemed to be bleeding. Harry could not understand

this: Had Hagrid perhaps been attacked by some

creature whose venom prevented the wounds it

inflicted from healing? As though to complete the

ominous picture, Hagrid was carrying what looked

like half a dead cow over his shoulder.

“We’re workin’ in here today!” Hagrid called happily to

the approaching students, jerking his head back at

the dark trees behind him. “Bit more sheltered!

Anyway, they prefer the dark...”

“What prefers the dark?” Harry heard Malfoy say

sharply to Crabbe and Goyle, a trace of panic in his

voice. “What did he say prefers the dark — did you

hear?”

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Harry remembered the only occasion on which Malfoy

had entered the forest before now; he had not been

very brave then either. He smiled to himself; after the

Quidditch match anything that caused Malfoy

discomfort was all right with him.

“Ready?” said Hagrid happily, looking around at the

class. “Right, well, I’ve bin savin’ a trip inter the forest

fer yer fifth year. Thought we’d go an’ see these

creatures in their natural habitat. Now, what we’re

studyin’ today is pretty rare, I reckon I’m probably the

on’y person in Britain who’s managed ter train ’em —”

“And you’re sure they’re trained, are you?” said

Malfoy, the panic in his voice even more pronounced

now. “Only it wouldn’t be the first time you’d brought

wild stuff to class, would it?”

The Slytherins murmured agreement and a few

Gryffindors looked as though they thought Malfoy had

a fair point too.

“ ’Course they’re trained,” said Hagrid, scowling and

hoisting the dead cow a little higher on his shoulder.

“So what happened to your face, then?” demanded

Malfoy.

“Mind yer own business!” said Hagrid, angrily. “Now if

yeh’ve finished askin’ stupid questions, follow me!”

He turned and strode straight into the forest. Nobody

seemed much disposed to follow. Harry glanced at

Ron and Hermione, who sighed but nodded, and the

three of them set off after Hagrid, leading the rest of

the class.

They walked for about ten minutes until they reached

a place where the trees stood so closely together that

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it was as dark as twilight and there was no snow on

the ground at all. Hagrid deposited his half a cow with

a grunt on the ground, stepped back, and turned to

face his class again, most of whom were creeping

toward him from tree to tree, peering around

nervously as though expecting to be set upon at any

moment.

“Gather roun’, gather roun’,” said Hagrid

encouragingly. “Now, they’ll be attracted by the smell

o’ the meat but I’m goin’ ter give ’em a call anyway,

’cause they’ll like ter know it’s me...”

He turned, shook his shaggy head to get the hair out

of his face, and gave an odd, shrieking cry that

echoed through the dark trees like the call of some

monstrous bird. Nobody laughed; most of them

looked too scared to make a sound.

Hagrid gave the shrieking cry again. A minute passed

in which the class continued to peer nervously over

their shoulders and around trees for a first glimpse of

whatever it was that was coming. And then, as Hagrid

shook his hair back for a third time and expanded his

enormous chest, Harry nudged Ron and pointed into

the black space between two gnarled yew trees.

A pair of blank, white, shining eyes were growing

larger through the gloom and a moment later the

dragonish face, neck, and then skeletal body of a

great, black, winged horse emerged from the

darkness. It looked around at the class for a few

seconds, swishing its long black tail, then bowed its

head and began to tear flesh from the dead cow with

its pointed fangs.

A great wave of relief broke over Harry. Here at last

was proof that he had not imagined these creatures,

that they were real: Hagrid knew about them too. He

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looked eagerly at Ron, but Ron was still staring

around into the trees and after a few seconds he

whispered, “Why doesn’t Hagrid call again?”

Most of the rest of the class were wearing expressions

as confused and nervously expectant as Ron’s and

were still gazing everywhere but at the horse standing

feet from them. There were only two other people who

seemed to be able to see them: a stringy Slytherin boy

standing just behind Goyle was watching the horse

eating with an expression of great distaste on his face,

and Neville, whose eyes were following the swishing

progress of the long black tail.

“Oh, an’ here comes another one!” said Hagrid

proudly, as a second black horse appeared out of the

dark trees, folded its leathery wings closer to its body,

and dipped its head to gorge on the meat. “Now … put

yer hands up, who can see ’em?”

Immensely pleased to feel that he was at last going to

understand the mystery of these horses, Harry raised

his hand. Hagrid nodded at him.

“Yeah … yeah, I knew you’d be able ter, Harry,” he

said seriously. “An’ you too, Neville, eh? An’ —”

“Excuse me,” said Malfoy in a sneering voice, “but

what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?”

For answer, Hagrid pointed at the cow carcass on the

ground. The whole class stared at it for a few seconds,

then several people gasped and Parvati squealed.

Harry understood why: Bits of flesh stripping

themselves away from the bones and vanishing into

thin air had to look very odd indeed.

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“What’s doing it?” Parvati demanded in a terrified

voice, retreating behind the nearest tree. “What’s

eating it?”

“Thestrals,” said Hagrid proudly and Hermione gave a

soft “oh!” of comprehension at Harry’s shoulder.

“Hogwarts has got a whole herd of ’em in here. Now,

who knows — ?”

“But they’re really, really unlucky!” interrupted

Parvati, looking alarmed. “They’re supposed to bring

all sorts of horrible misfortune on people who see

them. Professor Trelawney told me once —”

“No, no, no,” said Hagrid, chuckling, “tha’s jus’

superstition, that is, they aren’ unlucky, they’re dead

clever an’ useful! ’Course, this lot don’ get a lot o’

work, it’s mainly jus’ pullin’ the school carriages

unless Dumbledore’s takin’ a long journey an’ don’

want ter Apparate — an’ here’s another couple, look

—”

Two more horses came quietly out of the trees, one of

them passing very close to Parvati, who shivered and

pressed herself closer to the tree, saying, “I think I felt

something, I think it’s near me!”

“Don’ worry, it won’ hurt yeh,” said Hagrid patiently.

“Righ’, now, who can tell me why some o’ you can see

them an’ some can’t?”

Hermione raised her hand.

“Go on then,” said Hagrid, beaming at her.

“The only people who can see thestrals,” she said,

“are people who have seen death.”

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“Tha’s exactly right,” said Hagrid solemnly, “ten

points ter Gryffindor. Now, thestrals —”

“Hem, hem. ”

Professor Umbridge had arrived. She was standing a

few feet away from Harry, wearing her green hat and

cloak again, her clipboard at the ready. Hagrid, who

had never heard Umbridge’s fake cough before, was

gazing in some concern at the closest thestral,

evidently under the impression that it had made the

sound.

“Hem, hem. ”

“Oh hello!” Hagrid said, smiling, having located the

source of the noise.

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this

morning?” said Umbridge, in the same loud, slow

voice she had used with him earlier, as though she

was addressing somebody both foreign and very slow.

“Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?”

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid brightly. “Glad yeh found the

place all righ’! Well, as you can see — or, I dunno —

can you? We’re doin’ thestrals today —”

“I’m sorry?” said Umbridge loudly, cupping her hand

around her ear and frowning. “What did you say?”

Hagrid looked a little confused.

“Er — thestrals!” he said loudly. “Big — er — winged

horses, yeh know!”

He flapped his gigantic arms hopefully. Professor

Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him and muttered

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as she made a note on her clipboard, “ ‘ has … to …

resort … to … crude … sign … language …’ ”

“Well … anyway …” said Hagrid, turning back to the

class and looking slightly flustered. “Erm … what was

I sayin’?”

“ ‘ Appears … to … have … poor … short … term …

memory …’ ” muttered Umbridge, loudly enough for

everyone to hear her. Draco Malfoy looked as though

Christmas had come a month early; Hermione, on the

other hand, had turned scarlet with suppressed rage.

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at

Umbridge’s clipboard, but plowing on valiantly. “Yeah,

I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah,

so, we started off with a male an’ five females. This

one,” he patted the first horse to have appeared,

“name o’ Tenebrus, he’s my special favorite, firs’ one

born here in the forest —”

“Are you aware,” Umbridge said loudly, interrupting

him, “that the Ministry of Magic has classified

thestrals as ‘dangerous’?”

Harry’s heart sank like a stone, but Hagrid merely

chuckled.

“Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ, they might take a

bite outta you if yeh really annoy them —”

“ ‘ Shows … signs … of … pleasure … at … idea … of

… violence … ‘ ” muttered Umbridge, scribbling on her

clipboard again.

“No — come on!” said Hagrid, looking a little anxious

now. “I mean, a dog’ll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it — but

thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the

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death thing — people used ter think they were bad

omens, didn’ they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?”

Umbridge did not answer; she finished writing her

last note, then looked up at Hagrid and said, again

very loudly and slowly, “Please continue teaching as

usual. I am going to walk” — she mimed walking —

Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were having silent fits of

laughter — “among the students” — she pointed

around at individual members of the class — “and

ask them questions.” She pointed at her mouth to

indicate talking.

Hagrid stared at her, clearly at a complete loss to

understand why she was acting as though he did not

understand normal English. Hermione had tears of

fury in her eyes now.

“You hag, you evil hag!” she whispered, as Umbridge

walked toward Pansy Parkinson. “I know what you’re

doing, you awful, twisted, vicious —”

“Erm … anyway,” said Hagrid, clearly struggling to

regain the flow of his lesson, “so — thestrals. Yeah.

Well, there’s loads o’ good stuff abou’ them...”

“Do you find,” said Professor Umbridge in a ringing

voice to Pansy Parkinson, “that you are able to

understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?”

Just like Hermione, Pansy had tears in her eyes, but

these were tears of laughter; indeed, her answer was

almost incoherent because she was trying to suppress

her giggles. “No … because … well … it sounds … like

grunting a lot of the time...”

Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. The few

unbruised bits of Hagrid’s face flushed, but he tried

to act as though he had not heard Pansy’s answer.

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“Er … yeah … good stuff abou’ thestrals. Well, once

they’re tamed, like this lot, yeh’ll never be lost again.

‘Mazin’ senses o’ direction, jus’ tell ’em where yeh

want ter go —”

“Assuming they can understand you, of course,” said

Malfoy loudly, and Pansy Parkinson collapsed in a fit

of renewed giggles. Professor Umbridge smiled

indulgently at them and then turned to Neville.

“You can see the thestrals, Longbottom, can you?”

she said.

Neville nodded.

“Whom did you see die?” she asked, her tone

indifferent.

“My … my grandad,” said Neville.

“And what do you think of them?” she said, waving

her stubby hand at the horses, who by now had

stripped a great deal of the carcass down to bone.

“Erm,” said Neville nervously, with a glance at Hagrid.

“Well, they’re … er … okay...”

“ ‘ Students … are … too … intimidated … to … admit

… they … are … frightened... ’ ” muttered Umbridge, making another note on her clipboard.

“No!” said Neville, looking upset, “no, I’m not scared of

them — !”

“It’s quite all right,” said Umbridge, patting Neville on

the shoulder with what she evidently intended to be

an understanding smile, though it looked more like a

leer to Harry. “Well, Hagrid,” she turned to look up at

him again, speaking once more in that loud, slow

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voice, “I think I’ve got enough to be getting along

with... You will receive” — she mimed taking

something from the air in front of her — “the results

of your inspection” — she pointed at the clipboard —

“in ten days’ time.” She held up ten stubby little

fingers, then, her smile wider and more toadlike than

ever before beneath her green hat, she bustled from

their midst, leaving Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson in

fits of laughter, Hermione actually shaking with fury,

and Neville looking confused and upset.

“That foul, lying, twisting old gargoyle!” stormed

Hermione half an hour later, as they made their way

back up to the castle through the channels they had

made earlier in the snow. “You see what she’s up to?

It’s her thing about half-breeds all over again — she’s

trying to make out Hagrid’s some kind of dim-witted

troll, just because he had a giantess for a mother —

and oh, it’s not fair, that really wasn’t a bad lesson at

all — I mean, all right, if it had been Blast-Ended

Skrewts again, but thestrals are fine — in fact, for

Hagrid, they’re really good!”

“Umbridge said they’re dangerous,” said Ron.

“Well, it’s like Hagrid said, they can look after

themselves,” said Hermione impatiently, “and I

suppose a teacher like Grubbly-Plank wouldn’t

usually show them to us before N.E.W.T. level, but,

well, they are very interesting, aren’t they? The way

some people can see them and some can’t! I wish I

could.”

“Do you?” Harry asked her quietly.

She looked horrorstruck.

“Oh Harry — I’m sorry — no, of course I don’t — that

was a really stupid thing to say —”

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“It’s okay,” he said quickly, “don’t worry...”

“I’m surprised so many people could see them,” said

Ron. “Three in a class —”

“Yeah, Weasley, we were just wondering,” said a

malicious voice nearby. Unheard by any of them in

the muffling snow, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were

walking along right behind them. “D’you reckon if you

saw someone snuff it you’d be able to see the Quaffle

better?”

He, Crabbe, and Goyle roared with laughter as they

pushed past on their way to the castle and then broke

into a chorus of “Weasley Is Our King.” Ron’s ears

turned scarlet.

“Ignore them, just ignore them,” intoned Hermione,

pulling out her wand and performing the charm to

produce hot air again, so that she could melt them an

easier path through the untouched snow between

them and the greenhouses.

December arrived, bringing with it more snow and a

positive avalanche of homework for the fifth years.

Ron and Hermione’s prefect duties also became more

and more onerous as Christmas approached. They

were called upon to supervise the decoration of the

castle (“You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got

the other end and is trying to strangle you with it,”

said Ron), to watch over first and second years

spending their break times inside because of the

bitter cold (“And they’re cheeky little snotrags, you

know, we definitely weren’t that rude when we were in

first year,” said Ron), and to patrol the corridors in

shifts with Argus Filch, who suspected that the

holiday spirit might show itself in an outbreak of

wizard duels (“He’s got dung for brains, that one,”

said Ron furiously). They were so busy that Hermione

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had stopped knitting elf hats and was fretting that

she was down to her last three.

“All those poor elves I haven’t set free yet, having to

stay over during Christmas because there aren’t

enough hats!”

Harry, who had not had the heart to tell her that

Dobby was taking everything she made, bent lower

over his History of Magic essay. In any case, he did

not want to think about Christmas. For the first time

in his school career, he very much wanted to spend

the holidays away from Hogwarts. Between his

Quidditch ban and worry about whether or not

Hagrid was going to be put on probation, he felt

highly resentful toward the place at the moment. The

only thing he really looked forward to were the D.A.

meetings, and they would have to stop over the

holidays, as nearly everybody in the D.A. would be

spending the time with their families. Hermione was

going skiing with her parents, something that greatly

amused Ron, who had never before heard of Muggles

strapping narrow strips of wood to their feet to slide

down mountains. Ron, meanwhile, was going home to

the Burrow. Harry endured several days of jealousy

before Ron said, in response to Harry asking how Ron

was going to get home for Christmas, “But you’re

coming too! Didn’t I say? Mum wrote and told me to

invite you weeks ago!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry’s spirits soared:

The thought of Christmas at the Burrow was truly

wonderful, only slightly marred by Harry’s guilty

feeling that he would not be able to spend the holiday

with Sirius. He wondered whether he could possibly

persuade Mrs. Weasley to invite his godfather for the

festivities too, but apart from the fact that he doubted

whether Dumbledore would permit Sirius to leave

Grimmauld Place, he could not help but feel that Mrs.

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Weasley might not want him; they were so often at

loggerheads. Sirius had not contacted Harry at all

since his last appearance in the fire, and although

Harry knew that with Umbridge on the constant

watch it would be unwise to attempt to contact him,

he did not like to think of Sirius alone in his mother’s

old house, perhaps pulling a lonely cracker with

Kreacher.

Harry arrived early in the Room of Requirement for

the last D.A. meeting before the holidays and was

very glad he had, because when the lamps burst into

light he saw that Dobby had taken it upon himself to

decorate the place for Christmas. He could tell the elf

had done it, because nobody else would have strung a

hundred golden baubles from the ceiling, each

showing a picture of Harry’s face and bearing the

legend HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS!

Harry had only just managed to get the last of them

down before the door creaked open and Luna

Lovegood entered, looking dreamy as always.

“Hello,” she said vaguely, looking around at what

remained of the decorations. “These are nice, did you

put them up?”

“No,” said Harry, “it was Dobby the house-elf.”

“Mistletoe,” said Luna dreamily, pointing at a large

clump of white berries placed almost over Harry’s

head. He jumped out from under it. “Good thinking,”

said Luna very seriously. “It’s often infested with

nargles.”

Harry was saved the necessity of asking what nargles

were by the arrival of Angelina, Katie, and Alicia. All

three of them were breathless and looked very cold.

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“Well,” said Angelina dully, pulling off her cloak and throwing it into a corner, “we’ve replaced you.”

“Replaced me?” said Harry blankly.

“You and Fred and George,” she said impatiently.

“We’ve got another Seeker!”

“Who?” said Harry quickly.

“Ginny Weasley,” said Katie.

Harry gaped at her.

“Yeah, I know,” said Angelina, pulling out her wand

and flexing her arm. “But she’s pretty good, actually.

Nothing on you, of course,” she said, throwing him a

very dirty look, “but as we can’t have you …”

Harry bit back the retort he was longing to utter: Did

she imagine for a second that he did not regret his

expulsion from the team a hundred times more than

she did?

“And what about the Beaters?” he asked, trying to

keep his voice even.

“Andrew Kirke,” said Alicia without enthusiasm, “and

Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but

compared with the rest of the idiots who turned up

…”

The arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Neville brought this

depressing discussion to an end and within five

minutes, the room was full enough to prevent him

seeing Angelina’s burning, reproachful looks.

“Okay,” he said, calling them all to order. “I thought

this evening we should just go over the things we’ve

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done so far, because it’s the last meeting before the holidays and there’s no point starting anything new

right before a three-week break —”

“We’re not doing anything new?” said Zacharias

Smith, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry

through the room. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have

come...”

“We’re all really sorry Harry didn’t tell you, then,” said

Fred loudly.

Several people sniggered. Harry saw Cho laughing

and felt the familiar swooping sensation in his

stomach, as though he had missed a step going

downstairs.

“We can practice in pairs,” said Harry. “We’ll start

with the Impediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then

we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.”

They all divided up obediently; Harry partnered

Neville as usual. The room was soon full of

intermittent cries of “Impedimenta!” People froze for a

minute or so, during which their partners would stare

aimlessly around the room watching other pairs at

work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the

jinx.

Neville had improved beyond all recognition. After a

while, when Harry had unfrozen three times in a row,

he had Neville join Ron and Hermione again so that

he could walk around the room and watch the others.

When he passed Cho she beamed at him; he resisted

the temptation to walk past her several more times.

After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they laid

out cushions all over the floor and started practicing

Stunning again. Space was really too confined to

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allow them all to work this spell at once; half the

group observed the others for a while, then swapped

over. Harry felt himself positively swelling with pride

as he watched them all. True, Neville did Stun Padma

Patil rather than Dean, at whom he had been aiming,

but it was a much closer miss than usual, and

everybody else had made enormous progress.

At the end of an hour, Harry called a halt.

“You’re getting really good,” he said, beaming around

at them. “When we get back from the holidays we can

start doing some of the big stuff — maybe even

Patronuses.”

There was a murmur of excitement. The room began

to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people

wished Harry a Happy Christmas as they went.

Feeling cheerful, he collected up the cushions with

Ron and Hermione and stacked them neatly away.

Ron and Hermione left before he did; he hung back a

little, because Cho was still there and he was hoping

to receive a Merry Christmas from her.

“No, you go on,” he heard her say to her friend

Marietta, and his heart gave a jolt that seemed to take

it into the region of his Adam’s apple.

He pretended to be straightening the cushion pile. He

was quite sure they were alone now and waited for

her to speak. Instead, he heard a hearty sniff.

He turned and saw Cho standing in the middle of the

room, tears pouring down her face.

“Wha — ?”

He didn’t know what to do. She was simply standing

there, crying silently.

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“What’s up?” he said feebly.

She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“I’m — sorry,” she said thickly. “I suppose … it’s just

… learning all this stuff... It just makes me … wonder

whether … if he’d known it all … he’d still be alive...”

Harry’s heart sank right back past its usual spot and

settled somewhere around his navel. He ought to have

known. She wanted to talk about Cedric.

“He did know this stuff,” Harry said heavily. “He was

really good at it, or he could never have got to the

middle of that maze. But if Voldemort really wants to

kill you, you don’t stand a chance.”

She hiccuped at the sound of Voldemort’s name, but

stared at Harry without flinching.

“You survived when you were just a baby,” she said

quietly.

“Yeah, well,” said Harry wearily, moving toward the

door, “I dunno why, nor does anyone else, so it’s

nothing to be proud of.”

“Oh don’t go!” said Cho, sounding tearful again. “I’m

really sorry to get all upset like this... I didn’t mean

to...”

She hiccuped again. She was very pretty even when

her eyes were red and puffy. Harry felt thoroughly

miserable. He’d have been so pleased just with a

Merry Christmas...

“I know it must be horrible for you,” she said,

mopping her eyes on her sleeve again. “Me

mentioning Cedric, when you saw him die... I suppose

you just want to forget about it...”

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Harry did not say anything to this; it was quite true, but he felt heartless saying it.

“You’re a r-really good teacher, you know,” said Cho,

with a watery smile. “I’ve never been able to Stun

anything before.”

“Thanks,” said Harry awkwardly.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry

felt a burning desire to run from the room and, at the

same time, a complete inability to move his feet.

“Mistletoe,” said Cho quietly, pointing at the ceiling

over his head.

“Yeah,” said Harry. His mouth was very dry. “It’s

probably full of nargles, though.”

“What are nargles?”

“No idea,” said Harry. She had moved closer. His

brain seemed to have been Stunned. “You’d have to

ask Loony. Luna, I mean.”

Cho made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a

laugh. She was even nearer him now. He could have

counted the freckles on her nose.

“I really like you, Harry.”

He could not think. A tingling sensation was

spreading throughout him, paralyzing his arms, legs,

and brain.

She was much too close. He could see every tear

clinging to her eyelashes...

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He returned to the common room half an hour later to

find Hermione and Ron in the best seats by the fire;

nearly everybody else had gone to bed. Hermione was

writing a very long letter; she had already filled half a

roll of parchment, which was dangling from the edge

of the table. Ron was lying on the hearthrug, trying to

finish his Transfiguration homework.

“What kept you?” he asked, as Harry sank into the

armchair next to Hermione’s.

Harry did not answer. He was in a state of shock. Half

of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had

just happened, but the other half wanted to take the

secret with him to the grave.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked, peering at

him over the tip of her quill.

Harry gave a halfhearted shrug. In truth, he didn’t

know whether he was all right or not. “What’s up?”

said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a

clearer view of Harry. “What’s happened?”

Harry didn’t quite know how to set about telling them,

and still wasn’t sure whether he wanted to. Just as he

had decided not to say anything, Hermione took

matters out of his hands.

“Is it Cho?” she asked in a businesslike way. “Did she

corner you after the meeting?”

Numbly surprised, Harry nodded. Ron sniggered,

breaking off when Hermione caught his eye.

“So — er — what did she want?” he asked in a mock

casual voice.

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“She —” Harry began, rather hoarsely; he cleared his

throat and tried again. “She — er —”

“Did you kiss?” asked Hermione briskly.

Ron sat up so fast that he sent his ink bottle flying all

over the rug. Disregarding this completely he stared

avidly at Harry.

“Well?” he demanded.

Harry looked from Ron’s expression of mingled

curiosity and hilarity to Hermione’s slight frown, and

nodded.

“HA!”

Ron made a triumphant gesture with his fist and

went into a raucous peal of laughter that made

several timid-looking second years over beside the

window jump. A reluctant grin spread over Harry’s

face as he watched Ron rolling around on the

hearthrug. Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust

and returned to her letter.

“Well?” Ron said finally, looking up at Harry. “How

was it?”

Harry considered for a moment.

“Wet,” he said truthfully.

Ron made a noise that might have indicated

jubilation or disgust, it was hard to tell.

“Because she was crying,” Harry continued heavily.

“Oh,” said Ron, his smile fading slightly. “Are you that

bad at kissing?”

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“Dunno,” said Harry, who hadn’t considered this, and

immediately felt rather worried. “Maybe I am.”

“Of course you’re not,” said Hermione absently, still

scribbling away at her letter.

“How do you know?” said Ron in a sharp voice.

“Because Cho spends half her time crying these

days,” said Hermione vaguely. “She does it at

mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place.”

“You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up,” said

Ron, grinning.

“Ron,” said Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the

point of her quill into her ink pot, “you are the most

insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to

meet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ron

indignantly. “What sort of person cries while

someone’s kissing them?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, slightly desperately, “who does?”

Hermione looked at the pair of them with an almost

pitying expression on her face.

“Don’t you understand how Cho’s feeling at the

moment?” she asked.

“No,” said Harry and Ron together.

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill.

“Well, obviously, she’s feeling very sad, because of

Cedric dying. Then I expect she’s feeling confused

because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry,

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and she can’t work out who she likes best. Then she’ll be feeling guilty, thinking it’s an insult to Cedric’s

memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she’ll be

worrying about what everyone else might say about

her if she starts going out with Harry. And she

probably can’t work out what her feelings toward

Harry are anyway, because he was the one who was

with Cedric when Cedric died, so that’s all very mixed

up and painful. Oh, and she’s afraid she’s going to be

thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because

she’s been flying so badly.”

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this

speech, then Ron said, “One person can’t feel all that

at once, they’d explode.”

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a

teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” said Hermione

nastily, picking up her quill again.

“She was the one who started it,” said Harry. “I

wouldn’t’ve — she just sort of came at me — and next

thing she’s crying all over me — I didn’t know what to

do —”

“Don’t blame you, mate,” said Ron, looking alarmed at

the very thought.

“You just had to be nice to her,” said Hermione,

looking up anxiously. “You were, weren’t you?”

“Well,” said Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up

his face, “I sort of — patted her on the back a bit.”

Hermione looked as though she was restraining

herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty.

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” she said.

“Are you going to see her again?”

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“I’ll have to, won’t I?” said Harry. “We’ve got D.A.

meetings, haven’t we?”

“You know what I mean,” said Hermione impatiently.

Harry said nothing. Hermione’s words opened up a

whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tried to

imagine going somewhere with Cho — Hogsmeade,

perhaps — and being alone with her for hours at a

time. Of course, she would have been expecting him

to ask her out after what had just happened... The

thought made his stomach clench painfully.

“Oh well,” said Hermione distantly, buried in her

letter once more, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities

to ask her...”

“What if he doesn’t want to ask her?” said Ron, who

had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd

expression on his face.

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione vaguely, “Harry’s liked

her for ages, haven’t you, Harry?”

He did not answer. Yes, he had liked Cho for ages,

but whenever he had imagined a scene involving the

two of them it had always featured a Cho who was

enjoying herself, as opposed to a Cho who was

sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

“Who’re you writing the novel to anyway?” Ron asked

Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now

trailing on the floor. Hermione hitched it up out of

sight.

“Viktor.”

“Krum?”

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“How many other Viktors do we know?”

Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in

silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his

Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience

and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the

very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and

sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing

more than anything that Sirius’s head would appear

there and give him some advice about girls. But the

fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot

embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry

saw that they were, yet again, the last in the common

room.

“Well, ’night,” said Hermione, yawning widely, and

she set off up the girls’ staircase.

“What does she see in Krum?” Ron demanded as he

and Harry climbed the boys’ stairs.

“Well,” said Harry, considering the matter, “I s’pose

he’s older, isn’t he … and he’s an international

Quidditch player...”

“Yeah, but apart from that,” said Ron, sounding

aggravated. “I mean he’s a grouchy git, isn’t he?”

“Bit grouchy, yeah,” said Harry, whose thoughts were

still on Cho.

They pulled off their robes and put on pajamas in

silence; Dean, Seamus, and Neville were already

asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and

got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed

around his four-poster; instead he stared at the patch

of starry sky visible through the window next to

Neville’s bed. If he had known, this time last night,

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that in twenty-four hours’ time he would have kissed

Cho Chang …

“ ’Night,” grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right.

“ ’Night,” said Harry.

Maybe next time … if there was a next time … she’d

be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she

had probably been expecting it and was now really

angry with him … or was she lying in bed, still crying

about Cedric? He did not know what to think.

Hermione’s explanation had made it all seem more

complicated rather than easier to understand.

That’s what they should teach us here, he thought,

turning over onto his side, how girls’ brains work …

it’d be more useful than Divination anyway...

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted

somewhere out in the night.

Harry dreamed he was back in the D.A. room. Cho

was accusing him of luring her there under false

pretenses; she said that he had promised her a

hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog cards if she showed

up. Harry protested... Cho shouted, “Cedric gave me

loads of Chocolate Frog cards, look!” And she pulled

out fistfuls of cards from inside her robes and threw

them into the air, and then turned into Hermione,

who said, “You did promise her, you know, Harry... I

think you’d better give her something else instead...

How about your Firebolt?” And Harry was protesting

that he could not give Cho his Firebolt because

Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was

ridiculous, he’d only come to the D.A. room to put up

some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby’s head...

The dream changed...

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His body felt smooth, powerful, and flexible. He was

gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold

stone... He was flat against the floor, sliding along on

his belly... It was dark, yet he could see objects

around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colors...

He was turning his head... At first glance, the corridor

was empty … but no … a man was sitting on the floor

ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest, his outline

gleaming in the dark...

Harry put out his tongue... He tasted the man’s scent

on the air... He was alive but drowsing … sitting in

front of a door at the end of the corridor …

Harry longed to bite the man … but he must master

the impulse... He had more important work to do...

But the man was stirring … a silvery cloak fell from

his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his

vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a

wand withdrawn from a belt... He had no choice... He

reared high from the floor and struck once, twice,

three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s

flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling

the warm gush of blood...

The man was yelling in pain … then he fell silent... He

slumped backward against the wall... Blood was

splattering onto the floor...

His forehead hurt terribly... It was aching fit to

burst...

“Harry! HARRY!”

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was

covered in icy sweat; his bedcovers were twisted all

around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a

white-hot poker was being applied to his forehead.

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“Harry!”

Ron was standing over him looking extremely

frightened. There were more figures at the foot of

Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the

pain was blinding him... He rolled right over and

vomited over the edge of the mattress.

“He’s really ill,” said a scared voice. “Should we call

someone?”

“Harry! Harry!”

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell

him... Taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself

up in bed, willing himself not to throw up again, the

pain half-blinding him.

“Your dad,” he panted, his chest heaving. “Your dad’s

… been attacked...”

“What?” said Ron uncomprehendingly.

“Your dad! He’s been bitten, it’s serious, there was

blood everywhere...”

“I’m going for help,” said the same scared voice, and

Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.

“Harry, mate,” said Ron uncertainly, “you … you were

just dreaming...”

“No!” said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron

understand. “It wasn’t a dream … not an ordinary

dream... I was there, I saw it... I did it...”

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did

not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding

slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering

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feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backward

out of the way.

“Harry, you’re not well,” he said shakily. “Neville’s

gone for help...”

“I’m fine!” Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his

pajamas and shaking uncontrollably. “There’s nothing

wrong with me, it’s your dad you’ve got to worry

about — we need to find out where he is — he’s

bleeding like mad — I was — it was a huge snake...”

He tried to get out of bed but Ron pushed him back

into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering

somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or

ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking,

feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar...

Then there were hurried footsteps coming up the

stairs, and he heard Neville’s voice again.

“Over here, Professor …”

Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the

dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses

perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

“What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?”

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a

member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now,

not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless

potions.

“It’s Ron’s dad,” he said, sitting up again. “He’s been

attacked by a snake and it’s serious, I saw it happen.”

“What do you mean, you saw it happen?” said

Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting.

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“I don’t know... I was asleep and then I was there...”

“You mean you dreamed this?”

“No!” said Harry angrily. Would none of them

understand? “I was having a dream at first about

something completely different, something stupid …

and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn’t

imagine it, Mr. Weasley was asleep on the floor and

he was attacked by a gigantic snake, there was a load

of blood, he collapsed, someone’s got to find out

where he is...”

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her

lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she

was seeing.

“I’m not lying, and I’m not mad!” Harry told her, his

voice rising to a shout. “I tell you, I saw it happen!”

“I believe you, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall

curtly. “Put on your dressing-gown — we’re going to

see the headmaster.”

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ST. MUNGO’S HOSPITAL FOR

MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES

Harry was so relieved that she was taking him

seriously that he did not hesitate, but jumped out of

bed at once, pulled on his dressing gown, and pushed

his glasses back onto his nose.

“Weasley, you ought to come too,” said Professor

McGonagall.

They followed Professor McGonagall past the silent

figures of Neville, Dean, and Seamus, out of the

dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common

room, through the portrait hole, and off along the Fat

Lady’s moonlit corridor. Harry felt as though the

panic inside him might spill over at any moment; he

wanted to run, to yell for Dumbledore. Mr. Weasley

was bleeding as they walked along so sedately, and

what if those fangs (Harry tried hard not to think “my

fangs”) had been poisonous? They passed Mrs. Norris,

who turned her lamplike eyes upon them and hissed

faintly, but Professor McGonagall said, “Shoo!” Mrs.

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Norris slunk away into the shadows, and in a few

minutes they had reached the stone gargoyle

guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office.

“Fizzing Whizbee,” said Professor McGonagall.

The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall

behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that

was moving continuously upward like a spiral

escalator. The three of them stepped onto the moving

stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud, and

they were moving upward in tight circles until they

reached the highly polished oak door with the brass

knocker shaped like a griffin.

Though it was now well past midnight, there were

voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble

of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was

entertaining at least a dozen people.

Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the

griffin knocker, and the voices ceased abruptly as

though someone had switched them all off. The door

opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall

led Harry and Ron inside.

The room was in half darkness; the strange silver

instruments standing on tables were silent and still

rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as

they usually did. The portraits of old headmasters

and headmistresses covering the walls were all

snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a

magnificent red-and-gold bird the size of a swan

dozed on its perch with its head under its wing.

“Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall … and … ah. ”

Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair

behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of

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candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before

him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered

purple-and-gold dressing gown over a snowy-white

nightshirt, but seemed wide awake, his penetrating

light-blue eyes fixed intently upon Professor

McGonagall.

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a … well, a

nightmare,” said Professor McGonagall. “He says …”

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” said Harry quickly.

Professor McGonagall looked around at Harry,

frowning slightly.

“Very well, then, Potter, you tell the headmaster about

it.”

“I … well, I was asleep...” said Harry and even in his

terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore

understand he felt slightly irritated that the

headmaster was not looking at him, but examining

his own interlocked fingers. “But it wasn’t an ordinary

dream … it was real... I saw it happen...” He took a

deep breath, “Ron’s dad — Mr. Weasley — has been

attacked by a giant snake.”

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he

had said them, slightly ridiculous, even comic. There

was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and

stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from

Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asked quietly,

still not looking at Harry.

“Well … I don’t know,” said Harry, rather angrily —

what did it matter? “Inside my head, I suppose —”

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“You misunderstand me,” said Dumbledore, still in

the same calm tone. “I mean … can you remember —

er — where you were positioned as you watched this

attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside

the victim, or else looking down on the scene from

above?”

This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at

Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew …

“I was the snake,” he said. “I saw it all from the

snake’s point of view...”

Nobody else spoke for a moment, then Dumbledore,

now looking at Ron, who was still whey-faced, said in

a new and sharper voice, “Is Arthur seriously

injured?”

“Yes, ” said Harry emphatically — why were they all so

slow on the uptake, did they not realize how much a

person bled when fangs that long pierced their side?

And why could Dumbledore not do him the courtesy

of looking at him?

But Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry

jumped, and addressed one of the old portraits

hanging very near the ceiling.

“Everard?” he said sharply. “And you too, Dilys!”

A sallow-faced wizard with short, black bangs and an

elderly witch with long silver ringlets in the frame

beside him, both of whom seemed to have been in the

deepest of sleeps, opened their eyes immediately.

“You were listening?” said Dumbledore.

The wizard nodded, the witch said, “Naturally.”

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“The man has red hair and glasses,” said

Dumbledore. “Everard, you will need to raise the

alarm, make sure he is found by the right people —”

Both nodded and moved sideways out of their frames,

but instead of emerging in neighboring pictures (as

usually happened at Hogwarts), neither reappeared;

one frame now contained nothing but a backdrop of

dark curtain, the other a handsome leather armchair.

Harry noticed that many of the other headmasters

and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and

drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at

him under their eyelids, and he suddenly understood

who had been talking when they had knocked.

“Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts’s most

celebrated Heads,” Dumbledore said, now sweeping

around Harry, Ron, and Professor McGonagall and

approaching the magnificent sleeping bird on his

perch beside the door. “Their renown is such that

both have portraits hanging in other important

Wizarding institutions. As they are free to move

between their own portraits they can tell us what may

be happening elsewhere...”

“But Mr. Weasley could be anywhere!” said Harry.

“Please sit down, all three of you,” said Dumbledore,

as though Harry had not spoken. “Everard and Dilys

may not be back for several minutes... Professor

McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs …”

Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from the

pocket of her dressing gown and waved it; three

chairs appeared out of thin air, straight-backed and

wooden, quite unlike the comfortable chintz

armchairs that Dumbledore had conjured back at

Harry’s hearing. Harry sat down, watching

Dumbledore over his shoulder. Dumbledore was now

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stroking Fawkes’s plumed golden head with one

finger. The phoenix awoke immediately. He stretched

his beautiful head high and observed Dumbledore

through bright, dark eyes.

“We will need,” said Dumbledore very quietly to the

bird, “a warning.”

There was a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone.

Dumbledore now swooped down upon one of the

fragile silver instruments whose function Harry had

never known, carried it over to his desk, sat down

facing them again, and tapped it gently with the tip of

his wand.

The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic

clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued

from the minuscule silver tube at the top.

Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow

furrowed, and after a few seconds, the tiny puffs

became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and

coiled in the air... A serpent’s head grew out of the

end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered

whether the instrument was confirming his story: He

looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was

right, but Dumbledore did not look up.

“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Dumbledore

apparently to himself, still observing the stream of

smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. “But in

essence divided?”

Harry could make neither head nor tail of this

question. The smoke serpent, however, split itself

instantly into two snakes, both coiling and

undulating in the dark air. With a look of grim

satisfaction Dumbledore gave the instrument another

gentle tap with his wand: The clinking noise slowed

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and died, and the smoke serpents grew faint, became

a formless haze, and vanished.

Dumbledore replaced the instrument upon its spindly

little table; Harry saw many of the old headmasters in

the portraits follow him with their eyes, then, realizing

that Harry was watching them, hastily pretend to be

sleeping again. Harry wanted to ask what the strange

silver instrument was for, but before he could do so,

there was a shout from the top of the wall to their

right; the wizard called Everard had reappeared in his

portrait, panting slightly.

“Dumbledore!”

“What news?” said Dumbledore at once.

“I yelled until someone came running,” said the

wizard, who was mopping his brow on the curtain

behind him, “said I’d heard something moving

downstairs — they weren’t sure whether to believe me

but went down to check — you know there are no

portraits down there to watch from. Anyway, they

carried him up a few minutes later. He doesn’t look

good, he’s covered in blood, I ran along to Elfrida

Cragg’s portrait to get a good view as they left —”

“Good,” said Dumbledore as Ron made a convulsive

movement, “I take it Dilys will have seen him arrive,

then —”

And moments later, the silver-ringletted witch had

reappeared in her picture too; she sank, coughing,

into her armchair and said, “Yes, they’ve taken him to

St. Mungo’s, Dumbledore... They carried him past

under my portrait... He looks bad...”

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore. He looked around at

Professor McGonagall.

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“Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other

Weasley children.”

“Of course...”

Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the

door; Harry cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was

now looking terrified.

“And Dumbledore — what about Molly?” said

Professor McGonagall, pausing at the door.

“That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished

keeping a lookout for anybody approaching,” said

Dumbledore. “But she may already know … that

excellent clock of hers …”

Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock

that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and

conditions of the various Weasley family members,

and with a pang he thought that Mr. Weasley’s hand

must, even now, be pointing at “mortal peril.” But it

was very late... Mrs. Weasley was probably asleep, not

watching the clock... And he felt cold as he

remembered Mrs. Weasley’s boggart turning into Mr.

Weasley’s lifeless body, his glasses askew, blood

running down his face... But Mr. Weasley wasn’t

going to die... He couldn’t...

Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard

behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a

blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully upon

his desk. He raised his wand and murmured “Portus”;

for a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd

blue light, then it quivered to a rest, as solidly black

as ever.

Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this

time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard,

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who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colors of

green and silver and was apparently sleeping so

deeply that he could not hear Dumbledore’s voice

when he attempted to rouse him.

“Phineas. Phineas. ”

And now the subjects of the portraits lining the room

were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were

shifting around in their frames, the better to watch

what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard

continued to feign sleep, some of them shouted his

name too.

“Phineas! Phineas! PHINEAS!”

He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical

jerk and opened his eyes wide.

“Did someone call?”

“I need you to visit your other portrait again,

Phineas,” said Dumbledore. “I’ve got another

message.”

“Visit my other portrait?” said Phineas in a reedy

voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes traveling

around the room and focusing upon Harry). “Oh no,

Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight...”

Something about Phineas’s voice was familiar to

Harry. Where had he heard it before? But before he

could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls

broke into a storm of protest.

“Insubordination, sir!” roared a corpulent, red-nosed

wizard, brandishing his fists. “Dereliction of duty!”

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“We are honor-bound to give service to the present

Headmaster of Hogwarts!” cried a frail-looking old

wizard whom Harry recognized as Dumbledore’s

predecessor, Armando Dippet. “Shame on you,

Phineas!”

“Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?” called a gimlet-

eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that

looked not unlike a birch rod.

“Oh, very well,” said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing

this wand slightly apprehensively, “though he may

well have destroyed my picture by now, he’s done

most of the family —”

“Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,” said

Dumbledore, and Harry realized immediately where

he had heard Phineas’s voice before: issuing from the

apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld

Place. “You are to give him the message that Arthur

Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife,

children, and Harry Potter will be arriving at his

house shortly. Do you understand?”

“Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry

Potter coming to stay,” recited Phineas in a bored

voice. “Yes, yes … very well...”

He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and

disappeared from view at the very moment that the

study door opened again. Fred, George, and Ginny

were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all

three of them looking disheveled and shocked, still in

their night things.

“Harry — what’s going on?” asked Ginny, who looked

frightened. “Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad

hurt —”

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“Your father has been injured in the course of his

work for the Order of the Phoenix,” said Dumbledore

before Harry could speak. “He has been taken to St.

Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I

am sending you back to Sirius’s house, which is

much more convenient for the hospital than the

Burrow. You will meet your mother there.”

“How’re we going?” asked Fred, looking shaken. “Floo

powder?”

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Floo powder is not safe at the

moment, the Network is being watched. You will be

taking a Portkey.” He indicated the old kettle lying

innocently on his desk. “We are just waiting for

Phineas Nigellus to report back... I wish to be sure

that the coast is clear before sending you —”

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the

office, leaving behind a single golden feather that

floated gently to the floor.

“It is Fawkes’s warning,” said Dumbledore, catching

the feather as it fell. “She must know you’re out of

your beds... Minerva, go and head her off — tell her

any story —”

Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan.

“He says he’ll be delighted,” said a bored voice behind

Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had

reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. “My

great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in

houseguests...”

“Come here, then,” Dumbledore said to Harry and the

Weasleys. “And quickly, before anyone else joins us

…”

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Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore’s

desk.

“You have all used a Portkey before?” asked

Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to

touch some part of the blackened kettle. “Good. On

the count of three then … one … two …”

It happened in a fraction of a second: In the

infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said “three,”

Harry looked up at him — they were very close

together — and Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze moved

from the Portkey to Harry’s face.

At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the

old wound had burst open again — and unbidden,

unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within

Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant,

that he would like nothing better than to strike — to

bite — to sink his fangs into the man before him —

“… three. ”

He felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground

vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to

the kettle; he was banging into the others as all sped

forward in a swirl of colors and a rush of wind, the

kettle pulling them onward and then —

His feet hit the ground so hard that his knees

buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground and

somewhere close at hand a voice said, “Back again,

the blood traitor brats, is it true their father’s dying …

?”

“OUT!” roared a second voice.

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around; they

had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of

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number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of

light were the fire and one guttering candle, which

illuminated the remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher

was disappearing through the door to the hall,

looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up

his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying toward them all,

looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day

clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like

whiff of stale drink about him.

“What’s going on?” he said, stretching out a hand to

help Ginny up. “Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been

badly injured —”

“Ask Harry,” said Fred.

“Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,” said George.

The twins and Ginny were staring at him. Kreacher’s

footsteps had stopped on the stairs outside.

“It was —” Harry began; this was even worse than

telling McGonagall and Dumbledore. “I had a — a

kind of — vision...”

And he told them all that he had seen, though he

altered the story so that it sounded as though he had

watched from the sidelines as the snake attacked,

rather than from behind the snake’s own eyes... Ron,

who was still very white, gave him a fleeting look, but

did not speak. When Harry had finished, Fred,

George, and Ginny continued to stare at him for a

moment. Harry did not know whether he was

imagining it or not, but he fancied there was

something accusatory in their looks. Well, if they were

going to blame him for just seeing the attack, he was

glad he had not told them that he had been inside the

snake at the time...

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“Is Mum here?” said Fred, turning to Sirius.

“She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened

yet,” said Sirius. “The important thing was to get you

away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect

Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.”

“We’ve got to go to St. Mungo’s,” said Ginny urgently.

She looked around at her brothers; they were of

course still in their pajamas. “Sirius, can you lend us

cloaks or anything — ?”

“Hang on, you can’t go tearing off to St. Mungo’s!”

said Sirius.

“ ’Course we can go to St. Mungo’s if we want,” said

Fred, with a mulish expression, “he’s our dad!”

“And how are you going to explain how you knew

Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his

wife know?”

“What does that matter?” said George hotly.

“It matters because we don’t want to draw attention

to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that

are happening hundreds of miles away!” said Sirius

angrily. “Have you any idea what the Ministry would

make of that information?”

Fred and George looked as though they could not care

less what the Ministry made of anything. Ron was still

white-faced and silent. Ginny said, “Somebody else

could have told us... We could have heard it

somewhere other than Harry...”

“Like who?” said Sirius impatiently. “Listen, your

dad’s been hurt while on duty for the Order and the

circumstances are fishy enough without his children

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knowing about it seconds after it happened, you

could seriously damage the Order’s —”

“We don’t care about the dumb Order!” shouted Fred.

“It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!” yelled George.

“Your father knew what he was getting into, and he

won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!”

said Sirius angrily in his turn. “This is how it is —

this is why you’re not in the Order — you don’t

understand — there are things worth dying for!”

“Easy for you to say, stuck here!” bellowed Fred. “I

don’t see you risking your neck!”

The little color remaining in Sirius’s face drained from

it. He looked for a moment as though he would quite

like to hit Fred, but when he spoke, it was in a voice

of determined calm. “I know it’s hard, but we’ve all got

to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve

got to stay put, at least until we hear from your

mother, all right?”

Fred and George still looked mutinous. Ginny,

however, took a few steps over to the nearest chair

and sank into it. Harry looked at Ron, who made a

funny movement somewhere between a nod and

shrug, and they sat down too. The twins glared at

Sirius for another minute, then took seats on either

side of Ginny.

“That’s right,” said Sirius encouragingly, “come on,

let’s all … let’s all have a drink while we’re waiting.

Accio Butterbeer!”

He raised his wand as he spoke and half a dozen

bottles came flying toward them out of the pantry,

skidded along the table, scattering the debris of

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Sirius’s meal, and stopped neatly in front of the six of them. They all drank, and for a while the only sounds

were those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the

soft thud of their bottles on the table.

Harry was only drinking to have something to do with

his hands. His stomach was full of horrible hot,

bubbling guilt. They would not be here if it were not

for him; they would all still be asleep in bed. And it

was no good telling himself that by raising the alarm

he had ensured that Mr. Weasley was found, because

there was also the inescapable business of it being he

who had attacked Mr. Weasley in the first place...

Don’t be stupid, you haven’t got fangs, he told himself,

trying to keep calm, though the hand on his

butterbeer bottle was shaking. You were lying in bed,

you weren’t attacking anyone...

But then, what just happened in Dumbledore’s office?

he asked himself. I felt like I wanted to attack

Dumbledore too...

He put the bottle down on the table a little harder

than he meant to, so that it slopped over onto the

table. No one took any notice. Then a burst of fire in

midair illuminated the dirty plates in front of them

and as they gave cries of shock, a scroll of parchment

fell with a thud onto the table, accompanied by a

single golden phoenix tail feather.

“Fawkes!” said Sirius at once, snatching up the

parchment. “That’s not Dumbledore’s writing — it

must be a message from your mother — here —”

He thrust the letter into George’s hand, who ripped it

open and read aloud, “Dad is still alive. I am setting

out for St. Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will

send news as soon as I can. Mum. ”

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George looked around the table.

“Still alive …” he said slowly. “But that makes it

sound …”

He did not need to finish the sentence. It sounded to

Harry too as though Mr. Weasley was hovering

somewhere between life and death. Still exceptionally

pale, Ron stared at the back of his mother’s letter as

though it might speak words of comfort to him. Fred

pulled the parchment out of George’s hands and read

it for himself, then looked up at Harry, who felt his

hand shaking on his butterbeer bottle again and

clenched it more tightly to stop the trembling.

If Harry had ever sat through a longer night than this

one he could not remember it. Sirius suggested once

that they all go to bed, but without any real

conviction, and the Weasleys’ looks of disgust were

answer enough. They mostly sat in silence around the

table, watching the candle wick sinking lower and

lower into liquid wax, now and then raising bottles to

their lips, speaking only to check the time, to wonder

aloud what was happening, and to reassure one

another that if there was bad news, they would know

straightaway, for Mrs. Weasley must long since have

arrived at St. Mungo’s.

Fred fell into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto

his shoulder. Ginny was curled like a cat on her

chair, but her eyes were open; Harry could see them

reflecting the firelight. Ron was sitting with his head

in his hands, whether awake or asleep it was

impossible to tell. And he and Sirius looked at each

other every so often, intruders upon the family grief,

waiting … waiting …

And then, at ten past five in the morning by Ron’s

watch, the kitchen door swung open and Mrs.

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Weasley entered the kitchen. She was extremely pale,

but when they all turned to look at her, Fred, Ron,

and Harry half-rising from their chairs, she gave a

wan smile.

“He’s going to be all right,” she said, her voice weak

with tiredness. “He’s sleeping. We can all go and see

him later. Bill’s sitting with him now, he’s going to

take the morning off work.”

Fred fell back into his chair with his hands over his

face. George and Ginny got up, walked swiftly over to

their mother, and hugged her. Ron gave a very shaky

laugh and downed the rest of his butterbeer in one.

“Breakfast!” said Sirius loudly and joyfully, jumping

to his feet. “Where’s that accursed house-elf?

Kreacher! KREACHER!”

But Kreacher did not answer the summons.

“Oh, forget it, then,” muttered Sirius, counting the

people in front of him. “So it’s breakfast for — let’s see

— seven … Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea,

and toast —”

Harry hurried over to the stove to help. He did not

want to intrude upon the Weasleys’ happiness, and

he dreaded the moment when Mrs. Weasley would

ask him to recount his vision. However, he had barely

taken plates from the dresser when Mrs. Weasley

lifted them out of his hands and pulled him into a

hug.

“I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t

been for you, Harry,” she said in a muffled voice.

“They might not have found Arthur for hours, and

then it would have been too late, but thanks to you

he’s alive and Dumbledore’s been able to think up a

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good cover story for Arthur being where he was,

you’ve no idea what trouble he would have been in

otherwise, look at poor Sturgis...”

Harry could hardly stand her gratitude, but

fortunately she soon released him to turn to Sirius

and thank him for looking after her children through

the night. Sirius said that he was very pleased to have

been able to help, and hoped they would all stay with

him as long as Mr. Weasley was in hospital.

“Oh, Sirius, I’m so grateful... They think he’ll be there

a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer

… Of course, that might mean we’re here for

Christmas...”

“The more the merrier!” said Sirius with such obvious

sincerity that Mrs. Weasley beamed at him, threw on

an apron, and began to help with breakfast.

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, unable to stand it a moment

longer. “Can I have a quick word? Er — now?”

He walked into the dark pantry and Sirius followed.

Without preamble Harry told his godfather every

detail of the vision he had had, including the fact that

he himself had been the snake who had attacked Mr.

Weasley.

When he paused for breath, Sirius said, “Did you tell

Dumbledore this?”

“Yes,” said Harry impatiently, “but he didn’t tell me

what it meant. Well, he doesn’t tell me anything

anymore...”

“I’m sure he would have told you if it was anything to

worry about,” said Sirius steadily.

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“But that’s not all,” said Harry in a voice only a little above a whisper. “Sirius, I … I think I’m going mad...

Back in Dumbledore’s office, just before we took the

Portkey … for a couple of seconds there I thought I

was a snake, I felt like one — my scar really hurt

when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted

to attack him —”

He could only see a sliver of Sirius’s face; the rest was

in darkness.

“It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s

all,” said Sirius. “You were still thinking of the dream

or whatever it was and —”

“It wasn’t that,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It was

like something rose up inside me, like there’s a snake

inside me —”

“You need to sleep,” said Sirius firmly. “You’re going

to have breakfast and then go upstairs to bed, and

then you can go and see Arthur after lunch with the

others. You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming

yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s

lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died.

Just stop worrying...”

He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry,

leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.

Everyone but Harry spent the rest of the morning

sleeping. He went up to the bedroom he had shared

with Ron over the summer, but while Ron crawled

into bed and was asleep within minutes, Harry sat

fully clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of

the bedstead, keeping himself deliberately

uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze,

terrified that he might become the serpent again in

his sleep and awake to find that he had attacked Ron,

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or else slithered through the house after one of the

others...

When Ron woke up, Harry pretended to have enjoyed

a refreshing nap too. Their trunks arrived from

Hogwarts while they were eating lunch, so that they

could dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungo’s.

Everybody except Harry was riotously happy and

talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans

and sweatshirts, and they greeted Tonks and Mad-

Eye, who had turned up to escort them across

London, gleefully laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye

was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye

and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair

was short and bright pink again, would attract far

less attention on the underground.

Tonks was very interested in Harry’s vision of the

attack on Mr. Weasley, something he was not

remotely interested in discussing.

“There isn’t any Seer blood in your family, is there?”

she inquired curiously, as they sat side by side on a

train rattling toward the heart of the city.

“No,” said Harry, thinking of Professor Trelawney and

feeling insulted.

“No,” said Tonks musingly, “no, I suppose it’s not

really prophecy you’re doing, is it? I mean, you’re not

seeing the future, you’re seeing the present... It’s odd,

isn’t it? Useful, though …”

Harry did not answer; fortunately they got out at the

next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and

in the bustle of leaving the train he was able to allow

Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks,

who was leading the way. They all followed her up the

escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the

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group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand

stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching

his wand. Harry thought he sensed the concealed eye

staring hard at him; trying to deflect more questions

about his dream he asked Mad-Eye where St.

Mungo’s was hidden.

“Not far from here,” grunted Moody as they stepped

out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street

packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushed Harry a

little ahead of him and stumped along just behind;

Harry knew the eye was rolling in all directions under

the tilted hat. “Wasn’t easy to find a good location for

a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough

and we couldn’t have it underground like the Ministry

— unhealthy. In the end they managed to get hold of

a building up here. Theory was sick wizards could

come and go and just blend in with the crowd...”

He seized Harry’s shoulder to prevent them being

separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on

nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of

electrical gadgets.

“Here we go,” said Moody a moment later.

They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red

brick department store called Purge and Dowse Ltd.

The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window

displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with

their wigs askew, standing at random and modeling

fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on

all the dusty doors read CLOSED FOR

REFURBISHMENT. Harry distinctly heard a large

woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her

friend as they passed, “It’s never open, that place...”

“Right,” said Tonks, beckoning them forward to a

window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly

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female dummy whose false eyelashes were hanging off

and who was modeling a green nylon pinafore dress.

“Everybody ready?”

They nodded, clustering around her; Moody gave

Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to

urge him forward and Tonks leaned close to the glass,

looking up at the very ugly dummy and said, her

breath steaming up the glass, “Wotcher … We’re here

to see Arthur Weasley.”

For a split second, Harry thought how absurd it was

for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking

that quietly through a sheet of glass, when there were

buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of

a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded himself

that dummies could not hear anyway. Next second

his mouth opened in shock as the dummy gave a tiny

nod, beckoned its jointed finger, and Tonks had

seized Ginny and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows,

stepped right through the glass and vanished.

Fred, George, and Ron stepped after them; Harry

glanced around at the jostling crowd; not one of them

seemed to have a glance to spare for window displays

as ugly as Purge and Dowse Ltd.’s, nor did any of

them seem to have noticed that six people had just

melted into thin air in front of them.

“C’mon,” growled Moody, giving Harry yet another

poke in the back and together they stepped forward

through what felt like a sheet of cool water, emerging

quite warm and dry on the other side.

There was no sign of the ugly dummy or the space

where she had stood. They had arrived in what

seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of

witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs,

some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-

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date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra

hands sticking out of their chests. The room was

scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of

the patients were making very peculiar noises. A

sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who

was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the

Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle

as steam came pouring out of her mouth, and a

grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a

bell every time he moved, and with each clang his

head vibrated horribly, so that he had to seize himself

by the ears and hold it steady.

Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking

up and down the rows, asking questions and making

notes on clipboards like Umbridge’s. Harry noticed

the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and

bone, crossed.

“Are they doctors?” he asked Ron quietly.

“Doctors?” said Ron, looking startled. “Those Muggle

nutters that cut people up? Nah, they’re Healers.”

“Over here!” called Mrs. Weasley over the renewed

clanging of the warlock in the corner, and they

followed her to the queue in front of a plump blonde

witch seated at a desk marked inquiries. The wall

behind her was covered in notices and posters saying

things like A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS

FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE

ANTI-DON’TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED

HEALER.

There was also a large portrait of a witch with long

silver ringlets that was labelled

DILYS DERWENT

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ST. MUNGO’S HEALER 1722–1741

HEADMISTRESS OF HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF

WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, I74I–I768

Dilys was eyeing the Weasley party as though

counting them; when Harry caught her eye she gave a

tiny wink, walked sideways out of her portrait, and

vanished.

Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard

was performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in

between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to

the witch behind the desk.

“It’s these — ouch — shoes my brother gave me — ow

— they’re eating my — OUCH — feet — look at them,

there must be some kind of — AARGH — jinx on them

and I can’t — AAAAARGH — get them off —”

He hopped from one foot to the other as though

dancing on hot coals.

“The shoes don’t prevent you reading, do they?” said

the blonde witch irritably, pointing at a large sign to

the left of her desk. “You want Spell Damage, fourth

floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!”

The wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the

way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps

and Harry read the floor guide:

ARTIFACT ACCIDENTS . . . . . . . . . . .Ground Floor

(Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom crashes,

etc.)

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CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES . . . . . First Floor

(Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.)

MAGICAL BUGS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Second Floor

(Contagious maladies, e.g., dragon pox, vanishing

sickness, scrofungulus)

POTION AND PLANT POISONING . . . . Third Floor

(Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable giggling, etc.)

SPELL DAMAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fourth Floor

(Unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied

charms, etc.)

VISITORS’ TEAROOM AND HOSPITAL SHOP... .Fifth

Floor

If you are unsure where to go, incapable, of normal

speech, or unable to remember why you are here, our

Welcome Witch will be pleased to help.

A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet

had shuffled to the front of the queue now.

“I’m here to see Broderick Bode!” he wheezed.

“Ward forty-nine, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your

time,” said the witch dismissively “He’s completely

addled, you know, still thinks he’s a teapot... Next!”

A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small

daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped

around his head using the immensely large, feathery

wings that had sprouted right out the back of her

romper suit.

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“Fourth floor,” said the witch in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappeared through the double

doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an

oddly shaped balloon. “Next!”

Mrs. Weasley moved forward to the desk.

“Hello,” she said. “My husband, Arthur Weasley, was

supposed to be moved to a different ward this

morning, could you tell us — ?”

“Arthur Weasley?” said the witch, running her finger

down a long list in front of her. “Yes, first floor,

second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn ward.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Come on, you lot.”

They followed through the double doors and along the

narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more

portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles

full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking

like giant soapsuds. More witches and wizards in

lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they

passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the

passageway as they passed one door, and every now

and then they heard distant wailing. They climbed a

flight of stairs and entered the “Creature-Induced

Injuries” corridor, where the second door on the right

bore the words “DANGEROUS” DAI LLEWELLYN

WARD: SERIOUS BITES. Underneath this was a card

in a brass holder on which had been handwritten

Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck, Trainee

Healer: Augustus Pye.

“We’ll wait outside, Molly,” Tonks said. “Arthur won’t

want too many visitors at once... It ought to be just

the family first.”

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Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set

himself with his back against the corridor wall, his

magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew

back too, but Mrs. Weasley reached out a hand and

pushed him through the door, saying, “Don’t be silly,

Harry, Arthur wants to thank you...”

The ward was small and rather dingy as the only

window was narrow and set high in the wall facing

the door. Most of the light came from more shining

crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling.

The walls were of panelled oak and there was a

portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall,

captioned URQUHART RACKHARROW, 1612–1697,

INVENTOR OF THE ENTRAIL-EXPELLING CURSE.

There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was

occupying the bed at the far end of the ward beside

the tiny window. Harry was pleased and relieved to

see that he was propped up on several pillows and

reading the Daily Prophet by the solitary ray of

sunlight falling onto his bed. He looked around as

they walked toward him and, seeing whom it was,

beamed.

“Hello!” he called, throwing the Prophet aside. “Bill

just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says

he’ll drop in on you later...”

“How are you, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Weasley, bending

down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his

face. “You’re still looking a bit peaky...”

“I feel absolutely fine,” said Mr. Weasley brightly,

holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. “If they

could only take the bandages off, I’d be fit to go

home.”

“Why can’t they take them off, Dad?” asked Fred.

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“Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,”

said Mr. Weasley cheerfully, reaching across for his

wand, which lay on his bedside cabinet, and waving it

so that six extra chairs appeared at his bedside to

seat them all. “It seems there was some rather

unusual kind of poison in that snake’s fangs that

keeps wounds open... They’re sure they’ll find an

antidote, though, they say they’ve had much worse

cases than mine, and in the meantime I just have to

keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour.

But that fellow over there,” he said, dropping his voice

and nodding toward the bed opposite in which a man

lay looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling.

“Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.”

“A werewolf?” whispered Mrs. Weasley, looking

alarmed. “Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn’t he be

in a private room?”

“It’s two weeks till full moon,” Mr. Weasley reminded

her quietly. “They’ve been talking to him this

morning, the Healers, you know, trying to persuade

him he’ll be able to lead an almost normal life. I said

to him — didn’t mention names, of course — but I

said I knew a werewolf personally, very nice man, who

finds the condition quite easy to manage...”

“What did he say?” asked George.

“Said he’d give me another bite if I didn’t shut up,”

said Mr. Weasley sadly. “And that woman over there, ”

he indicated the only other occupied bed, which was

right beside the door, “won’t tell the Healers what bit

her, which makes us all think it must have been

something she was handling illegally. Whatever it was

took a real chunk out of her leg, very nasty smell

when they take off the dressings.”

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“So, you going to tell us what happened, Dad?” asked

Fred, pulling his chair closer to the bed.

“Well, you already know, don’t you?” said Mr.

Weasley, with a significant smile at Harry. “It’s very

simple — I’d had a very long day, dozed off, got

sneaked up on, and bitten.”

“Is it in the Prophet, you being attacked?” asked Fred,

indicating the newspaper Mr. Weasley had cast aside.

“No, of course not,” said Mr. Weasley, with a slightly

bitter smile, “the Ministry wouldn’t want everyone to

know a dirty great serpent got —”

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley warningly.

“— got — er — me,” Mr. Weasley said hastily, though

Harry was quite sure that was not what he had meant

to say.

“So where were you when it happened, Dad?” asked

George.

“That’s my business,” said Mr. Weasley, though with

a small smile. He snatched up the Daily Prophet,

shook it open again and said, “I was just reading

about Willy Widdershins’s arrest when you arrived.

You know Willy turned out to be behind those

regurgitating toilets last summer? One of his jinxes

backfired, the toilet exploded, and they found him

lying unconscious in the wreckage covered from head

to foot in —”

“When you say you were ‘on duty,’ ” Fred interrupted

in a low voice, “what were you doing?”

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“You heard your father,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, “we

are not discussing this here! Go on about Willy

Widdershins, Arthur —”

“Well, don’t ask me how, but he actually got off on the

toilet charge,” said Mr. Weasley grimly. “I can only

suppose gold changed hands —”

“You were guarding it, weren’t you?” said George

quietly. “The weapon? The thing You-Know-Who’s

after?”

“George, be quiet!” snapped Mrs. Weasley.

“Anyway,” said Mr. Weasley in a raised voice, “this

time Willy’s been caught selling biting doorknobs to

Muggles, and I don’t think he’ll be able to worm his

way out of it because according to this article, two

Muggles have lost fingers and are now in St. Mungo’s

for emergency bone regrowth and memory

modification. Just think of it, Muggles in St. Mungo’s!

I wonder which ward they’re in?”

And he looked eagerly around as though hoping to

see a signpost.

“Didn’t you say You-Know-Who’s got a snake, Harry?”

asked Fred, looking at his father for a reaction. “A

massive one? You saw it the night he returned, didn’t

you?”

“That’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley crossly. “Mad-Eye

and Tonks are outside, Arthur, they want to come

and see you. And you lot can wait outside,” she added

to her children and Harry. “You can come and say

good-bye afterward. Go on...”

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They trooped back into the corridor. Mad-Eye and

Tonks went in and closed the door of the ward behind

them. Fred raised his eyebrows.

“Fine,” he said coolly, rummaging in his pockets, “be

like that. Don’t tell us anything.”

“Looking for these?” said George, holding out what

looked like a tangle of flesh-colored string.

“You read my mind,” said Fred, grinning. “Let’s see if

St. Mungo’s puts Imperturbable Charms on its ward

doors, shall we?”

He and George disentangled the string and separated

five Extendable Ears from each other. Fred and

George handed them around. Harry hesitated to take

one.

“Go on, Harry, take it! You saved Dad’s life, if

anyone’s got the right to eavesdrop on him it’s you...”

Grinning in spite of himself, Harry took the end of the

string and inserted it into his ear as the twins had

done.

“Okay, go!” Fred whispered.

The flesh-colored strings wriggled like long skinny

worms, then snaked under the door. For a few

seconds Harry could hear nothing, then he heard

Tonks whispering as clearly as though she were

standing right beside him.

“… they searched the whole area but they couldn’t

find the snake anywhere, it just seems to have

vanished after it attacked you, Arthur... But You-

Know-Who can’t have expected a snake to get in, can

he?”

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“I reckon he sent it as a lookout,” growled Moody, “

’cause he’s not had any luck so far, has he? No, I

reckon he’s trying to get a clearer picture of what he’s

facing and if Arthur hadn’t been there the beast

would’ve had much more time to look around. So

Potter says he saw it all happen?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded rather uneasy.

“You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been

waiting for Harry to see something like this...”

“Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny

about the Potter kid, we all know that.”

“Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I

spoke to him this morning,” whispered Mrs. Weasley.

“ ’Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s

seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake...

Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but

if You-Know-Who’s possessing him —”

Harry pulled the Extendable Ear out of his own, his

heart hammering very fast and heat rushing up his

face. He looked around at the others. They were all

staring at him, the strings still trailing from their

ears, looking suddenly fearful.

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CHRISTMAS ON THE CLOSED WARD

Was this why Dumbledore would no longer meet

Harry’s eyes? Did he expect to see Voldemort staring

out of them, afraid, perhaps, that their vivid green

might turn suddenly to scarlet, with catlike slits for

pupils? Harry remembered how the snakelike face of

Voldemort had once forced itself out of the back of

Professor Quirrell’s head, and he ran his hand over

the back of his own, wondering what it would feel like

if Voldemort burst out of his skull…

He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were

carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the

underground train back from the hospital with

innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were

free of the taint of Voldemort... He had not merely

seen the snake, he had been the snake, he knew it

now...

And then a truly terrible thought occurred to him, a

memory bobbing to the surface of his mind, one that

made his insides writhe and squirm like serpents...

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“What’s he after apart from followers?”

“Stuff he can only get by stealth … like a weapon.

Something he didn’t have last time. ”

I’m the weapon, Harry thought, and it was as though

poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him,

bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed with the

train through the dark tunnel. I’m the one Voldemort’s

trying to use, that’s why they’ve got guards around me

everywhere I go, it’s not for my protection, it’s for other

people’s, only it’s not working, they can’t have

someone on me all the time at Hogwarts... I did attack

Mr. Weasley last night, it was me, Voldemort made me

do it and he could be inside me, listening to my

thoughts right now...

“Are you all right, Harry, dear?” whispered Mrs.

Weasley, leaning across Ginny to speak to him as the

train rattled along through its dark tunnel. “You don’t

look very well. Are you feeling sick?”

They were all watching him. He shook his head

violently and stared up at an advertisement for home

insurance.

“Harry, dear, are you sure you’re all right?” said Mrs.

Weasley in a worried voice, as they walked around the

unkempt patch of grass in the middle of Grimmauld

Place. “You look ever so pale... Are you sure you slept

this morning? You go upstairs to bed right now, and

you can have a couple of hours’ sleep before dinner,

all right?”

He nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk

to any of the others, which was precisely what he

wanted, so when she opened the front door he

proceeded straight past the troll’s leg umbrella stand

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and up the stairs and hurried into his and Ron’s

bedroom.

Here he began to pace up and down, past the two

beds and Phineas Nigellus’s empty portrait, his brain

teeming and seething with questions and ever more

dreadful ideas...

How had he become a snake? Perhaps he was an

Animagus... No, he couldn’t be, he would know...

perhaps Voldemort was an Animagus... Yes, thought

Harry, that would fit, he would turn into a snake of

course … and when he’s possessing me, then we both

transform... That still doesn’t explain how come I got to

London and back to my bed in the space of about five

minutes, though... But then Voldemort’s about the most

powerful wizard in the world, apart from Dumbledore,

it’s probably no problem at all to him to transport

people like that...

And then, with a terrible stab of panic he thought, but

this is insane — if Voldemort’s possessing me, I’m

giving him a clear view into the headquarters of the

Order of the Phoenix right now! He’ll know who’s in the

Order and where Sirius is … and I’ve heard loads of

stuff I shouldn’t have, everything Sirius told me the

first night I was here...

There was only one thing for it: He would have to

leave Grimmauld Place straightaway. He would spend

Christmas at Hogwarts without the others, which

would keep them safe over the holidays at least... But

no, that wouldn’t do, there were still plenty of people

at Hogwarts to maim and injure, what if it was

Seamus, Dean, or Neville next time? He stopped his

pacing and stood staring at Phineas Nigellus’s empty

frame. A leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his

stomach. He had no alternative: He was going to have

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to return to Privet Drive, cut himself off from other wizards entirely...

Well, if he had to do it, he thought, there was no point

hanging around. Trying with all his might not to think

how the Dursleys were going to react when they found

him on their doorstep six months earlier than they

had expected, he strode over to his trunk, slammed

the lid shut and locked it, then glanced around

automatically for Hedwig before remembering that she

was still at Hogwarts — well, her cage would be one

less thing to carry — he seized one end of his trunk

and had dragged it halfway toward the door when a

sneaky voice said, “Running away, are we?”

He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared

upon the canvas of his portrait and was leaning

against the frame, watching Harry with an amused

expression on his face.

“Not running away, no,” said Harry shortly, dragging

his trunk a few more feet across the room.

“I thought,” said Phineas Nigellus, stroking his

pointed beard, “that to belong in Gryffindor House

you were supposed to be brave? It looks to me as

though you would have been better off in my own

house. We Slytherins are brave, yes, but not stupid.

For instance, given the choice, we will always choose

to save our own necks.”

“It’s not my own neck I’m saving,” said Harry tersely,

tugging the trunk over a patch of particularly uneven,

moth-eaten carpet right in front of the door.

“Oh I see, ” said Phineas Nigellus, still stroking his

beard. “This is no cowardly flight — you are being

noble. ”

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Harry ignored him. His hand was on the doorknob

when Phineas Nigellus said lazily, “I have a message

for you from Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry spun around.

“What is it?”

“Stay where you are.”

“I haven’t moved!” said Harry, his hand still upon the

doorknob. “So what’s the message?”

“I have just given it to you, dolt,” said Phineas

Nigellus smoothly. “Dumbledore says, ‘ Stay where

you are. ’ ”

“Why?” said Harry eagerly, dropping the end of his

trunk. “Why does he want me to stay? What else did

he say?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” said Phineas Nigellus, raising a

thin black eyebrow as though he found Harry

impertinent.

Harry’s temper rose to the surface like a snake

rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was

confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror,

relief, and then terror again in the last twelve hours,

and still Dumbledore did not want to talk to him!

“So that’s it, is it?” he said loudly. “Stay there? That’s

all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those

dementors too! Just stay put while the grown-ups

sort it out, Harry! We won’t bother telling you

anything, though, because your tiny little brain might

not be able to cope with it!”

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“You know,” said Phineas Nigellus, even more loudly

than Harry, “this is precisely why I loathed being a

teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that

they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not

occurred to you, my poor puffed-up popinjay, that

there might be an excellent reason why the

headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny

detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused,

while feeling hard-done-by, to note that following

Dumbledore’s orders has never yet led you into harm?

No. No, like all young people, you are quite sure that

you alone feel and think, you alone recognize danger,

you alone are the only one clever enough to realize

what the Dark Lord may be planning...”

“He is planning something to do with me, then?” said

Harry swiftly.

“Did I say that?” said Phineas Nigellus, idly examining

his silk gloves. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have

better things to do than to listen to adolescent

agonizing... Good day to you...”

And he strolled into his frame and out of sight.

“Fine, go then!” Harry bellowed at the empty frame.

“And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!”

The empty canvas remained silent. Fuming, Harry

dragged his trunk back to the foot of his bed, then

threw himself facedown upon the moth-eaten covers,

his eyes shut, his body heavy and aching...

He felt he had journeyed miles and miles... It seemed

impossible that less than twenty-four hours ago Cho

Chang had been approaching him under the

mistletoe... He was so tired... He was scared to sleep

… yet he did not know how long he could fight it...

Dumbledore had told him to stay... That must mean

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he was allowed to sleep... But he was scared... What if it happened again … ?

He was sinking into shadows...

It was as though a film in his head had been waiting

to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor

toward a plain black door, past rough stone walls,

torches, and an open doorway onto a flight of stone

steps leading downstairs on the left...

He reached the black door but could not open it... He

stood gazing at it, desperate for entry... Something he

wanted with all his heart lay beyond... A prize beyond

his dreams... If only his scar would stop prickling …

then he would be able to think more clearly...

“Harry,” said Ron’s voice, from far, far away, “Mum

says dinner’s ready, but she’ll save you something if

you want to stay in bed...”

Harry opened his eyes, but Ron had already left the

room.

He doesn’t want to be on his own with me, Harry

thought. Not after what he heard Moody say …

He supposed none of them would want him there

anymore now that they knew what was inside him...

He would not go down to dinner; he would not inflict

his company upon them. He turned over onto his

other side and after a while dropped back off to sleep,

waking much later in the early hours of the morning,

with his insides aching with hunger, and Ron snoring

in the next bed. Squinting around the room he saw

the dark outline of Phineas Nigellus standing again in

his portrait and it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore

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had probably set Phineas Nigellus to watch over him,

in case he attacked somebody else.

The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half

wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore and stayed...

If this was how life was going to be in Grimmauld

Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in

Privet Drive after all.

Everybody else spent the following morning putting

up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember

Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was

actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he

was to have company over Christmas. Harry could

hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold

and empty drawing room where he was sitting alone,

watching the sky outside the windows growing whiter,

threatening snow, all the time feeling a savage

pleasure that he was giving the others the

opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were

bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs. Weasley

calling his name softly up the stairs around

lunchtime he retreated farther upstairs and ignored

her.

It was around six o’clock in the evening that the

doorbell rang and Mrs. Black started screaming

again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other

Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled

himself more comfortably against the wall of

Buckbeak the hippogriff’s room where he was hiding,

trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed

Buckbeak dead rats. It came as a slight shock when

somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes

later.

“I know you’re in there,” said Hermione’s voice. “Will

you please come out? I want to talk to you.”

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“What are you doing here?” Harry asked her, pulling open the door, as Buckbeak resumed his scratching

at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he

might have dropped. “I thought you were skiing with

your mum and dad.”

“Well, to tell the truth, skiing’s not really my thing,”

said Hermione. “So I’ve come for Christmas.” There

was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold.

“But don’t tell Ron that, I told him it’s really good

because he kept laughing so much. Anyway, Mum

and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I’ve told them

that everyone who’s serious about the exams is

staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do

well, they’ll understand. Anyway,” she said briskly,

“let’s go to your bedroom, Ron’s mum’s lit a fire in

there and she’s sent up sandwiches.”

Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he

entered the bedroom he was rather surprised to see

both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron’s

bed.

“I came on the Knight Bus,” said Hermione airily,

pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak.

“Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing

this morning, but I had to wait for term to end

officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid

that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even

though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St.

Mungo’s, and he’d given you all permission to visit. So

…”

She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and

Ron looked up at Harry.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Hermione.

“Fine,” said Harry stiffly.

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“Oh, don’t lie, Harry,” she said impatiently. “Ron and Ginny say you’ve been hiding from everyone since you

got back from St. Mungo’s.”

“They do, do they?” said Harry, glaring at Ron and

Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed

quite unabashed.

“Well, you have!” she said. “And you won’t look at any

of us!”

“It’s you lot who won’t look at me!” said Harry angrily.

“Maybe you’re taking it in turns to look and keep

missing each other,” suggested Hermione, the corners

of her mouth twitching.

“Very funny,” snapped Harry, turning away.

“Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,” said Hermione

sharply. “Look, the others have told me what you

overheard last night on the Extendable Ears —”

“Yeah?” growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets

as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside.

“All been talking about me, have you? Well, I’m

getting used to it...”

“We wanted to talk to you, Harry,” said Ginny, “but as

you’ve been hiding ever since we got back —”

“I didn’t want anyone to talk to me,” said Harry, who

was feeling more and more nettled.

“Well, that was a bit stupid of you,” said Ginny

angrily, “seeing as you don’t know anyone but me

who’s been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can

tell you how it feels.”

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Harry remained quite still as the impact of these

words hit him. Then he turned on the spot to face

her.

“I forgot,” he said.

“Lucky you,” said Ginny coolly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he meant it. “So … so do

you think I’m being possessed, then?”

“Well, can you remember everything you’ve been

doing?” Ginny asked. “Are there big blank periods

where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

Harry racked his brains.

“No,” he said.

“Then You-Know-Who hasn’t ever possessed you,”

said Ginny simply. “When he did it to me, I couldn’t

remember what I’d been doing for hours at a time. I’d

find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.”

Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was

lightening almost in spite of himself.

“That dream I had about your dad and the snake,

though —”

“Harry, you’ve had these dreams before,” Hermione

said. “You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to

last year.”

“This was different,” said Harry, shaking his head. “I

was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake...

What if Voldemort somehow transported me to

London — ?”

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“One day,” said Hermione, sounding thoroughly

exasperated, “you’ll read Hogwarts, A History, and

perhaps that will remind you that you can’t Apparate

or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort

couldn’t just make you fly out of your dormitory,

Harry.”

“You didn’t leave your bed, mate,” said Ron. “I saw

you thrashing around in your sleep about a minute

before we could wake you up...”

Harry started pacing up and down the room again,

thinking. What they were all saying was not only

comforting, it made sense... Without really thinking

he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and

crammed it hungrily into his mouth...

I’m not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart

swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like

joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their

door toward Buckbeak’s room, singing “God Rest Ye

Merry, Hippogriffs” at the top of his voice.

How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet

Drive for Christmas? Sirius’s delight at having the

house full again, and especially at having Harry back,

was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of

the summer; now he seemed determined that

everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not

more, than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he

worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day,

cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by

the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the

house was barely recognizable. The tarnished

chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but

with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers;

magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare

carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by

Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked

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Sirius’s family tree from view; and even the stuffed elf heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats

and beards.

Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of

presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already

halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

“Good haul this year,” he informed Harry through a

cloud of paper. “Thanks for the Broom Compass, it’s

excellent, beats Hermione’s — she’s got me a

homework planner —”

Harry sorted through his presents and found one with

Hermione’s handwriting on it. She had given him too

a book that resembled a diary, except that it said

things like “Do it today or later you’ll pay!” every time

he opened a page.

Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent

books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use

Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving

color illustrations of all the counterjinxes and hexes it

described. Harry flicked through the first volume

eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful

in his plans for the D.A. Hagrid had sent a furry

brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably

supposed to be an antitheft device, but unfortunately

prevented Harry putting any money in without getting

his fingers ripped off. Tonks’s present was a small,

working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly

around the room, wishing he still had his full-size

version; Ron had given him an enormous box of

Every-Flavor Beans; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual

hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies; and

Dobby, a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected

had been done by the elf himself. He had just turned

it upside down to see whether it looked better that

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way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed.

“Merry Christmas,” said George. “Don’t go downstairs

for a bit.”

“Why not?” said Ron.

“Mum’s crying again,” said Fred heavily. “Percy sent

back his Christmas jumper.”

“Without a note,” added George. “Hasn’t asked how

Dad is or visited him or anything...”

“We tried to comfort her,” said Fred, moving around

the bed to look at Harry’s portrait. “Told her Percy’s

nothing more than a humongous pile of rat droppings

—”

“— didn’t work,” said George, helping himself to a

Chocolate Frog. “So Lupin took over. Best let him

cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I

reckon.”

“What’s that supposed to be anyway?” asked Fred,

squinting at Dobby’s painting. “Looks like a gibbon

with two black eyes.”

“It’s Harry!” said George, pointing at the back of the

picture. “Says so on the back!”

“Good likeness,” said Fred, grinning. Harry threw his

new homework diary at him; it hit the wall opposite

and fell to the floor where it said happily, “If you’ve

dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s then you may do

whatever you please!”

They got up and dressed; they could hear various

inhabitants of the house calling “Merry Christmas” to

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each other. On their way downstairs they met

Hermione. “Thanks for the book, Harry!” she said

happily. “I’ve been wanting that New Theory of

Numerology for ages! And that perfume is really

unusual, Ron.”

“No problem,” said Ron. “Who’s that for anyway?” he

added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she

was carrying.

“Kreacher,” said Hermione brightly.

“It had better not be clothes!” said Ron warningly.

“You know what Sirius said, Kreacher knows too

much, we can’t set him free!”

“It isn’t clothes,” said Hermione, “although if I had my

way I’d certainly give him something to wear other

than that filthy old rag. No, it’s a patchwork quilt, I

thought it would brighten up his bedroom.”

“What bedroom?” said Harry, dropping his voice to a

whisper as they were passing the portrait of Sirius’s

mother.

“Well, Sirius says it’s not so much a bedroom, more a

kind of — den, ” said Hermione. “Apparently he sleeps

under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.”

Mrs. Weasley was the only person in the basement

when they arrived there. She was standing at the

stove and sounded as though she had a bad head

cold when she wished them Merry Christmas, and

they all averted their eyes.

“So, this is Kreacher’s bedroom?” said Ron, strolling

over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry

which Harry had never seen open.

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“Yes,” said Hermione, now sounding a little nervous.

“Er … I think we’d better knock …”

Ron rapped the door with his knuckles but there was

no reply.

“He must be sneaking around upstairs,” he said, and

without further ado pulled open the door. “Urgh. ”

Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken

up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in

the foot’s space underneath the pipes Kreacher had

made himself something that looked like a nest. A

jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were

piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of

it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every

night. Here and there among the material were stale

bread crusts and moldy old bits of cheese. In a far

corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry

guessed Kreacher had saved, magpielike, from

Sirius’s purge of the house, and he had also managed

to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that

Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass

might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white

people inside them peered haughtily up at him,

including — he felt a little jolt in his stomach — the

dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had

witnessed in Dumbledore’s Pensieve: Bellatrix

Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreacher’s

favorite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all

the others and had mended the glass clumsily with

Spellotape.

“I think I’ll just leave his present here,” said

Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of

the depression in the rags and blankets and closing

the door quietly. “He’ll find it later, that’ll be fine...”

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“Come to think of it,” said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the

cupboard door, “has anyone actually seen Kreacher

lately?”

“I haven’t seen him since the night we came back

here,” said Harry. “You were ordering him out of the

kitchen.”

“Yeah …” said Sirius, frowning. “You know, I think

that’s the last time I saw him, too... He must be

hiding upstairs somewhere...”

“He couldn’t have left, could he?” said Harry. “I mean,

when you said ‘out,’ maybe he thought you meant, get

out of the house?”

“No, no, house-elves can’t leave unless they’re given

clothes, they’re tied to their family’s house,” said

Sirius.

“They can leave the house if they really want to,”

Harry contradicted him. “Dobby did, he left the

Malfoys’ to give me warnings two years ago. He had to

punish himself afterward, but he still managed it.”

Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then

said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him

upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old

bloomers or something... Of course, he might have

crawled into the airing cupboard and died... But I

mustn’t get my hopes up...”

Fred, George, and Ron laughed; Hermione, however,

looked reproachful.

Once they had had their Christmas lunch, the

Weasleys and Harry and Hermione were planning to

pay Mr. Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye

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and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for

Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to

“borrow” a car for the occasion, as the Underground

did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry

doubted very much had been taken with the

knowledge or consent of its owner, had had a similar

Enlarging Spell put upon it as the Weasleys’ old Ford

Anglia; although normally proportioned outside, ten

people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it

quite comfortably. Mrs. Weasley hesitated at the point

of getting inside; Harry knew that her disapproval of

Mundungus was battling with her dislike of traveling

without magic; finally the cold outside and her

children’s pleading triumphed, and she settled herself

into the backseat between Fred and Bill with good

grace.

The journey to St. Mungo’s was quite quick, as there

was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of

witches and wizards were creeping furtively up the

otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry

and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus

drove off around the corner to wait for them; they

strolled casually toward the window where the

dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one,

stepped through the glass.

The reception area looked pleasantly festive: The

crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo’s had been

turned to red and gold so that they became gigantic,

glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every

doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered

in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner,

each topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less

crowded than the last time they had been there,

although halfway across the room Harry found

himself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut

jammed up her left nostril.

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“Family argument, eh?” smirked the blonde witch

behind the desk. “You’re the third I’ve seen today …

Spell Damage, fourth floor …”

They found Mr. Weasley propped up in bed with the

remains of his turkey dinner on a tray in his lap and

a rather sheepish expression on his face.

“Everything all right, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Weasley,

after they had all greeted Mr. Weasley and handed

over their presents.

“Fine, fine,” said Mr. Weasley, a little too heartily.

“You — er — haven’t seen Healer Smethwyck, have

you?”

“No,” said Mrs. Weasley suspiciously, “why?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Weasley airily, starting to

unwrap his pile of gifts. “Well, everyone had a good

day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry —

this is absolutely wonderful —”

For he had just opened Harry’s gift of fuse-wire and

screwdrivers. Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely

satisfied with Mr. Weasley’s answer. As her husband

leaned over to shake Harry’s hand, she peered at the

bandaging under his nightshirt.

“Arthur,” she said, with a snap in her voice like a

mousetrap, “you’ve had your bandages changed. Why

have you had your bandages changed a day early,

Arthur? They told me they wouldn’t need doing until

tomorrow.”

“What?” said Mr. Weasley, looking rather frightened

and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. “No,

no — it’s nothing — it’s — I —”

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He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley’s piercing

gaze.

“Well — now don’t get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye

had an idea... He’s the Trainee Healer, you know,

lovely young chap and very interested in … um …

complementary medicine... I mean, some of these old

Muggle remedies … well, they’re called stitches, Molly,

and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds —”

Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere

between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away

from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no

visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd

around Mr. Weasley; Bill muttered something about

getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt

up to accompany him, grinning.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Weasley, her

voice growing louder with every word and apparently

unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for

cover, “that you have been messing about with

Muggle remedies?”

“Not messing about, Molly, dear,” said Mr. Weasley

imploringly. “It was just — just something Pye and I

thought we’d try — only, most unfortunately — well,

with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn’t

seem to work as well as we’d hoped —”

“Meaning?”

“Well … well, I don’t know whether you know what —

what stitches are?”

“It sounds as though you’ve been trying to sew your

skin back together,” said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of

mirthless laughter, “but even you, Arthur, wouldn’t

be that stupid —”

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“I fancy a cup of tea too,” said Harry, jumping to his feet.

Hermione, Ron, and Ginny almost sprinted to the

door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they

heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN,

THAT’S THE GENERAL IDEA?”

“Typical Dad,” said Ginny, shaking her head as they

set off up the corridor. “Stitches … I ask you …”

“Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical

wounds,” said Hermione fairly. “I suppose something

in that snake’s venom dissolves them or something...

I wonder where the tearoom is?”

“Fifth floor,” said Harry, remembering the sign over

the Welcome Witch’s desk.

They walked along the corridor through a set of

double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with

more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they

climbed it, the various Healers called out to them,

diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible

remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a

medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad

case of spattergroit.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked angrily,

as the Healer pursued him through six more

portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

“ ’Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young

master, that will leave you pockmarked and more

gruesome even than you are now —”

“Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” said Ron, his

ears turning red.

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“The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon

in a barrel of eels’ eyes —”

“I have not got spattergroit!”

“But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young

master —”

“They’re freckles!” said Ron furiously. “Now get back

in your own picture and leave me alone!”

He rounded on the others, who were all keeping

determinedly straight faces.

“What floor’s this?”

“I think it’s the fifth,” said Hermione.

“Nah, it’s the fourth,” said Harry, “one more —”

But as he stepped onto the landing he came to an

abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the

double doors that marked the start of a corridor

signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out

at them all with his nose pressed against the glass.

He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a

broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white

teeth.

“Blimey!” said Ron, also staring at the man.

“Oh my goodness,” said Hermione suddenly, sounding

breathless. “Professor Lockhart!”

Their ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher

pushed open the doors and moved toward them,

wearing a long lilac dressing gown.

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“Well, hello there!” he said. “I expect you’d like my autograph, would you?”

“Hasn’t changed much, has he?” Harry muttered to

Ginny, who grinned.

“Er — how are you, Professor?” said Ron, sounding

slightly guilty. It had been Ron’s malfunctioning wand

that had damaged Professor Lockhart’s memory so

badly that he had landed here in the first place,

though, as Lockhart had been attempting to

permanently wipe Harry and Ron’s memories at the

time, Harry’s sympathy was limited.

“I’m very well indeed, thank you!” said Lockhart

exuberantly, pulling a rather battered peacock-feather

quill from his pocket. “Now, how many autographs

would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you

know!”

“Er — we don’t want any at the moment, thanks,”

said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked,

“Professor, should you be wandering around the

corridors? Shouldn’t you be in a ward?”

The smile faded slowly from Lockhart’s face. For a few

moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said,

“Haven’t we met?”

“Er … yeah, we have,” said Harry. “You used to teach

us at Hogwarts, remember?”

“Teach?” repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled.

“Me? Did I?”

And then the smile reappeared upon his face so

suddenly it was rather alarming. “Taught you

everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about

those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen,

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you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!”

But just then a head poked out of a door at the far

end of the corridor and a voice said, “Gilderoy, you

naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?”

A motherly looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in

her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling

warmly at Harry and the others.

“Oh Gilderoy, you’ve got visitors! How lovely, and on

Christmas Day too! Do you know, he never gets

visitors, poor lamb, and I can’t think why, he’s such a

sweetie, aren’t you?”

“We’re doing autographs!” Gilderoy told the Healer

with another glittering smile. “They want loads of

them, won’t take no for an answer! I just hope we’ve

got enough photographs!”

“Listen to him,” said the Healer, taking Lockhart’s

arm and beaming fondly at him as though he were a

precocious two-year-old. “He was rather well known a

few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for

giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be

coming back a little bit. Will you step this way? He’s

in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out

while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the

door’s usually kept locked … not that he’s dangerous!

But,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “bit of a

danger to himself, bless him... Doesn’t know who he

is, you see, wanders off and can’t remember how to

get back... It is nice of you to have come to see him —

”

“Er,” said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above,

“actually, we were just — er —”

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But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and

Ron’s feeble mutter of “going to have a cup of tea”

trailed away into nothingness. They looked at one

another rather hopelessly and then followed Lockhart

and his Healer along the corridor.

“Let’s not stay long,” Ron said quietly.

The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus

Thickey ward and muttered “Alohomora. ” The door

swung open and she led the way inside, keeping a

firm grasp on Gilderoy’s arm until she had settled

him into an armchair beside his bed.

“This is our long-term resident ward,” she informed

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny in a low voice. “For

permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with

intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of

luck, we can produce some improvement... Gilderoy

does seem to be getting back some sense of himself,

and we’ve seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode, he

seems to be regaining the power of speech very well,

though he isn’t speaking any language we recognize

yet... Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas

presents, I’ll leave you all to chat...”

Harry looked around; this ward bore unmistakable

signs of being a permanent home to its residents.

They had many more personal effects around their

beds than in Mr. Weasley’s ward; the wall around

Gilderoy’s headboard, for instance, was papered with

pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at

the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them

to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment

he had been deposited in his chair by the Healer,

Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs toward

him, seized a quill, and started signing them all

feverishly.

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“You can put them in envelopes,” he said to Ginny,

throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one

as he finished them. “I am not forgotten, you know,

no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail... Gladys

Gudgeon writes weekly... I just wish I knew why... ”

He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed

again and returned to his signing with renewed vigor.

“I suspect it is simply my good looks...”

A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lay in the

bed opposite, staring at the ceiling; he was mumbling

to himself and seemed quite unaware of anything

around him. Two beds along was a woman whose

entire head was covered in fur; Harry remembered

something similar happening to Hermione during

their second year, although fortunately the damage,

in her case, had not been permanent. At the far end

of the ward flowery curtains had been drawn around

two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some

privacy.

“Here you are, Agnes,” said the Healer brightly to the

furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of

Christmas presents. “See, not forgotten, are you? And

your son’s sent an owl to say he’s visiting tonight, so

that’s nice, isn’t it?”

Agnes gave several loud barks.

“And look, Broderick, you’ve been sent a potted plant

and a lovely calendar with a different fancy hippogriff

for each month, they’ll brighten things up, won’t

they?” said the Healer, bustling along to the

mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long,

swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing

the calendar to the wall with her wand. “And — oh,

Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?”

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Harry’s head spun round. The curtains had been

drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward

and two visitors were walking back down the aisle

between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch

wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur, and

a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably

a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking

thoroughly depressed — Neville.

With a sudden rush of understanding, Harry realized

who the people in the end beds must be. He cast

around wildly for some means of distracting the

others so that Neville could leave the ward unnoticed

and unquestioned, but Ron had looked up at the

sound of the name “Longbottom” too, and before

Harry could stop him had called, “Neville!”

Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had

narrowly missed him.

“It’s us, Neville!” said Ron brightly, getting to his feet.

“Have you seen? Lockhart’s here! Who’ve you been

visiting?”

“Friends of yours, Neville, dear?” said Neville’s

grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all.

Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere

in the world but here. A dull purple flush was

creeping up his plump face and he was not making

eye contact with any of them.

“Ah, yes,” said his grandmother, looking closely at

Harry and sticking out a shriveled, clawlike hand for

him to shake. “Yes, yes, I know who you are, of

course. Neville speaks most highly of you.”

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“Er — thanks,” said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did not look at him, but stared at his own feet, the color

deepening in his face all the while.

“And you two are clearly Weasleys,” Mrs. Longbottom

continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and

Ginny in turn. “Yes, I know your parents — not well,

of course — but fine people, fine people … and you

must be Hermione Granger?”

Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs.

Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the

same.

“Yes, Neville’s told me all about you. Helped him out

of a few sticky spots, haven’t you? He’s a good boy,”

she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her

rather bony nose at Neville, “but he hasn’t got his

father’s talent, I’m afraid to say...” And she jerked her

head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the

ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled

alarmingly.

“What?” said Ron, looking amazed (Harry wanted to

stamp on Ron’s foot, but that sort of thing was much

harder to bring off unnoticed when you were wearing

jeans rather than robes). “Is that your dad down the

end, Neville?”

“What’s this?” said Mrs. Longbottom sharply. “Haven’t

you told your friends about your parents, Neville?”

Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling,

and shook his head. Harry could not remember ever

feeling sorrier for anyone, but he could not think of

any way of helping Neville out of the situation.

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” said Mrs.

Longbottom angrily. “You should be proud, Neville,

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proud! They didn’t give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you

know!”

“I’m not ashamed,” said Neville very faintly, still

looking anywhere but at Harry and the others. Ron

was now standing on tiptoe to look over at the

inhabitants of the two beds.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it!” said Mrs.

Longbottom. “My son and his wife,” she said, turning

haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, “were

tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who’s followers.”

Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over

their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch

a glimpse of Neville’s parents and looked mortified.

“They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected

within the Wizarding community,” Mrs. Longbottom

went on. “Highly gifted, the pair of them. I — yes,

Alice dear, what is it?”

Neville’s mother had come edging down the ward in

her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-

looking face Harry had seen in Moody’s old

photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her

face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed

overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was

wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to

speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made

timid motions toward Neville, holding something in

her outstretched hand.

“Again?” said Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly

weary. “Very well, Alice dear, very well — Neville, take

it, whatever it is...”

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But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into

which his mother dropped an empty Droobles

Blowing Gum wrapper.

“Very nice, dear,” said Neville’s grandmother in a

falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the

shoulder. But Neville said quietly, “Thanks Mum.”

His mother tottered away, back up the ward,

humming to herself. Neville looked around at the

others, his expression defiant, as though daring them

to laugh, but Harry did not think he’d ever found

anything less funny in his life.

“Well, we’d better get back,” sighed Mrs. Longbottom,

drawing on long green gloves. “Very nice to have met

you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must

have given you enough of them to paper your

bedroom by now...”

But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip

the wrapper into his pocket.

The door closed behind them.

“I never knew,” said Hermione, who looked tearful.

“Nor did I,” said Ron rather hoarsely.

“Nor me,” whispered Ginny.

They all looked at Harry.

“I did,” he said glumly. “Dumbledore told me but I

promised I wouldn’t mention it … that’s what

Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the

Cruciatus Curse on Neville’s parents until they lost

their minds.”

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“Bellatrix Lestrange did that?” whispered Hermione,

horrified. “That woman Kreacher’s got a photo of in

his den?”

There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart’s angry

voice. “Look, I didn’t learn joined-up writing for

nothing, you know!”

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OCCLUMENCY

Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic.

Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in

dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black

family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed

satisfied with this story, it made Harry uneasy.

Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his

reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided

somewhat, and he submitted to orders more docilely

than usual, though once or twice Harry caught the

house-elf staring avidly at him, always looking quickly

away when he saw that Harry had noticed.

Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius,

whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that

Christmas was over. As the date of their departure

back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and

more prone to what Mrs. Weasley called “fits of the

sullens,” in which he would become taciturn and

grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for

hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house,

oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that

all of them became infected by it.

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Harry did not want to leave Sirius all alone again with only Kreacher for company. In fact, for the first time

in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to

Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing

himself once again under the tyranny of Dolores

Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force

through another dozen decrees in their absence. Then

there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he

had been banned; there was every likelihood that

their burden of homework would increase as the

exams drew even nearer; Dumbledore remained as

remote as ever; in fact, if it had not been for the D.A.,

Harry felt he might have gone to Sirius and begged

him to let him leave Hogwarts and remain in

Grimmauld Place.

Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something

happened that made Harry positively dread his return

to school.

“Harry dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, poking her head into

his and Ron’s bedroom, where the pair of them were

playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny,

and Crookshanks, “could you come down to the

kitchen? Professor Snape would like a word with

you.”

Harry did not immediately register what she had said;

one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with

a pawn of Ron’s, and he was egging it on

enthusiastically.

“Squash him — squash him, he’s only a pawn, you

idiot — sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?”

“Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He’d like a

word.”

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Harry’s mouth fell open in horror. He looked around

at Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, all of whom were

gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione

had been restraining with difficulty for the past

quarter of an hour, leapt gleefully upon the board and

set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top

of their voices.

“Snape?” said Harry blankly.

“Professor Snape, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley

reprovingly. “Now come on, quickly, he says he can’t

stay long.”

“What’s he want with you?” said Ron, looking

unnerved as Mrs. Weasley withdrew from the room.

“You haven’t done anything, have you?”

“No!” said Harry indignantly, racking his brains to

think what he could have done that would make

Snape pursue him to Grimmauld Place. Had his last

piece of homework perhaps earned a T?

He pushed open the kitchen door a minute or two

later to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long

kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The

silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike.

A letter lay open on the table in front of Sirius.

“Er,” said Harry to announce his presence.

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between

curtains of greasy black hair.

“Sit down, Potter.”

“You know,” said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his

rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, “I think I’d

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prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.”

An ugly flush suffused Snape’s pallid face. Harry sat

down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the

table.

“I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,” said Snape,

the familiar sneer curling his mouth, “but Black —”

“I’m his godfather,” said Sirius, louder than ever.

“I am here on Dumbledore’s orders,” said Snape,

whose voice, by contrast, was becoming more and

more quietly waspish, “but by all means stay, Black, I

know you like to feel … involved.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Sirius, letting

his chair fall back onto all four legs with a loud bang.

“Merely that I am sure you must feel — ah —

frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful, ”

Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, “for the

Order.”

It was Sirius’s turn to flush. Snape’s lip curled in

triumph as he turned to Harry.

“The headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that

it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.”

“Study what?” said Harry blankly.

Snape’s sneer became more pronounced.

“Occlumency, Potter. The magical defense of the mind

against external penetration. An obscure branch of

magic, but a highly useful one.”

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Harry’s heart began to pump very fast indeed.

Defense against external penetration? But he was not

being possessed, they had all agreed on that...

“Why do I have to study Occlu — thing?” he blurted

out.

“Because the headmaster thinks it a good idea,” said

Snape smoothly. “You will receive private lessons

once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you

are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You

understand?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Who’s going to be teaching me?”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“I am,” he said.

Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were

melting. Extra lessons with Snape — what on earth

had he done to deserve this? He looked quickly

around at Sirius for support.

“Why can’t Dumbledore teach Harry?” asked Sirius

aggressively. “Why you?”

“I suppose because it is a headmaster’s privilege to

delegate less enjoyable tasks,” said Snape silkily. “I

assure you I did not beg for the job.” He got to his

feet. “I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday

evening, Potter. My office. If anybody asks, you are

taking Remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in

my classes could deny you need them.”

He turned to leave, his black traveling cloak billowing

behind him.

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“Wait a moment,” said Sirius, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Snape turned back to face them, sneering.

“I am in rather a hurry, Black … unlike you, I do not

have unlimited leisure time...”

“I’ll get to the point, then,” said Sirius, standing up.

He was rather taller than Snape who, Harry noticed,

had balled his fist in the pocket of his cloak over what

Harry was sure was the handle of his wand. “If I hear

you’re using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry

a hard time, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“How touching,” Snape sneered. “But surely you have

noticed that Potter is very like his father?”

“Yes, I have,” said Sirius proudly.

“Well then, you’ll know he’s so arrogant that criticism

simply bounces off him,” Snape said sleekly.

Sirius pushed his chair roughly aside and strode

around the table toward Snape, pulling out his wand

as he went; Snape whipped out his own. They were

squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape

calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius’s wand tip to

his face.

“Sirius!” said Harry loudly, but Sirius appeared not to

hear him.

“I’ve warned you, Snivellus, ” said Sirius, his face

barely a foot from Snape’s, “I don’t care if Dumbledore

thinks you’ve reformed, I know better —”

“Oh, but why don’t you tell him so?” whispered

Snape. “Or are you afraid he might not take the

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advice of a man who has been hiding inside his

mother’s house for six months very seriously?”

“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect

he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t

he?”

“Speaking of dogs,” said Snape softly, “did you know

that Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you

risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black,

getting yourself seen on a safe station platform …

gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-

hole in future, didn’t it?”

Sirius raised his wand.

“NO!” Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying

to get in between them, “Sirius, don’t —”

“Are you calling me a coward?” roared Sirius, trying to

push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not

budge.

“Why, yes, I suppose I am,” said Snape.

“Harry — get — out — of — it!” snarled Sirius,

pushing him out of the way with his free hand.

The kitchen door opened and the entire Weasley

family, plus Hermione, came inside, all looking very

happy, with Mr. Weasley walking proudly in their

midst dressed in a pair of striped pajamas covered by

a mackintosh.

“Cured!” he announced brightly to the kitchen at

large. “Completely cured!”

He and all the other Weasleys froze on the threshold,

gazing at the scene in front of them, which was also

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suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape

looking toward the door with their wands pointing

into each other’s faces and Harry immobile between

them, a hand stretched out to each of them, trying to

force them apart.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Mr. Weasley, the smile sliding

off his face, “what’s going on here?”

Both Sirius and Snape lowered their wands. Harry

looked from one to the other. Each wore an

expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected

entrance of so many witnesses seemed to have

brought them to their senses. Snape pocketed his

wand and swept back across the kitchen, passing the

Weasleys without comment. At the door he looked

back.

“Six o’clock Monday evening, Potter.”

He was gone. Sirius glared after him, his wand at his

side.

“But what’s been going on?” asked Mr. Weasley again.

“Nothing, Arthur,” said Sirius, who was breathing

heavily as though he had just run a long distance.

“Just a friendly little chat between two old school

friends...” With what looked like an enormous effort,

he smiled. “So … you’re cured? That’s great news,

really great...”

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Weasley, leading her

husband forward into a chair. “Healer Smethwyck

worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to

whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s

learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle

medicine, haven’t you, dear?” she added, rather

menacingly.

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“Yes, Molly dear,” said Mr. Weasley meekly.

That night’s meal should have been a cheerful one

with Mr. Weasley back amongst them; Harry could

tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his

godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at

Fred and George’s jokes or offering everyone more

food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding

expression. Harry was separated from him by

Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to

offer Mr. Weasley their congratulations; he wanted to

talk to Sirius, to tell him that he should not listen to a

word Snape said, that Snape was goading him

deliberately and that the rest of them did not think

Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told

him and remaining in Grimmauld Place, but he had

no opportunity to do so, and wondered occasionally,

eyeing the ugly look on Sirius’s face, whether he

would have dared to even if he had the chance.

Instead he told Ron and Hermione under his voice

about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.

“Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams

about Voldemort,” said Hermione at once. “Well, you

won’t be sorry not to have them anymore, will you?”

“Extra lessons with Snape?” said Ron, sounding

aghast. “I’d rather have the nightmares!”

They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus

the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and

Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the

kitchen when Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrived there

next morning. The adults seemed to have been

midway through a whispered conversation when the

door opened; all of them looked around hastily and

fell silent.

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After a hurried breakfast they pulled on jackets and

scarves against the chilly gray January morning.

Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his

chest; he did not want to say good-bye to Sirius. He

had a bad feeling about this parting; he did not know

when they would next see each other and felt that it

was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius

to stop him doing anything stupid — Harry was

worried that Snape’s accusation of cowardice had

stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning

some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before

he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had

beckoned him to his side.

“I want you to take this,” he said quietly, thrusting a

badly wrapped package roughly the size of a

paperback book into Harry’s hands.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“A way of letting me know if Snape’s giving you a hard

time. No, don’t open it in here!” said Sirius, with a

wary look at Mrs. Weasley, who was trying to

persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. “I

doubt Molly would approve — but I want you to use it

if you need me, all right?”

“Okay,” said Harry, stowing the package away in the

inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would

never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry,

who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter

how foully Snape treated him in their forthcoming

Occlumency classes.

“Let’s go, then,” said Sirius, clapping Harry on the

shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could

say anything else, they were heading upstairs,

stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front

door, surrounded by Weasleys.

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“Good-bye, Harry, take care,” said Mrs. Weasley,

hugging him.

“See you Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for

me!” said Mr. Weasley genially, shaking his hand.

“Right — yeah,” said Harry distractedly. It was his

last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned,

looked into his godfather’s face and opened his mouth

to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving

him a brief, one-armed hug. He said gruffly, “Look

after yourself, Harry,” and next moment Harry found

himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with

Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy

woman with iron-gray hair) chivvying him down the

steps.

The door of number twelve slammed shut behind

them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As

he reached the pavement, Harry looked around.

Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on

either side of it stretched sideways, squeezing it out of

sight; one blink later, it had gone.

“Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,”

said Tonks, and Harry thought there was

nervousness in the glance she threw around the

square. Lupin flung out his right arm.

BANG.

A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out

of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the

nearest lamppost, which jumped backward out of its

way.

A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform

leapt down onto the pavement and said, “Welcome to

the —”

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“Yes, yes, we know, thank you,” said Tonks swiftly.

“On, on, get on —

And she shoved Harry forward toward the steps, past

the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed.

“ ’Ere — it’s ’Arry — !”

“If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,”

muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and

Hermione forward.

“I’ve always wanted to go on this thing,” said Ron

happily, joining Harry on board and looking around.

It had been evening the last time Harry had traveled

by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of

brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was

crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs

grouped haphazardly around windows. Some of these

appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped

abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and

wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and

somebody’s shopping bag had slid the length of the

bus; an unpleasant mixture of frog spawn,

cockroaches, and custard creams was scattered all

over the floor.

“Looks like we’ll have to split up,” said Tonics briskly,

looking around for empty chairs. “Fred, George, and

Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back …

Remus can stay with you...”

She, Harry, Ron, and Hermione proceeded up to the

very top deck, where there were two chairs at the very

front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike,

the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to the

back. Heads turned as Harry passed and when he sat

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down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front

again.

As Harry and Ron handed Stan eleven Sickles each,

the bus set off again, swaying ominously. It rumbled

around Grimmauld Square, weaving on and off the

pavement, then, with another tremendous BANG,

they were all flung backward; Ron’s chair toppled

right over and Pigwidgeon, who had been on his lap,

burst out of his cage and flew twittering wildly up to

the front of the bus where he fluttered down upon

Hermione’s shoulder instead. Harry, who had

narrowly avoided falling by seizing a candle bracket,

looked out of the window: they were now speeding

down what appeared to be a motorway.

“Just outside Birmingham,” said Stan happily,

answering Harry’s unasked question as Ron struggled

up from the floor. “You keepin’ well, then, ’Arry? I

seen your name in the paper loads over the summer,

but it weren’t never nuffink very nice... I said to Ern, I

said, ‘’e didn’t seem like a nutter when we met ’im,

just goes to show, dunnit?’ ”

He handed over their tickets and continued to gaze,

enthralled, at Harry; apparently Stan did not care

how nutty somebody was if they were famous enough

to be in the paper. The Knight Bus swayed

alarmingly, overtaking a line of cars on the inside.

Looking toward the front of the bus Harry saw

Hermione cover her eyes with her hands, Pigwidgeon

still swaying happily on her shoulder.

BANG.

Chairs slid backward again as the Knight Bus jumped

from the Birmingham motorway to a quiet country

lane full of hairpin bends. Hedgerows on either side of

the road were leaping out of their way as they

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mounted the verges. From here they moved to a main

street in the middle of a busy town, then to a viaduct

surrounded by tall hills, then to a windswept road

between high-rise flats, each time with a loud BANG.

“I’ve changed my mind,” muttered Ron, picking

himself up from the floor for the sixth time, “I never

want to ride on here again.”

“Listen, it’s ’Ogwarts stop after this,” said Stan

brightly, swaying toward them. “That bossy woman

up front ’oo got on with you, she’s given us a little tip

to move you up the queue. We’re just gonna let

Madam Marsh off first, though —” There was more

retching from downstairs, followed by a horrible

spattering sound. “She’s not feeling ’er best.”

A few minutes later the Knight Bus screeched to a

halt outside a small pub, which squeezed itself out of

the way to avoid a collision. They could hear Stan

ushering the unfortunate Madam Marsh out of the

bus and the relieved murmurings of her fellow

passengers on the second deck. The bus moved on

again, gathering speed, until —

BANG.

They were rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade. Harry

caught a glimpse of the Hog’s Head down its side

street, the severed boar’s head sign creaking in the

wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at

the front of the bus. At last they rolled to a halt

outside the gates to Hogwarts.

Lupin and Tonks helped them off the bus with their

luggage and then got off to say good-bye. Harry

glanced up at the three decks of the Knight Bus and

saw all the passengers staring down at them, noses

flat against the windows.

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“You’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds,” said

Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted

road. “Have a good term, okay?”

“Look after yourselves,” said Lupin, shaking hands all

round and reaching Harry last. “And listen …” He

lowered his voice while the rest of them exchanged

last-minute good-byes with Tonks, “Harry, I know you

don’t like Snape, but he is a superb Occlumens and

we all — Sirius included — want you to learn to

protect yourself, so work hard, all right?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry heavily, looking up into

Lupin’s prematurely lined face. “See you, then …”

The six of them struggled up the slippery drive toward

the castle dragging their trunks. Hermione was

already talking about knitting a few elf hats before

bedtime. Harry glanced back when they reached the

oak front doors; the Knight Bus had already gone,

and he half-wished, given what was coming the

following day, that he was still on board.

Harry spent most of the next day dreading the

evening. His morning Potions lesson did nothing to

dispel his trepidation, as Snape was as unpleasant as

ever, and Harry’s mood was further lowered by the

fact that members of the D.A. were continually

approaching him in the corridors between classes,

asking hopefully whether there would be a meeting

that night.

“I’ll let you know when the next one is,” Harry said

over and over again, “but I can’t do it tonight, I’ve got

to go to — er — Remedial Potions...”

“You take Remedial Potions?” asked Zacharias Smith

superciliously, having cornered Harry in the entrance

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hall after lunch. “Good Lord, you must be terrible,

Snape doesn’t usually give extra lessons, does he?”

As Smith strode away in an annoyingly buoyant

fashion, Ron glared after him.

“Shall I jinx him? I can still get him from here,” he

said, raising his wand and taking aim between

Smith’s shoulder blades.

“Forget it,” said Harry dismally. “It’s what everyone’s

going to think, isn’t it? That I’m really stup —”

“Hi, Harry,” said a voice behind him. He turned

around and found Cho standing there.

“Oh,” said Harry as his stomach leapt uncomfortably.

“Hi.”

“We’ll be in the library, Harry,” said Hermione firmly,

and she seized Ron above the elbow and dragged him

off toward the marble staircase.

“Had a good Christmas?” asked Cho.

“Yeah, not bad,” said Harry.

“Mine was pretty quiet,” said Cho. For some reason,

she was looking rather embarrassed. “Erm … there’s

another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the

notice?”

“What? Oh no, I haven’t checked the notice board

since I got back...”

“Yes, it’s on Valentine’s Day...”

“Right,” said Harry, wondering why she was telling

him this. “Well, I suppose you want to — ?”

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“Only if you do,” she said eagerly.

Harry stared. He had been about to say “I suppose

you want to know when the next D.A. meeting is?”

but her response did not seem to fit.

“I — er —” he said.

“Oh, it’s okay if you don’t,” she said, looking

mortified. “Don’t worry. I-I’ll see you around.”

She walked away. Harry stood staring after her, his

brain working frantically. Then something clunked

into place.

“Cho! Hey — CHO!”

He ran after her, catching her halfway up the marble

staircase.

“Er — d’you want to come into Hogsmeade with me on

Valentine’s Day?”

“Oooh, yes!” she said, blushing crimson and beaming

at him.

“Right … well … that’s settled then,” said Harry, and

feeling that the day was not going to be a complete

loss after all, he headed off to the library to pick up

Ron and Hermione before their afternoon lessons,

walking in a rather bouncy way himself.

By six o’clock that evening, however, even the glow of

having successfully asked out Cho Chang was

insufficient to lighten the ominous feelings that

intensified with every step Harry took toward Snape’s

office.

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He paused outside the door when he reached it,

wishing he were almost anywhere else, then, taking a

deep breath, knocked, and entered.

It was a shadowy room lined with shelves bearing

hundreds of glass jars in which floated slimy bits of

animals and plants, suspended in variously colored

potions. In a corner stood the cupboard full of

ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry — not

without reason — of robbing. Harry’s attention was

drawn toward the desk, however, where a shallow

stone basin engraved with runes and symbols lay in a

pool of candlelight. Harry recognized it at once —

Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Wondering what on earth it

was doing here, he jumped when Snape’s cold voice

came out of the corner.

“Shut the door behind you, Potter.”

Harry did as he was told with the horrible feeling that

he was imprisoning himself as he did so. When he

turned back to face the room Snape had moved into

the light and was pointing silently at the chair

opposite his desk. Harry sat down and so did Snape,

his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry,

dislike etched in every line of his face.

“Well, Potter, you know why you are here,” he said.

“The headmaster has asked me to teach you

Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more

adept at it than Potions.”

“Right,” said Harry tersely.

“This may not be an ordinary class, Potter,” said

Snape, his eyes narrowed malevolently, “but I am still

your teacher and you will therefore call me ‘sir’ or

‘Professor’ at all times.”

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“Yes … sir, ” said Harry.

“Now, Occlumency. As I told you back in your dear

godfather’s kitchen, this branch of magic seals the

mind against magical intrusion and influence.”

“And why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it,

sir?” said Harry, looking directly into Snape’s dark,

cold eyes and wondering whether he would answer.

Snape looked back at him for a moment and then

said contemptuously, “Surely even you could have

worked that out by now, Potter? The Dark Lord is

highly skilled at Legilimency —”

“What’s that? Sir?”

“It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from

another person’s mind —”

“He can read minds?” said Harry quickly, his worst

fears confirmed.

“You have no subtlety, Potter,” said Snape, his dark

eyes glittering. “You do not understand fine

distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes

you such a lamentable potion-maker.”

Snape paused for a moment, apparently to savor the

pleasure of insulting Harry, before continuing, “Only

Muggles talk of ‘mind reading.’ The mind is not a

book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure.

Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be

perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and

many-layered thing, Potter … or at least, most minds

are...” He smirked. “It is true, however, that those

who have mastered Legilimency are able, under

certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their

victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The

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Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when

somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at

Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and

memories that contradict the lie, and so utter

falsehoods in his presence without detection.”

Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind

reading to Harry and he did not like the sound of it at

all.

“So he could know what we’re thinking right now?

Sir?”

“The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance and the

walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many

ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and

mental safety of those who dwell within them,” said

Snape. “Time and space matter in magic, Potter. Eye

contact is often essential to Legilimency.”

“Well then, why do I have to learn Occlumency?”

Snape eyed Harry, tracing his mouth with one long,

thin finger as he did so.

“The usual rules do not seem to apply with you,

Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have

forged some kind of connection between you and the

Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, when

your mind is most relaxed and vulnerable — when

you are asleep, for instance — you are sharing the

Dark Lord’s thoughts and emotions. The headmaster

thinks it inadvisable for this to continue. He wishes

me to teach you how to close your mind to the Dark

Lord.”

Harry’s heart was pumping fast again. None of this

added up.

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“But why does Professor Dumbledore want to stop it?”

he asked abruptly. “I don’t like it much, but it’s been

useful, hasn’t it? I mean … I saw that snake attack

Mr. Weasley and if I hadn’t, Professor Dumbledore

wouldn’t have been able to save him, would he? Sir?”

Snape stared at Harry for a few moments, still tracing

his mouth with his finger. When he spoke again, it

was slowly and deliberately, as though he weighed

every word.

“It appears that the Dark Lord has been unaware of

the connection between you and himself until very

recently. Up till now it seems that you have been

experiencing his emotions and sharing his thoughts

without his being any the wiser. However, the vision

you had shortly before Christmas —”

“The one with the snake and Mr. Weasley?”

“Do not interrupt me, Potter,” said Snape in a

dangerous voice. “As I was saying … the vision you

had shortly before Christmas represented such a

powerful incursion upon the Dark Lord’s thoughts —”

“I saw inside the snake’s head, not his!”

“I thought I just told you not to interrupt me, Potter?”

But Harry did not care if Snape was angry; at last he

seemed to be getting to the bottom of this business.

He had moved forward in his chair so that, without

realizing it, he was perched on the very edge, tense as

though poised for flight.

“How come I saw through the snake’s eyes if it’s

Voldemort’s thoughts I’m sharing?”

“Do not say the Dark Lord’s name!” spat Snape.

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There was a nasty silence. They glared at each other

across the Pensieve.

“Professor Dumbledore says his name,” said Harry

quietly.

“Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard,” Snape

muttered. “While he may feel secure enough to use

the name … the rest of us …” He rubbed his left

forearm, apparently unconsciously, on the spot where

Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin.

“I just wanted to know,” Harry began again, forcing

his voice back to politeness, “why —”

“You seem to have visited the snake’s mind because

that was where the Dark Lord was at that particular

moment,” snarled Snape. “He was possessing the

snake at the time and so you dreamed you were

inside it too...”

“And Vol — he — realized I was there?”

“It seems so,” said Snape coolly.

“How do you know?” said Harry urgently. “Is this just

Professor Dumbledore guessing, or — ?”

“I told you,” said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes

slits, “to call me ‘sir.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry impatiently, “but how do you

know — ?”

“It is enough that we know,” said Snape repressively.

“The important point is that the Dark Lord is now

aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and

feelings. He has also deduced that the process is

likely to work in reverse; that is to say, he has

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realized that he might be able to access your thoughts and feelings in return —”

“And he might try and make me do things?” asked

Harry. “Sir?” he added hurriedly.

“He might,” said Snape, sounding cold and

unconcerned. “Which brings us back to Occlumency.”

Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of

his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape

merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its

tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he

withdrew it, some silvery substance came away,

stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer

strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from

it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it

swirled silvery white, neither gas nor liquid. Twice

more Snape raised the wand to his temple and

deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin,

then, without offering any explanation of his behavior,

he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a

shelf out of their way and returned to face Harry with

his wand held at the ready.

“Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.”

Harry got to his feet feeling nervous. They faced each

other with the desk between them.

“You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or

defend yourself in any other way you can think of,”

said Snape.

“And what are you going to do?” Harry asked, eyeing

Snape’s wand apprehensively.

“I am about to attempt to break into your mind,” said

Snape softly. “We are going to see how well you resist.

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I have been told that you have already shown

aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse... You will

find that similar powers are needed for this... Brace

yourself, now... Legilimens!”

Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before

Harry had even begun to summon any force of

resistance: the office swam in front of his eyes and

vanished, image after image was racing through his

mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinded him to

his surroundings...

He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle,

and his heart was bursting with jealousy... He was

nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a

tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the

lawn... He was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it

was telling him he would do well in Slytherin...

Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face

covered with thick black hair... A hundred dementors

were closing in on him beside the dark lake... Cho

Chang was drawing nearer to him under the

mistletoe...

No, said a voice in Harry’s head, as the memory of

Cho drew nearer, you’re not watching that, you’re not

watching it, it’s private —

He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape’s office had

come back into view and he realized that he had

fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided

painfully with the leg of Snape’s desk. He looked up at

Snape, who had lowered his wand and was rubbing

his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a

scorch mark.

“Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?” asked

Snape coolly.

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“No,” said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor.

“I thought not,” said Snape contemptuously. “You let

me get in too far. You lost control.”

“Did you see everything I saw?” Harry asked, unsure

whether he wanted to hear the answer.

“Flashes of it,” said Snape, his lip curling. “To whom

did the dog belong?”

“My Aunt Marge,” Harry muttered, hating Snape.

“Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it

might have been,” said Snape, raising his wand once

more. “You managed to stop me eventually, though

you wasted time and energy shouting. You must

remain focused. Repel me with your brain and you

will not need to resort to your wand.”

“I’m trying,” said Harry angrily, “but you’re not telling

me how!”

“Manners, Potter,” said Snape dangerously. “Now, I

want you to close your eyes.”

Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was

told. He did not like the idea of standing there with

his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a

wand.

“Clear your mind, Potter,” said Snape’s cold voice.

“Let go of all emotion...”

But Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound

through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He

could as easily detach his legs...

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“You’re not doing it, Potter... You will need more

discipline than this... Focus, now...”

Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or

remember, or feel...

“Let’s go again … on the count of three … one — two

— three — Legilimens!”

A great black dragon was rearing in front of him... His

father and mother were waving at him out of an

enchanted mirror... Cedric Diggory was lying on the

ground with blank eyes staring at him...

“NOOOOOOO!”

He was on his knees again, his face buried in his

hands, his brain aching as though someone had been

trying to pull it from his skull.

“Get up!” said Snape sharply. “Get up! You are not

trying, you are making no effort, you are allowing me

access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!”

Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as

though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the

graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and

angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was.

“I — am — making — an — effort,” he said through

clenched teeth.

“I told you to empty yourself of emotion!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,”

Harry snarled.

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark

Lord!” said Snape savagely. “Fools who wear their

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hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control

their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and

allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak

people, in other words — they stand no chance

against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with

absurd ease, Potter!”

“I am not weak,” said Harry in a low voice, fury now

pumping through him so that he thought he might

attack Snape in a moment.

“Then prove it! Master yourself!” spat Snape. “Control

your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again!

Get ready, now! Legilimens!”

He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letter

box shut... A hundred dementors were drifting across

the lake in the grounds toward him... He was running

along a windowless passage with Mr. Weasley... They

were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the

end of the corridor... Harry expected to go through it

… but Mr. Weasley led him off to the left, down a

flight of stone steps...

“I KNOW! I KNOW!”

He was on all fours again on Snape’s office floor, his

scar was prickling unpleasantly, but the voice that

had just issued from his mouth was triumphant. He

pushed himself up again to find Snape staring at him,

his wand raised. It looked as though, this time, Snape

had lifted the spell before Harry had even tried to

fight back.

“What happened then, Potter?” he asked, eyeing

Harry intently.

“I saw — I remembered,” Harry panted. “I’ve just

realized …”

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“Realized what?” asked Snape sharply.

Harry did not answer at once; he was still savoring

the moment of blinding realization as he rubbed his

forehead...

He had been dreaming about a windowless corridor

ending in a locked door for months, without once

realizing that it was a real place. Now, seeing the

memory again, he knew that all along he had been

dreaming about the corridor down which he had run

with Mr. Weasley on the twelfth of August as they

hurried to the courtrooms in the Ministry. It was the

corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries, and

Mr. Weasley had been there the night that he had

been attacked by Voldemort’s snake...

He looked up at Snape.

“What’s in the Department of Mysteries?”

“What did you say?” Snape asked quietly and Harry

saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was

unnerved.

“I said, what’s in the Department of Mysteries, sir?”

Harry said.

“And why,” said Snape slowly, “would you ask such a

thing?”

“Because,” said Harry, watching Snape closely for a

reaction, “that corridor I’ve just seen — I’ve been

dreaming about it for months — I’ve just recognized it

— it leads to the Department of Mysteries … and I

think Voldemort wants something from —”

“I have told you not to say the Dark Lord’s name!”

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They glared at each other. Harry’s scar seared again, but he did not care. Snape looked agitated. When he

spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to

appear cool and unconcerned.

“There are many things in the Department of

Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand

and none of which concern you, do I make myself

plain?”

“Yes,” Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar,

which was becoming more painful.

“I want you back here same time on Wednesday, and

we will continue work then.”

“Fine,” said Harry. He was desperate to get out of

Snape’s office and find Ron and Hermione.

“You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night

before sleep — empty it, make it blank and calm, you

understand?”

“Yes,” said Harry, who was barely listening.

“And be warned, Potter … I shall know if you have not

practiced …”

“Right,” Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag,

swung it over his shoulder, and hurried toward the

office door. As he opened it he glanced back at Snape,

who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own

thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand

and replacing them carefully inside his own head.

Harry left without another word, closing the door

carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing

painfully.

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Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where

they were working on Umbridge’s most recent ream of

homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth

years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to

books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky

outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker.

The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one

of Madam Pince’s shoes as the librarian prowled the

aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those

touching her precious books.

Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt

almost feverish. When he sat down opposite Ron and

Hermione he caught sight of himself in the window

opposite. He was very white, and his scar seemed to

be showing up more clearly than usual.

“How did it go?” Hermione whispered, and then,

looking concerned, “Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yeah … fine … I dunno,” said Harry impatiently,

wincing as pain shot through his scar again. “Listen

… I’ve just realized something...”

And he told them what he had just seen and deduced.

“So … so, are you saying …” whispered Ron, as

Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly, “that the

weapon — the thing You-Know-Who’s after — is in

the Ministry of Magic?”

“In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,” Harry

whispered. “I saw that door when your dad took me

down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s

definitely the same one he was guarding when the

snake bit him.”

Hermione let out a long, slow sigh. “Of course,” she

breathed.

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“Of course what?” said Ron rather impatiently.

“Ron, think about it... Sturgis Podmore was trying to

get through a door at the Ministry of Magic... It must

have been that one, it’s too much of a coincidence!”

“How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he’s

on our side?” said Ron.

“Well, I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “That is a bit

odd...”

“So what’s in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry

asked Ron. “Has your dad ever mentioned anything

about it?”

“I know they call the people who work in there

‘Unspeakables,’ ” said Ron, frowning. “Because no one

really seems to know what they do in there... Weird

place to have a weapon …”

“It’s not weird at all, it makes perfect sense,” said

Hermione. “It will be something top secret that the

Ministry has been developing, I expect... Harry, are

you sure you’re all right?”

For Harry had just run both his hands hard over his

forehead as though trying to iron it.

“Yeah … fine …” he said, lowering his hands, which

were trembling. “I just feel a bit … I don’t like

Occlumency much...”

“I expect anyone would feel shaky if they’d had their

mind attacked over and over again,” said Hermione

sympathetically. “Look, let’s get back to the common

room, we’ll be a bit more comfortable there...”

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But the common room was packed and full of shrieks

of laughter and excitement; Fred and George were

demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop

merchandise.

“Headless Hats!” shouted George, as Fred waved a

pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the

watching students. “Two Galleons each — watch

Fred, now!”

Fred swept the hat onto his head, beaming. For a

second he merely looked rather stupid, then both hat

and head vanished.

Several girls screamed, but everyone else was roaring

with laughter.

“And off again!” shouted George, and Fred’s hand

groped for a moment in what seemed to be thin air

over his shoulder; then his head reappeared as he

swept the pink-feathered hat from it again.

“How do those hats work, then?” said Hermione,

distracted from her homework and watching Fred and

George. “I mean, obviously it’s some kind of

Invisibility Spell, but it’s rather clever to have

extended the field of invisibility beyond the

boundaries of the charmed object... I’d imagine the

charm wouldn’t have a very long life though...”

Harry did not answer; he was still feeling ill.

“I’m going to have to do this tomorrow,” he muttered,

pushing the books he had just taken out of his bag

back inside it.

“Well, write it in your homework planner then!” said

Hermione encouragingly. “So you don’t forget!”

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Harry and Ron exchanged looks as he reached into

his bag, withdrew the planner and opened it

tentatively.

“Don’t leave it till later, you big second-rater!” chided

the book as Harry scribbled down Umbridge’s

homework. Hermione beamed at it.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” said Harry, stuffing the

homework planner back into his bag and making a

mental note to drop it in the fire the first opportunity

he got.

He walked across the common room, dodging George,

who tried to put a Headless Hat on him, and reached

the peace and cool of the stone staircase to the boys’

dormitories. He was feeling sick again, just as he had

the night he had had the vision of the snake, but

thought that if he could just lie down for a while he

would be all right.

He opened the door of his dormitory and was one step

inside it when he experienced pain so severe he

thought that someone must have sliced into the top of

his head. He did not know where he was, whether he

was standing or lying down, he did not even know his

own name...

Maniacal laughter was ringing in his ears... He was

happier than he had been in a very long time...

Jubilant, ecstatic, triumphant … A wonderful,

wonderful thing had happened...

“Harry? HARRY!”

Someone had hit him around the face. The insane

laughter was punctuated with a cry of pain. The

happiness was draining out of him, but the laughter

continued...

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He opened his eyes and as he did so, he became

aware that the wild laughter was coming out of his

own mouth. The moment he realized this, it died

away; Harry lay panting on the floor, staring up at the

ceiling, the scar on his forehead throbbing horribly.

Ron was bending over him, looking very worried.

“What happened?” he said.

“I … dunno …” Harry gasped, sitting up again. “He’s

really happy … really happy …”

“You-Know-Who is?”

“Something good’s happened,” mumbled Harry. He

was shaking as badly as he had done after seeing the

snake attack Mr. Weasley and felt very sick.

“Something he’s been hoping for.”

The words came, just as they had back in the

Gryffindor changing room, as though a stranger was

speaking them through Harry’s mouth, yet he knew

they were true. He took deep breaths, willing himself

not to vomit all over Ron. He was very glad that Dean

and Seamus were not here to watch this time.

“Hermione told me to come and check on you,” said

Ron in a low voice, helping Harry to his feet. “She

says your defenses will be low at the moment, after

Snape’s been fiddling around with your mind... Still, I

suppose it’ll help in the long run, won’t it?”

He looked doubtfully at Harry as he helped him

toward bed. Harry nodded without any conviction and

slumped back on his pillows, aching all over from

having fallen to the floor so often that evening, his

scar still prickling painfully. He could not help feeling

that his first foray into Occlumency had weakened his

mind’s resistance rather than strengthening it, and

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he wondered, with a feeling of great trepidation, what had happened to make Lord Voldemort the happiest

he had been in fourteen years.

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THE BEETLE AT BAY

Harry’s question was answered the very next

morning. When Hermione’s Daily Prophet arrived she

smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front

page, and then gave a yelp that caused everyone in

the vicinity to stare at her.

“What?” said Harry and Ron together.

For an answer she spread the newspaper on the table

in front of them and pointed at ten black-and-white

photographs that filled the whole of the front page,

nine showing wizards’ faces and the tenth, a witch’s.

Some of the people in the photographs were silently

jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame

of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was

captioned with a name and the crime for which the

person had been sent to Azkaban.

Antonin Dolohov, read the legend beneath a wizard

with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at

Harry, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and

Fabian Prewett.

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Augustus Rookwood, said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning

against the edge of his picture, looking bored,

convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic Secrets to He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But Harry’s eyes were drawn to the picture of the

witch. Her face had leapt out at him the moment he

had seen the page. She had long, dark hair that

looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, though

he had seen it sleek, thick, and shining. She glared

up at him through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant,

disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like

Sirius, she retained vestiges of great good looks, but

something — perhaps Azkaban — had taken most of

her beauty.

Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and

permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice

Longbottom.

Hermione nudged Harry and pointed at the headline

over the pictures, which Harry, concentrating on

Bellatrix, had not yet read.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS “RALLYING POINT”

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

“Black?” said Harry loudly. “Not — ?”

“Shhh!” whispered Hermione desperately. “Not so loud

— just read it!”

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that

there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

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Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of

yesterday evening, and that he has already informed

the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of

these individuals.

“We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same

position we were two and a half years ago when the

murderer Sirius Black escaped,” said Fudge last night.

“Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An

escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and

we must remember that Black, as the first person ever

to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to

help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely

that these individuals, who include Black’s cousin,

Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their

leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up

the criminals and beg the magical community to remain

alert and cautious. On no account should any of these

individuals be approached.”

“There you are, Harry,” said Ron, looking awestruck.

“That’s why he was happy last night...”

“I don’t believe this,” snarled Harry, “Fudge is blaming

the breakout on Sirius?”

“What other options does he have?” said Hermione

bitterly. “He can hardly say, ‘Sorry everyone,

Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the

Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort’ — stop

whimpering, Ron — ‘and now Voldemort’s worst

supporters have broken out too.’ I mean, he’s spent a

good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore

are liars, hasn’t he?”

Hermione ripped open the newspaper and began to

read the report inside while Harry looked around the

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Great Hall. He could not understand why his fellow

students were not looking scared or at least

discussing the terrible piece of news on the front

page, but very few of them took the newspaper every

day like Hermione. There they all were, talking about

homework and Quidditch and who knew what other

rubbish, and outside these walls ten more Death

Eaters had swollen Voldemort’s ranks...

He glanced up at the staff table. It was a different

story here: Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall

were deep in conversation, both looking extremely

grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped

against a bottle of ketchup and was reading the front

page with such concentration that she was not

noticing the gentle drip of egg yolk falling into her lap

from her stationary spoon. Meanwhile, at the far end

of the table, Professor Umbridge was tucking into a

bowl of porridge. For once her pouchy toad’s eyes

were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for

misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped

down her food and every now and then she shot a

malevolent glance up the table to where Dumbledore

and McGonagall were talking so intently.

“Oh my —” said Hermione wonderingly, still staring at

the newspaper.

“What now?” said Harry quickly; he was feeling

jumpy.

“It’s … horrible, ” said Hermione, looking shaken. She

folded back page ten of the newspaper and handed it

back to Harry and Ron.

TRAGIC DEMISE OF

MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

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St. Mungo’s Hospital promised a full inquiry last

night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode,

49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a

potted-plant. Healers called to the scene were unable

to revive Mr. Bode, who had been injured in a

workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.

Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr.

Bode’s ward at the time of the incident, has been

suspended on full pay and was unavailable for

comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the

hospital said in a statement, “St. Mungo’s deeply

regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was

improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.

“We have strict guidelines on the decorations

permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer

Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked

the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode’s bedside table.

As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout

encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself,

unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but

a cutting of Devil’s Snare, which, when touched by

the convalescent Mr. Bode, throttled him instantly.

“St. Mungo’s is as yet unable to account for the

presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch

or wizard with information to come forward.”

“Bode …” said Ron. “Bode. It rings a bell...”

“We saw him,” Hermione whispered. “In St. Mungo’s,

remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart’s,

just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the

Devil’s Snare arrive. She — the Healer — said it was a

Christmas present...”

Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was

rising like bile in his throat.

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“How come we didn’t recognize Devil’s Snare … ?

We’ve seen it before … we could’ve stopped this from

happening …”

“Who expects Devil’s Snare to turn up in a hospital

disguised as a potted plant?” said Ron sharply. “It’s

not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame!

They must be a real prat, why didn’t they check what

they were buying?”

“Oh come on, Ron!” said Hermione shakily, “I don’t

think anyone could put Devil’s Snare in a pot and not

realize it tries to kill whoever touches it? This — this

was murder... A clever murder, as well... If the plant

was sent anonymously, how’s anyone ever going to

find out who did it?”

Harry was not thinking about Devil’s Snare. He was

remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of

the Ministry on the day of his hearing, and the

sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level.

“I met Bode,” he said slowly. “I saw him at the

Ministry with your dad …”

Ron’s mouth fell open.

“I’ve heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an

Unspeakable — he worked in the Department of

Mysteries!”

They looked at one another for a moment, then

Hermione pulled the newspaper back toward her,

closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the

ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to

her feet.

“Where are you going?” said Ron, startled.

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“To send a letter,” said Hermione, swinging her bag

onto her shoulder. “It … well, I don’t know whether …

but it’s worth trying … and I’m the only one who can

…”

“I hate it when she does that,” grumbled Ron as he

and Harry got up from the table and made their own,

slower way out of the Great Hall. “Would it kill her to

tell us what she’s up to for once? It’d take her about

ten more seconds — hey, Hagrid!”

Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the

entrance hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to

pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been

on the day he had come back from his mission to the

giants and there was a new cut right across the

bridge of his nose.

“All righ’, you two?” he said, trying to muster a smile

but managing only a kind of pained grimace.

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” asked Harry, following him as

he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.

“Fine, fine,” said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of

airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed

concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who

was passing. “Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff —

lessons ter prepare — couple o’ salamanders got scale

rot — an’ I’m on probation,” he mumbled.

“You’re on probation?” said Ron very loudly, so that

many students passing looked around curiously.

“Sorry — I mean — you’re on probation?” he

whispered.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “ ’S’no more’n I expected, ter tell

yeh the truth. Yeh migh’ not’ve picked up on it, bu’

that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know …

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anyway,” he sighed deeply. “Bes’ go an rub a bit more chili powder on them salamanders or their tails’ll be

hangin’ off ’em next. See yeh, Harry … Ron …”

He trudged away, out the front doors and down the

stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched

him go, wondering how much more bad news he

could stand.

The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became

common knowledge within the school over the next

few days, but to Harry’s indignation, hardly anybody

appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people,

Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seemed

positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an

obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St.

Mungo’s, Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to be the

only people who knew or cared. There was only one

topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten

escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered

through the school from those few people who read

the newspapers. Rumors were flying that some of the

convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they

were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking

Shack and that they were going to break into

Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had done.

Those who came from Wizarding families had grown

up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken

with almost as much fear as Voldemort’s; the crimes

they had committed during the days of Voldemort’s

reign of terror were legendary. There were relatives of

their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now

found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome

sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors:

Susan Bones, who had an uncle, aunt, and cousins

who had all died at the hands of one of the ten, said

miserably during Herbology that she now had a good

idea what it felt like to be Harry.

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“And I don’t know how you stand it, it’s horrible,” she said bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure

on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to

wriggle and squeak in discomfort.

It was true that Harry was the subject of much

renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these

days, yet he thought he detected a slight difference in

the tone of the whisperers’ voices. They sounded

curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice he

was sure he overheard snatches of conversation that

suggested that the speakers were not satisfied with

the Prophet’s version of how and why ten Death

Eaters had managed to break out of Azkaban fortress.

In their confusion and fear, these doubters now

seemed to be turning to the only other explanation

available to them, the one that Harry and

Dumbledore had been expounding since the previous

year.

It was not only the students’ mood that had changed.

It was now quite common to come across two or three

teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the

corridors, breaking off their conversations the

moment they saw students approaching.

“They obviously can’t talk freely in the staffroom

anymore,” said Hermione in a low voice, as she,

Harry, and Ron passed Professors McGonagall,

Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the

Charms classroom one day. “Not with Umbridge

there.”

“Reckon they know anything new?” said Ron, gazing

back over his shoulder at the three teachers.

“If they do, we’re not going to hear about it, are we?”

said Harry angrily. “Not after Decree … What number

are we on now?”

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For new signs had appeared on the house notice

boards the morning after news of the Azkaban

breakout:

— BY ORDER OF —

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any

information that is not strictly related to the subjects

they are paid to teach.

The above is in accordance with

Educational Decree Number Twenty-six.

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

HIGH INQUISITOR

This latest decree had been the subject of a great

number of jokes among the students. Lee Jordan had

pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new

rule she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off

for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class.

“Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defense

Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not

information relating to your subject!”

When Harry next saw Lee, the back of his hand was

bleeding rather badly. Harry recommended essence of

murtlap.

Harry had thought that the breakout from Azkaban

might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might

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have been abashed at the catastrophe that had

occurred right under her beloved Fudge’s nose. It

seemed, however, to have only intensified her furious

desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under

her personal control. She seemed determined at the

very least to achieve a sacking before long, and the

only question was whether it would be Professor

Trelawney or Hagrid who went first.

Every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures

lesson was now conducted in the presence of

Umbridge and her clipboard. She lurked by the fire in

the heavily perfumed tower room, interrupting

Professor Trelawney’s increasingly hysterical talks

with difficult questions about Ornithomancy and

Heptomology, insisting that she predict students’

answers before they gave them and demanding that

she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea

leaves, and the rune stones in turn. Harry thought

that Professor Trelawney might soon crack under the

strain; several times he passed her in the corridors (in

itself a very unusual occurrence as she generally

remained in her tower room), muttering wildly to

herself, wringing her hands, and shooting terrified

glances over her shoulder, all the time giving off a

powerful smell of cooking sherry. If he had not been

so worried about Hagrid, he would have felt sorry for

her — but if one of them was to be ousted out of a

job, there could be only one choice for Harry as to

who should remain.

Unfortunately, Harry could not see that Hagrid was

putting up a better show than Trelawney. Though he

seemed to be following Hermione’s advice and had

shown them nothing more frightening than a crup, a

creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier

except for its forked tail, since before Christmas, he

also seemed to have lost his nerve. He was oddly

distracted and jumpy in lessons, losing the thread of

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what he was saying while talking to the class,

answering questions wrongly and glancing anxiously

at Umbridge all the time. He was also more distant

with Harry, Ron, and Hermione than he had ever

been before, expressly forbidding them to visit him

after dark.

“If she catches yeh, it’ll be all of our necks on the

line,” he told them flatly, and with no desire to do

anything that jeopardized his job further, they

abstained from walking down to his hut in the

evenings. It seemed to Harry that Umbridge was

steadily depriving him of everything that made his life

at Hogwarts worth living: visits to Hagrid’s house,

letters from Sirius, his Firebolt, and Quidditch. He

took his revenge the only way he had: redoubling his

efforts for the D.A.

Harry was pleased to see that all of them, even

Zacharias Smith, had been spurred to work harder

than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters

were now on the loose, but in nobody was this

improvement more pronounced than in Neville. The

news of his parents’ attacker’s escape had wrought a

strange and even slightly alarming change in him. He

had not once mentioned his meeting with Harry, Ron,

and Hermione on the closed ward in St. Mungo’s, and

taking their lead from him, they had kept quiet about

it too. Nor had he said anything on the subject of

Bellatrix and her fellow torturers’ escape; in fact, he

barely spoke during D.A. meetings anymore, but

worked relentlessly on every new jinx and

countercurse Harry taught them, his plump face

screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to

injuries or accidents, working harder than anyone

else in the room. He was improving so fast it was

quite unnerving and when Harry taught them the

Shield Charm, a means of deflecting minor jinxes so

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that they rebounded upon the attacker, only

Hermione mastered the charm faster than Neville.

In fact Harry would have given a great deal to be

making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville

was making during D.A. meetings. Harry’s sessions

with Snape, which had started badly enough, were

not improving; on the contrary, Harry felt he was

getting worse with every lesson.

Before he had started studying Occlumency, his scar

had prickled occasionally, usually during the night, or

else following one of those strange flashes of

Voldemort’s thoughts or moods that he experienced

every now and then. Nowadays, however, his scar

hardly ever stopped prickling, and he often felt

lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness that were

unrelated to what was happening to him at the time,

which were always accompanied by a particularly

painful twinge from his scar. He had the horrible

impression that he was slowly turning into a kind of

aerial that was tuned in to tiny fluctuations in

Voldemort’s mood, and he was sure he could date this

increased sensitivity firmly from his first Occlumency

lesson with Snape. What was more, he was now

dreaming about walking down the corridor toward the

entrance to the Department of Mysteries almost every

night, dreams that always culminated in him

standing longingly in front of the plain black door.

“Maybe it’s a bit like an illness,” said Hermione,

looking concerned when Harry confided in her and

Ron. “A fever or something. It has to get worse before

it gets better.”

“It’s lessons with Snape that are making it worse,”

said Harry flatly. “I’m getting sick of my scar hurting,

and I’m getting bored walking down that corridor

every night.” He rubbed his forehead angrily. “I just

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wish the door would open, I’m sick of standing staring at it —”

“That’s not funny,” said Hermione sharply.

“Dumbledore doesn’t want you to have dreams about

that corridor at all, or he wouldn’t have asked Snape

to teach you Occlumency. You’re just going to have to

work a bit harder in your lessons.”

“I am working!” said Harry, nettled. “You try it

sometime, Snape trying to get inside your head, it’s

not a bundle of laughs, you know!”

“Maybe …” said Ron slowly.

“Maybe what?” said Hermione rather snappishly.

“Maybe it’s not Harry’s fault he can’t close his mind,”

said Ron darkly.

“What do you mean?” said Hermione.

“Well, maybe Snape isn’t really trying to help Harry...”

Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly

and meaningfully from one to the other.

“Maybe,” he said again in a lower voice, “he’s actually

trying to open Harry’s mind a bit wider … make it

easier for You-Know —”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione angrily. “How many

times have you suspected Snape, and when have you

ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for

the Order, that ought to be enough.”

“He used to be a Death Eater,” said Ron stubbornly.

“And we’ve never seen proof that he really swapped

sides...”

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“Dumbledore trusts him,” Hermione repeated. “And if

we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

With so much to worry about and so much to do —

startling amounts of homework that frequently kept

the fifth years working until past midnight, secret

D.A. meetings, and regular classes with Snape —

January seemed to be passing alarmingly fast. Before

Harry knew it, February had arrived, bringing with it

wetter and warmer weather and the prospect of the

second Hogsmeade visit of the year. Harry had had

very little time to spare on conversations with Cho

since they had agreed to visit the village together, but

suddenly found himself facing a Valentine’s Day

spent entirely in her company.

On the morning of the fourteenth he dressed

particularly carefully. He and Ron arrived at breakfast

just in time for the arrival of the post owls. Hedwig

was not there — not that he had expected her — but

Hermione was tugging a letter from the beak of an

unfamiliar brown owl as they sat down.

“And about time! If it hadn’t come today …” she said

eagerly, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a

small piece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to

right as she read through the message and a grimly

pleased expression spread across her face.

“Listen, Harry,” she said, looking up at him. “This is

really important... Do you think you could meet me in

the Three Broomsticks around midday?”

“Well … I dunno,” said Harry dubiously. “Cho might

be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We

never said what we were going to do.”

“Well, bring her along if you must,” said Hermione

urgently. “But will you come?”

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“Well … all right, but why?”

“I haven’t got time to tell you now, I’ve got to answer

this quickly —”

And she hurried out of the Great Hall, the letter

clutched in one hand and a piece of uneaten toast in

the other.

“Are you coming?” Harry asked Ron, but he shook his

head, looking glum.

“I can’t come into Hogsmeade at all, Angelina wants a

full day’s training. Like it’s going to help — we’re the

worst team I’ve ever seen. You should see Sloper and

Kirke, they’re pathetic, even worse than I am.” He

heaved a great sigh. “I dunno why Angelina won’t just

let me resign...”

“It’s because you’re good when you’re on form, that’s

why,” said Harry irritably.

He found it very hard to be sympathetic to Ron’s

plight when he himself would have given almost

anything to be playing in the forthcoming match

against Hufflepuff. Ron seemed to notice Harry’s tone,

because he did not mention Quidditch again during

breakfast, and there was a slight frostiness in the way

they said good-bye to each other shortly afterward.

Ron departed for the Quidditch pitch and Harry, after

attempting to flatten his hair while staring at his

reflection in the back of a teaspoon, proceeded alone

to the entrance hall to meet Cho, feeling very

apprehensive and wondering what on earth they were

going to talk about.

She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak

front doors, looking very pretty with her hair tied

back in a long ponytail. Harry’s feet seemed to be too

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big for his body as he walked toward her, and he was

suddenly horribly aware of his arms and how stupid

they looked swinging at his sides.

“Hi,” said Cho slightly breathlessly.

“Hi,” said Harry.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Harry

said, “Well — er — shall we go, then?”

“Oh — yes …”

They joined the queue of people being signed out by

Filch, occasionally catching each other’s eye and

grinning shiftily, but not talking to each other. Harry

was relieved when they reached the fresh air, finding

it easier to walk along in silence than just stand there

looking awkward. It was a fresh, breezy sort of day

and as they passed the Quidditch stadium, Harry

glimpsed Ron and Ginny skimming over the stands

and felt a horrible pang that he was not up there with

them...

“You really miss it, don’t you?” said Cho.

He looked around and saw her watching him.

“Yeah,” sighed Harry. “I do.”

“Remember the first time we played against each

other, in the third year?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “You kept blocking me.”

“And Wood told you not to be a gentleman and knock

me off my broom if you had to,” said Cho, smiling

reminiscently. “I heard he got taken on by Pride of

Portree, is that right?”

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“Nah, it was Puddlemere United, I saw him at the

World Cup last year.”

“Oh, I saw you there too, remember? We were on the

same campsite. It was really good, wasn’t it?”

The subject of the Quidditch World Cup carried them

all the way down the drive and out through the gates.

Harry could hardly believe how easy it was to talk to

her, no more difficult, in fact, than talking to Ron and

Hermione, and he was just starting to feel confident

and cheerful when a large gang of Slytherin girls

passed them, including Pansy Parkinson.

“Potter and Chang!” screeched Pansy to a chorus of

snide giggles. “Urgh, Chang, I don’t think much of

your taste... At least Diggory was good-looking!”

They sped up, talking and shrieking in a pointed

fashion with many exaggerated glances back at Harry

and Cho, leaving an embarrassed silence in their

wake. Harry could think of nothing else to say about

Quidditch, and Cho, slightly flushed, was watching

her feet.

“So … where d’you want to go?” Harry asked as they

entered Hogsmeade. The High Street was full of

students ambling up and down, peering into the shop

windows and messing about together on the

pavements.

“Oh … I don’t mind,” said Cho, shrugging. “Um …

shall we just have a look in the shops or something?”

They wandered toward Dervish and Banges. A large

poster had been stuck up in the window and a few

Hogsmeaders were looking at it. They moved aside

when Harry and Cho approached and Harry found

himself staring once more at the ten pictures of the

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escaped Death Eaters. The poster (“By Order of the

Ministry of Magic”) offered a thousand-Galleon reward

to any witch or wizard with information relating to the

recapture of any of the convicts pictured.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” said Cho in a low voice, also

gazing up at the pictures of the Death Eaters.

“Remember when that Sirius Black escaped, and

there were dementors all over Hogsmeade looking for

him? And now ten Death Eaters are on the loose and

there aren’t dementors anywhere...”

“Yeah,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from

Bellatrix Lestrange’s face to glance up and down the

High Street. “Yeah, it is weird...”

He was not sorry that there were no dementors

nearby, but now he came to think of it, their absence

was highly significant. They had not only let the

Death Eaters escape, they were not bothering to look

for them... It looked as though they really were

outside Ministry control now.

The ten escaped Death Eaters were staring out of

every shop window he and Cho passed. It started to

rain as they passed Scrivenshaft’s; cold, heavy drops

of water kept hitting Harry’s face and the back of his

neck.

“Um … d’you want to get a coffee?” said Cho

tentatively, as the rain began to fall more heavily.

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, looking around. “Where

— ?”

“Oh, there’s a really nice place just up here, haven’t

you ever been to Madam Puddifoot’s?” she said

brightly, and she led him up a side road and into a

small tea shop that Harry had never noticed before. It

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was a cramped, steamy little place where everything

seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows.

Harry was reminded unpleasantly of Umbridge’s

office.

“Cute, isn’t it?” said Cho happily.

“Er … yeah,” said Harry untruthfully.

“Look, she’s decorated it for Valentine’s Day!” said

Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were

hovering over each of the small, circular tables,

occasionally throwing pink confetti over the

occupants.

“Aaah …”

They sat down at the last remaining table, which was

situated in the steamy window. Roger Davies, the

Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a

foot and a half away with a pretty blonde girl. They

were holding hands. The sight made Harry feel

uncomfortable, particularly when, looking around the

tea shop, he saw that it was full of nothing but

couples, all of them holding hands. Perhaps Cho

would expect him to hold her hand.

“What can I get you, m’dears?” said Madam

Puddifoot, a very stout woman with a shiny black

bun, squeezing between their table and Roger

Davies’s with great difficulty.

“Two coffees, please,” said Cho.

In the time it took for their coffees to arrive, Roger

Davies and his girlfriend started kissing over their

sugar bowl. Harry wished they wouldn’t; he felt that

Davies was setting a standard with which Cho would

soon expect him to compete. He felt his face growing

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hot and tried staring out of the window, but it was so steamed up he could not see the street outside. To

postpone the moment when he had to look at Cho he

stared up at the ceiling as though examining the

paintwork and received a handful of confetti in the

face from their hovering cherub.

After a few more painful minutes Cho mentioned

Umbridge; Harry seized on the subject with relief and

they passed a few happy moments abusing her, but

the subject had already been so thoroughly canvassed

during D.A. meetings it did not last very long. Silence

fell again. Harry was very conscious of the slurping

noises coming from the table next door and cast

wildly around for something else to say.

“Er … listen, d’you want to come with me to the Three

Broomsticks at lunchtime? I’m meeting Hermione

Granger there.”

Cho raised her eyebrows.

“You’re meeting Hermione Granger? Today?”

“Yeah. Well, she asked me to, so I thought I would.

D’you want to come with me? She said it wouldn’t

matter if you did.”

“Oh … well … that was nice of her.”

But Cho did not sound as though she thought it was

nice at all; on the contrary, her tone was cold and all

of a sudden she looked rather forbidding.

A few more minutes passed in total silence, Harry

drinking his coffee so fast that he would soon need a

fresh cup. Next door, Roger Davies and his girlfriend

seemed glued together by the lips.

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Cho’s hand was lying on the table beside her coffee,

and Harry was feeling a mounting pressure to take

hold of it. Just do it, he told himself, as a fount of

mingled panic and excitement surged up inside his

chest. Just reach out and grab it... Amazing how much

more difficult it was to extend his arm twelve inches

and touch her hand than to snatch a speeding Snitch

from midair …

But just as he moved his hand forward, Cho took

hers off the table. She was now watching Roger

Davies kissing his girlfriend with a mildly interested

expression.

“He asked me out, you know,” she said in a quiet

voice. “A couple of weeks ago. Roger. I turned him

down, though.”

Harry, who had grabbed the sugar bowl to excuse his

sudden lunging movement across the table, could not

think why she was telling him this. If she wished she

were sitting at the table next door being heartily

kissed by Roger Davies, why had she agreed to come

out with him?

He said nothing. Their cherub threw another handful

of confetti over them; some of it landed in the last

cold dregs of coffee Harry had been about to drink.

“I came in here with Cedric last year,” said Cho.

In the second or so it took for him to take in what she

had said, Harry’s insides had become glacial. He

could not believe she wanted to talk about Cedric

now, while kissing couples surrounded them and a

cherub floated over their heads.

Cho’s voice was rather higher when she spoke again.

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“I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages... Did Cedric —

did he m-m-mention me at all before he died?”

This was the very last subject on earth Harry wanted

to discuss, and least of all with Cho.

“Well — no —” he said quietly. “There — there wasn’t

time for him to say anything. Erm … so … d’you …

d’you get to see a lot of Quidditch in the holidays?

You support the Tornados, right?”

His voice sounded falsely bright and cheery. To his

horror, he saw that her eyes were swimming with

tears again, just as they had been after the last D.A.

meeting before Christmas.

“Look,” he said desperately, leaning in so that nobody

else could overhear, “let’s not talk about Cedric right

now... Let’s talk about something else...”

But this, apparently, was quite the wrong thing to

say.

“I thought,” she said, tears spattering down onto the

table. “I thought you’d u-u-understand! I need to talk about it! Surely you n-need to talk about it t-too! I

mean, you saw it happen, d-didn’t you?”

Everything was going nightmarishly wrong; Roger

Davies’ girlfriend had even unglued herself to look

around at Cho crying.

“Well — I have talked about it,” Harry said in a

whisper, “to Ron and Hermione, but —”

“Oh, you’ll talk to Hermione Granger!” she said

shrilly, her face now shining with tears, and several

more kissing couples broke apart to stare. “But you

won’t talk to me! P-perhaps it would be best if we just

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… just p-paid and you went and met up with

Hermione G-Granger, like you obviously want to!”

Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered, as she seized

a frilly napkin and dabbed at her shining face with it.

“Cho?” he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize his

girlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her

goggling at him and Cho.

“Go on, leave!” she said, now crying into the napkin.

“I don’t know why you asked me out in the first place

if you’re going to make arrangements to meet other

girls right after me... How many are you meeting after

Hermione?”

“It’s not like that!” said Harry, and he was so relieved

at finally understanding what she was annoyed about

that he laughed, which he realized a split second too

late was a mistake.

Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet,

and everybody was watching them now.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” she said dramatically,

and hiccuping slightly she dashed to the door,

wrenched it open, and hurried off into the pouring

rain.

“Cho!” Harry called after her, but the door had

already swung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle.

There was total silence within the tea shop. Every eye

was upon Harry. He threw a Galleon down onto the

table, shook pink confetti out of his eyes, and

followed Cho out of the door.

It was raining hard now, and she was nowhere to be

seen. He simply did not understand what had

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happened; half an hour ago they had been getting

along fine.

“Women!” he muttered angrily, sloshing down the

rain-washed street with his hands in his pockets.

“What did she want to talk about Cedric for anyway?

Why does she always want to drag up a subject that

makes her act like a human hosepipe?”

He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and

within minutes he was turning into the doorway of

the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was too early to

meet Hermione, but he thought it likely there would

be someone in here with whom he could spend the

intervening time. He shook his wet hair out of his

eyes and looked around. Hagrid was sitting alone in a

corner, looking morose.

“Hi, Hagrid!” he said, when he had squeezed through

the crammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him.

Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though

he barely recognized him. Harry saw that he had two

fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises.

“Oh, it’s you, Harry,” said Hagrid. “You all righ’?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” lied Harry; in fact, next to this

battered and mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he did

not have much to complain about. “Er — are you

okay?”

“Me?” said Hagrid. “Oh yeah, I’m grand, Harry,

grand...”

He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, which

was the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry did

not know what to say to him. They sat side by side in

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silence for a moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, “In

the same boat, you an’ me, aren’ we, Harry?”

“Er —” said Harry.

“Yeah … I’ve said it before... Both outsiders, like,”

said Hagrid, nodding wisely. “An’ both orphans. Yeah

… both orphans.”

He took a great swig from his tankard.

“Makes a diff’rence, havin’ a decent family,” he said.

“Me dad was decent. An’ your mum an’ dad were

decent. If they’d lived, life woulda bin diff’rent, eh?”

“Yeah … I s’pose,” said Harry cautiously. Hagrid

seemed to be in a very strange mood.

“Family,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Whatever yeh say,

blood’s important...”

And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye.

“Hagrid,” said Harry, unable to stop himself, “where

are you getting all these injuries?”

“Eh?” said Hagrid, looking startled. “Wha’ injuries?”

“All those!” said Harry, pointing at Hagrid’s face.

“Oh … tha’s jus’ normal bumps an’ bruises, Harry,”

said Hagrid dismissively. “I got a rough job.”

He drained his tankard, set it back upon the table,

and got to his feet.

“I’ll be seein’ yeh, Harry... Take care now...”

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And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched and

then disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry

watched him go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was

unhappy and he was hiding something, but he

seemed determined not to accept help. What was

going on? But before Harry could think about the

matter any further, he heard a voice calling his name.

“Harry! Harry, over here!”

Hermione was waving at him from the other side of

the room. He got up and made his way toward her

through the crowded pub. He was still a few tables

away when he realized that Hermione was not alone;

she was sitting at a table with the unlikeliest pair of

drinking mates he could ever have imagined: Luna

Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex-

journalist on the Daily Prophet and one of Hermione’s

least favorite people in the world.

“You’re early!” said Hermione, moving along to give

him room to sit down. “I thought you were with Cho, I

wasn’t expecting you for another hour at least!”

“Cho?” said Rita at once, twisting around in her seat

to stare avidly at Harry. “A girl?”

She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and

groped within it.

“It’s none of your business if Harry’s been with a

hundred girls,” Hermione told Rita coolly. “So you can

put that away right now.”

Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid-

green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had

been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag

shut again.

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“What are you up to?” Harry asked, sitting down and

staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.

“Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you

arrived,” said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. “I

suppose I’m allowed to talk to him, am I?” she shot at

Hermione.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” said Hermione coldly.

Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had

once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and

unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her

two-inch talons was chipped and there were a couple

of false jewels missing from her winged glasses. She

took another great gulp of her drink and said out of

the corner of her mouth, “Pretty girl, is she, Harry?”

“One more word about Harry’s love life and the deal’s

off and that’s a promise,” said Hermione irritably.

“What deal?” said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back

of her hand. “You haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss

Prissy, you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these

days …” She took a deep shuddering breath.

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write more horrible

stories about Harry and me,” said Hermione

indifferently. “Find someone who cares, why don’t

you?”

“They’ve run plenty of horrible stories about Harry

this year without my help,” said Rita, shooting a

sideways look at him over the top of her glass and

adding in a rough whisper, “How has that made you

feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?”

“He feels angry, of course,” said Hermione in a hard,

clear voice. “Because he’s told the Minister of Magic

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the truth and the Minister’s too much of an idiot to

believe him.”

“So you actually stick to it, do you, that He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” said Rita, lowering her

glass and subjecting Harry to a piercing stare while

her finger strayed longingly to the clasp of the

crocodile bag. “You stand by all this garbage

Dumbledore’s been telling everybody about You-

Know-Who returning and you being the sole witness

— ?”

“I wasn’t the sole witness,” snarled Harry. “There were

a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their

names?”

“I’d love them,” breathed Rita, now fumbling in her

bag once more and gazing at him as though he was

the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “A great

bold headline: ‘ Potter Accuses …’ A subheading:

‘ Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us. ’ And

then, beneath a nice big photograph of you:

‘ Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who’s attack,

Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by

accusing respectable and prominent members of the

Wizarding community of being Death Eaters... ’ ”

The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand and

halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression

died out of her face.

“But of course,” she said, lowering the quill and

looking daggers at Hermione, “Little Miss Perfect

wouldn’t want that story out there, would she?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Hermione sweetly, “that’s

exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want.”

P a g e | 722 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Rita stared at her. So did Harry. Luna, on the other

hand, sang, “Weasley Is Our King” dreamily under her

breath and stirred her drink with a cocktail onion on

a stick.

“You want me to report what he says about He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named?” Rita asked Hermione in a

hushed voice.

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione. “The true story. All the

facts. Exactly as Harry reports them. He’ll give you all

the details, he’ll tell you the names of the

undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there, he’ll tell you

what Voldemort looks like now — oh, get a grip on

yourself,” she added contemptuously, throwing a

napkin across the table, for at the sound of

Voldemort’s name, Rita had jumped so badly that she

had slopped half her glass of firewhisky down herself.

Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still

staring at Hermione. Then she said baldly, “The

Prophet wouldn’t print it. In case you haven’t noticed,

nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone

thinks he’s delusional. Now, if you let me write the

story from that angle —”

“We don’t need another story about how Harry’s lost

his marbles!” said Hermione angrily. “We’ve had

plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given

the opportunity to tell the truth!”

“There’s no market for a story like that,” said Rita

coldly.

“You mean the Prophet won’t print it because Fudge

won’t let them,” said Hermione irritably.

Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning

forward across the table toward her, she said in a

P a g e | 723 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

businesslike tone, “All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won’t

print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody

wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. This

last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried

enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know-

Who’s back.”

“So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they

want to hear, does it?” said Hermione scathingly.

Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and

drained her glass of firewhisky.

“The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,” she

said coldly.

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” said Luna,

chipping into the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking

on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita with her

enormous, protuberant, slightly mad eyes. “He

publishes important stories that he thinks the public

needs to know. He doesn’t care about making money.”

Rita looked disparagingly at Luna.

“I’m guessing your father runs some stupid little

village newsletter?” she said. “ ‘Twenty-five Ways to

Mingle with Muggles’ and the dates of the next Bring-

and-Fly Sale?”

“No,” said Luna, dipping her onion back into her

gillywater, “he’s the editor of The Quibbler. ”

Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby table

looked around in alarm.

P a g e | 724 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“ ‘Important stories he thinks the public needs to

know’?” she said witheringly. “I could manure my

garden with the contents of that rag.”

“Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit,

isn’t it?” said Hermione pleasantly. “Luna says her

father’s quite happy to take Harry’s interview. That’s

who’ll be publishing it.”

Rita stared at them both for a moment and then let

out a great whoop of laughter.

“The Quibbler!” she said, cackling. “You think people

will take him seriously if he’s published in The

Quibbler?”

“Some people won’t,” said Hermione in a level voice.

“But the Daily Prophet’s version of the Azkaban

breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of

people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better

explanation of what happened, and if there’s an

alternative story available, even if it is published in a”

— she glanced sideways at Luna, “in a — well, an

unusual magazine — I think they might be rather

keen to read it.”

Rita did not say anything for a while, but eyed

Hermione shrewdly, her head a little to one side.

“All right, let’s say for a moment I’ll do it,” she said

abruptly. “What kind of fee am I going to get?”

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write for

the magazine,” said Luna dreamily. “They do it

because it’s an honor, and, of course, to see their

names in print.”

P a g e | 725 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Rita Skeeter looked as though the taste of Stinksap

was strong in her mouth again as she rounded on

Hermione. “I’m supposed to do this for free?”

“Well, yes,” said Hermione calmly, taking a sip of her

drink. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform

the authorities that you are an unregistered

Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you

rather a lot for an insider’s account of life in

Azkaban...”

Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing

better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of

Hermione’s drink and thrust it up her nose.

“I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, have I?” said Rita,

her voice shaking slightly. She opened her crocodile

bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and

raised her Quick-Quotes Quill.

“Daddy will be pleased,” said Luna brightly. A muscle

twitched in Rita’s jaw.

“Okay, Harry?” said Hermione, turning to him. “Ready

to tell the public the truth?”

“I suppose,” said Harry, watching Rita balancing the

Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment

between them.

“Fire away, then, Rita,” said Hermione serenely,

fishing a cherry out of the bottom of her glass.

P a g e | 726 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

SEEN AND UNFORESEEN

Luna said vaguely that she did not know how soon

Rita’s interview with Harry would appear in The

Quibbler, that her father was expecting a lovely long

article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned

Snorkacks. “And, of course, that’ll be a very

important story, so Harry’s might have to wait for the

following issue,” said Luna.

Harry had not found it an easy experience to talk

about the night when Voldemort had returned. Rita

had pressed him for every little detail, and he had

given her everything he could remember, knowing

that this was his one big opportunity to tell the world

the truth. He wondered how people would react to the

story. He guessed that it would confirm a lot of people

in the view that he was completely insane, not least

because his story would be appearing alongside utter

rubbish about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. But the

breakout of Bellatrix Lestrange and her fellow Death

Eaters had given Harry a burning desire to do

something, whether it worked or not...

P a g e | 727 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Can’t wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going

public,” said Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on

Monday night. Seamus was shoveling down large

amounts of chicken-and-ham pie on Dean’s other

side, but Harry knew he was listening.

“It’s the right thing to do, Harry,” said Neville, who

was sitting opposite him. He was rather pale, but

went on in a low voice, “It must have been … tough …

talking about it... Was it?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Harry, “but people have got to know

what Voldemort’s capable of, haven’t they?”

“That’s right,” said Neville, nodding, “and his Death

Eaters too … People should know...”

Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his

baked potato. Seamus looked up, but when he caught

Harry’s eye he looked quickly back at his plate again.

After a while Dean, Seamus, and Neville departed for

the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the

table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner

because of Quidditch practice.

Cho Chang walked into the hall with her friend

Marietta. Harry’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch,

but she did not look over at the Gryffindor table and

sat down with her back to him.

“Oh, I forgot to ask you,” said Hermione brightly,

glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, “what happened

on your date with Cho? How come you were back so

early?”

“Er … well, it was …” said Harry, pulling a dish of

rhubarb crumble toward him and helping himself to

seconds, “a complete fiasco, now that you mention it.”

P a g e | 728 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

And he told her what had happened in Madam

Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.

“… so then,” he finished several minutes later, as the

final bit of crumble disappeared, “she jumps up,

right, and says ‘I’ll see you around, Harry,’ and runs

out of the place!” He put down his spoon and looked

at Hermione. “I mean, what was all that about? What

was going on?”

Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho’s head and

sighed. “Oh, Harry,” she said sadly. “Well, I’m sorry,

but you were a bit tactless.”

“Me, tactless?” said Harry, outraged. “One minute we

were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me

that Roger Davies asked her out, and how she used to

go and snog Cedric in that stupid tea shop — how

was I supposed to feel about that?”

“Well, you see,” said Hermione, with the patient air of

one explaining that one plus one equals two to an

overemotional toddler, “you shouldn’t have told her

that you wanted to meet me halfway through your

date.”

“But, but,” spluttered Harry, “but — you told me to

meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I

supposed to do that without telling her — ?”

“You should have told her differently” said Hermione,

still with that maddeningly patient air. “You should

have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you

promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and

you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend

the whole day with her, but unfortunately you

thought you really ought to meet me and would she

please, please come along with you, and hopefully

you’d be able to get away more quickly? And it might

P a g e | 729 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think

I am too,” Hermione added as an afterthought.

“But I don’t think you’re ugly,” said Harry, bemused.

Hermione laughed.

“Harry, you’re worse than Ron... Well, no, you’re not,”

she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the

Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. “Look

— you upset Cho when you said you were going to

meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her

way of trying to find out how much you liked her.”

“Is that what she was doing?” said Harry as Ron

dropped onto the bench opposite them and pulled

every dish within reach toward himself. “Well,

wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me

whether I liked her better than you?”

“Girls don’t often ask questions like that,” said

Hermione.

“Well, they should!” said Harry forcefully. “Then I

could’ve just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn’t

have had to get herself all worked up again about

Cedric dying!”

“I’m not saying what she did was sensible,” said

Hermione, as Ginny joined them, just as muddy as

Ron and looking equally disgruntled. “I’m just trying

to make you see how she was feeling at the time.”

“You should write a book,” Ron told Hermione as he

cut up his potatoes, “translating mad things girls do

so boys can understand them.”

“Yeah,” said Harry fervently, looking over at the

Ravenclaw table. Cho had just got up; still not looking

P a g e | 730 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

at him, she left the Great Hall. Feeling rather

depressed, he looked back at Ron and Ginny. “So,

how was Quidditch practice?”

“It was a nightmare,” said Ron in a surly voice.

“Oh come on,” said Hermione, looking at Ginny, “I’m

sure it wasn’t that —”

“Yes, it was,” said Ginny. “It was appalling. Angelina

was nearly in tears by the end of it.”

Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner; Harry

and Hermione returned to the busy Gryffindor

common room and their usual pile of homework.

Harry had been struggling with a new star chart for

Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George

turned up.

“Ron and Ginny not here?” asked Fred, looking

around as he pulled up a chair and, when Harry

shook his head, he said, “Good. We were watching

their practice. They’re going to be slaughtered. They’re

complete rubbish without us.”

“Come on, Ginny’s not bad,” said George fairly, sitting

down next to Fred. “Actually, I dunno how she got so

good, seeing how we never let her play with us...”

“She’s been breaking into your broom shed in the

garden since the age of six and taking each of your

brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking,” said

Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient

Rune books.

“Oh,” said George, looking mildly impressed. “Well —

that’d explain it.”

P a g e | 731 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Has Ron saved a goal yet?” asked Hermione, peering

over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms.

“Well, he can do it if he doesn’t think anyone’s

watching him,” said Fred, rolling his eyes. “So all we

have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and

talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up

his end on Saturday.”

He got up again and moved restlessly to the window,

staring out across the dark grounds.

“You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in

this place worth staying for.”

Hermione cast him a stern look.

“You’ve got exams coming!”

“Told you already, we’re not fussed about N.E.W.T.s,”

said Fred. “The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we

found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple

of drops of murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us

onto it...”

George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately

at the cloudy night sky.

“I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If

Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.”

“Kill him, more like,” said Fred firmly.

“That’s the trouble with Quidditch,” said Hermione

absentmindedly, once again bent over her Rune

translation, “it creates all this bad feeling and tension

between the Houses.”

P a g e | 732 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

She looked up to find her copy of Spellman’s

Syllabary and caught Fred, George, and Harry looking

at her with expressions of mingled disgust and

incredulity on their faces.

“Well, it does!” she said impatiently. “It’s only a game,

isn’t it?”

“Hermione,” said Harry, shaking his head, “you’re

good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t

understand about Quidditch.”

“Maybe not,” she said darkly, returning to her

translation again, “but at least my happiness doesn’t

depend on Ron’s goalkeeping ability.”

And though Harry would rather have jumped off the

Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time he

had watched the game the following Saturday he

would have given any number of Galleons not to care

about Quidditch either.

The very best thing you could say about the match

was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had

to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was

hard to say what the worst thing was: Harry thought

it was a close-run contest between Ron’s fourteenth

failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting

Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke

shrieking and falling backward off his broom as

Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle.

The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten

points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from

right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby’s nose, so

that the final score was two hundred and forty versus

two hundred and thirty.

P a g e | 733 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Good catch,” Harry told Ginny back in the common

room, where the atmosphere closely resembled that of

a particularly dismal funeral.

“I was lucky,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t a very fast

Snitch and Summerby’s got a cold, he sneezed and

closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway,

once you’re back on the team —”

“Ginny, I’ve got a lifelong ban.”

“You’re banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,”

Ginny corrected him. “There’s a difference. Anyway,

once you’re back, I think I’ll try out for Chaser.

Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I

prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway.”

Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a

corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of butterbeer

clutched in his hand.

“Angelina still won’t let him resign,” Ginny said, as

though reading Harry’s mind. “She says she knows

he’s got it in him.”

Harry liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in

Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be

kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the

pitch to another booming chorus of “Weasley Is Our

King” sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who

were now favorites to win the Quidditch Cup.

Fred and George wandered over.

“I haven’t got the heart to take the mickey out of him,

even,” said Fred, looking over at Ron’s crumpled

figure. “Mind you … when he missed the fourteenth

…”

P a g e | 734 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He made wild motions with his arms as though doing

an upright doggy-paddle.

“Well, I’ll save it for parties, eh?”

Ron dragged himself up to bed shortly after this. Out

of respect for his feelings, Harry waited a while before

going up to the dormitory himself, so that Ron could

pretend to be asleep if he wanted to. Sure enough,

when Harry finally entered the room Ron was snoring

a little too loudly to be entirely plausible.

Harry got into bed, thinking about the match. It had

been immensely frustrating watching from the

sidelines. He was quite impressed by Ginny’s

performance but he felt that if he had been playing he

could have caught the Snitch sooner... There had

been a moment when it had been fluttering near

Kirke’s ankle; if she hadn’t hesitated, she might have

been able to scrape a win for Gryffindor...

Umbridge had been sitting a few rows below Harry

and Hermione. Once or twice she had turned squatly

in her seat to look at him, her wide toad’s mouth

stretched in what he thought had been a gloating

smile. The memory of it made him feel hot with anger

as he lay there in the dark. After a few minutes,

however, he remembered that he was supposed to be

emptying his mind of all emotion before he slept, as

Snape kept instructing him at the end of every

Occlumency lesson.

He tried for a moment or two, but the thought of

Snape on top of memories of Umbridge merely

increased his sense of grumbling resentment, and he

found himself focusing instead on how much he

loathed the pair of them. Slowly, Ron’s snores died

away, replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing.

It took Harry much longer to get to sleep; his body

P a g e | 735 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

was tired, but it took his brain a long time to close down.

He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were

waltzing around the Room of Requirement while

Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. He

watched them happily for a while, then decided to go

and find the other members of the D.A...

But when he left the room he found himself facing,

not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch

burning in its bracket on a stone wall. He turned his

head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the

windowless passage, was a plain, black door.

He walked toward it with a sense of mounting

excitement. He had the strangest feeling that this

time he was going to get lucky at last, and find the

way to open it... He was feet from it and saw with a

leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of

faint blue light down the right-hand side... The door

was ajar... He stretched out his hand to push it wide

and —

Ron gave a loud, rasping, genuine snore, and Harry

awoke abruptly with his right hand stretched in front

of him in the darkness, to open a door that was

hundreds of miles away. He let it fall with a feeling of

mingled disappointment and guilt. He knew he

should not have seen the door, but at the same time,

felt so consumed with curiosity about what was

behind it that he could not help feeling annoyed with

Ron... If he could have saved his snore for just

another minute …

* * *

P a g e | 736 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

They entered the Great Hall for breakfast at exactly

the same moment as the post owls on Monday

morning. Hermione was not the only person eagerly

awaiting her Daily Prophet: Nearly everyone was eager

for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who,

despite many reported sightings, had still not been

caught. She gave the delivery owl a Knut and

unfolded the newspaper eagerly while Harry helped

himself to orange juice; as he had only received one

note during the entire year he was sure, when the

first owl landed with a thud in front of him, that it

had made a mistake.

“Who’re you after?” he asked it, languidly removing

his orange juice from underneath its beak and

leaning forward to see the recipient’s name and

address:

Harry Potter

Great Hall

Hogwarts School

Frowning, he made to take the letter from the owl, but

before he could do so, three, four, five more owls had

fluttered down beside it and were jockeying for

position, treading in the butter, knocking over the

salt, and each attempting to give him their letters

first.

“What’s going on?” Ron asked in amazement, as the

whole of Gryffindor table leaned forward to watch as

another seven owls landed amongst the first ones,

screeching, hooting, and flapping their wings.

“Harry!” said Hermione breathlessly, plunging her

hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a

P a g e | 737 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. “I

think I know what this means — open this one first!”

Harry ripped off the brown packaging. Out rolled a

tightly furled copy of March’s edition of The Quibbler.

He unrolled it to see his own face grinning sheepishly

at him from the front cover. In large red letters across

his picture were the words:

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:

THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-

NAMED

AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna, who had drifted over to

the Gryffindor table and now squeezed herself onto

the bench between Fred and Ron. “It came out

yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I

expect all these,” she waved a hand at the assembled

owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of

Harry, “are letters from readers.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Hermione eagerly,

“Harry, d’you mind if we — ?”

“Help yourself,” said Harry, feeling slightly bemused.

Ron and Hermione both started ripping open

envelopes.

“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your

rocker,” said Ron, glancing down his letter. “Ah well

…”

“This woman recommends you try a good course of

Shock Spells at St. Mungo’s,” said Hermione, looking

disappointed and crumpling up a second.

P a g e | 738 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“This one looks okay, though,” said Harry slowly,

scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. “Hey,

she says she believes me!”

“This one’s in two minds,” said Fred, who had joined

in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. “Says you

don’t come across as a mad person, but he really

doesn’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back so he

doesn’t know what to think now... Blimey, what a

waste of parchment …”

“Here’s another one you’ve convinced, Harry!” said

Hermione excitedly. “ ‘Having read your side of the

story I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily

Prophet has treated you very unfairly... Little though I

want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has

returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling

the truth...’ Oh this is wonderful!”

“Another one who thinks you’re barking,” said Ron,

throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder, “but

this one says you’ve got her converted, and she now

thinks you’re a real hero — she’s put in a photograph

too — wow —”

“What is going on here?” said a falsely sweet, girlish

voice.

Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes.

Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and

Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes scanning the mess of

owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind

her he saw many of the students watching them

avidly.

“Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she

asked slowly.

P a g e | 739 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Is that a crime now?” said Fred loudly. “Getting

mail?”

“Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in

detention,” said Umbridge. “Well, Mr. Potter?”

Harry hesitated, but he did not see how he could keep

what he had done quiet; it was surely only a matter of

time before a copy of The Quibbler came to Umbridge’s

attention.

“People have written to me because I gave an

interview,” said Harry. “About what happened to me

last June.”

For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he

said this. He had the strangest feeling that

Dumbledore had been watching him a second before,

but when he looked, Dumbledore seemed to be

absorbed in conversation with Professor Flitwick.

“An interview?” repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner

and higher than ever. “What do you mean?”

“I mean a reporter asked me questions and I

answered them,” said Harry. “Here —”

And he threw the copy of The Quibbler at her. She

caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale,

doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.

“When did you do this?” she asked, her voice

trembling slightly.

“Last Hogsmeade weekend,” said Harry.

She looked up at him, incandescent with rage, the

magazine shaking in her stubby fingers.

P a g e | 740 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr.

Potter,” she whispered. “How you dare … how you

could …” She took a deep breath. “I have tried again

and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message,

apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from

Gryffindor and another week’s worth of detentions.”

She stalked away, clutching The Quibbler to her

chest, the eyes of many students following her.

By mid-morning enormous signs had been put up all

over the school, not just on House notice boards, but

in the corridors and classrooms too.

— BY ORDER OF —

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

Any student found in possession of the magazine The

Quibbler will be expelled.

The above is in accordance with

Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

HIGH INQUISITOR

For some reason, every time Hermione caught sight of

one of these signs she beamed with pleasure.

“What exactly are you so happy about?” Harry asked

her.

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“Oh Harry, don’t you see?” Hermione breathed. “If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure

that every single person in this school will read your

interview, it was banning it!”

And it seemed that Hermione was quite right. By the

end of that day, though Harry had not seen so much

as a corner of The Quibbler anywhere in the school,

the whole place seemed to be quoting the interview at

each other; Harry heard them whispering about it as

they queued up outside classes, discussing it over

lunch and in the back of lessons, while Hermione

even reported that every occupant of the cubicles in

the girls’ toilets had been talking about it when she

nipped in there before Ancient Runes.

“And then they spotted me, and obviously they know I

know you, so they were bombarding me with

questions,” Hermione told Harry, her eyes shining,

“and Harry, I think they believe you, I really do, I

think you’ve finally got them convinced!”

Meanwhile Professor Umbridge was stalking the

school, stopping students at random and demanding

that they turn out their books and pockets. Harry

knew she was looking for copies of The Quibbler, but

the students were several steps ahead of her. The

pages carrying Harry’s interview had been bewitched

to resemble extracts from textbooks if anyone but

themselves read it, or else wiped magically blank until

they wanted to peruse it again. Soon it seemed that

every single person in the school had read it.

The teachers were, of course, forbidden from

mentioning the interview by Educational Decree

Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express

their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout

awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed

her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick

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pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the

end of Charms, said “Shh!” and hurried away; and

Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during

Divination and announced to the startled class, and a

very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going

to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a

ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have

twelve children.

But what made Harry happiest was Cho catching up

with him as he was hurrying along to Transfiguration

the next day. Before he knew what had happened her

hand was in his and she was breathing in his ear,

“I’m really, really sorry. That interview was so brave

… it made me cry.”

He was sorry to hear she had shed even more tears

over it, but very glad they were on speaking terms

again, and even more pleased when she gave him a

swift kiss on the cheek and hurried off again. And

unbelievably, no sooner had he arrived outside

Transfiguration than something just as good

happened: Seamus stepped out of the queue to face

him.

“I just wanted to say,” he mumbled, squinting at

Harry’s left knee, “I believe you. And I’ve sent a copy

of that magazine to me mam.”

If anything more was needed to complete Harry’s

happiness, it was Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s

reactions. He saw them with their heads together

later that afternoon in the library, together with a

weedy-looking boy Hermione whispered was called

Theodore Nott. They looked around at Harry as he

browsed the shelves for the book he needed on Partial

Vanishment, and Goyle cracked his knuckles

threateningly and Malfoy whispered something

undoubtedly malevolent to Crabbe. Harry knew

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perfectly well why they were acting like this: He had named all of their fathers as Death Eaters.

“And the best bit is,” whispered Hermione gleefully as

they left the library, “they can’t contradict you,

because they can’t admit they’ve read the article!”

To cap it all, Luna told him over dinner that no copy

of The Quibbler had ever sold out faster.

“Dad’s reprinting!” she told Harry, her eyes popping

excitedly. “He can’t believe it, he says people seem

even more interested in this than the Crumple-

Horned Snorkacks!”

Harry was a hero in the Gryffindor common room that

night; daringly, Fred and George had put an

Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The

Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant

head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally

saying things like “The Ministry are morons” and “Eat

dung, Umbridge” in a booming voice. Hermione did

not find this very amusing; she said it interfered with

her concentration, and ended up going to bed early

out of irritation. Harry had to admit that the poster

was not quite as funny after an hour or two,

especially when the talking spell had started to wear

off, so that it merely shouted disconnected words like

“Dung” and “Umbridge” at more and more frequent

intervals in a progressively higher voice. In fact it

started to make his head ache and his scar began

prickling uncomfortably again. To disappointed

moans from the many people who were sitting around

him, asking him to relive his interview for the

umpteenth time, he announced that he too needed an

early night.

The dormitory was empty when he reached it. He

rested his forehead for a moment against the cool

P a g e | 744 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

glass of the window beside his bed; it felt soothing

against his scar. Then he undressed and got into bed,

wishing his headache would go away. He also felt

slightly sick. He rolled over onto his side, closed his

eyes, and fell asleep almost at once...

He was standing in a dark, curtained room lit by a

single branch of candles. His hands were clenched on

the back of a chair in front of him. They were long-

fingered and white as though they had not seen

sunlight for years and looked like large, pale spiders

against the dark velvet of the chair.

Beyond the chair, in a pool of light cast upon the floor

by the candles, knelt a man in black robes.

“I have been badly advised, it seems,” said Harry, in a

high, cold voice that pulsed with anger.

“Master, I crave your pardon...” croaked the man

kneeling on the floor. The back of his head glimmered

in the candlelight. He seemed to be trembling.

“I do not blame you, Rookwood,” said Harry in that

cold, cruel voice.

He relinquished his grip upon the chair and walked

around it, closer to the man cowering upon the floor,

until he stood directly over him in the darkness,

looking down from a far greater height than usual.

“You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?” asked Harry.

“Yes, My Lord, yes … I used to work in the

department after — after all...”

“Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it.”

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“Bode could never have taken it, Master... Bode would have known he could not... Undoubtedly that is why

he fought so hard against Malfoy’s Imperius Curse...”

“Stand up, Rookwood,” whispered Harry.

The kneeling man almost fell over in his haste to

obey. His face was pockmarked; the scars were

thrown into relief by the candlelight. He remained a

little stooped when standing, as though halfway

through a bow, and he darted terrified looks up at

Harry’s face.

“You have done well to tell me this,” said Harry. “Very

well … I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it

seems... But no matter … We begin again, from now.

You have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude, Rookwood...”

“My Lord … yes, My Lord,” gasped Rookwood, his

voice hoarse with relief.

“I shall need your help. I shall need all the

information you can give me.”

“Of course, My Lord, of course … anything …”

“Very well … you may go. Send Avery to me.”

Rookwood scurried backward, bowing, and

disappeared through a door.

Left alone in the dark room, Harry turned toward the

wall. A cracked, age-spotted mirror hung on the wall

in the shadows. Harry moved toward it. His reflection

grew larger and clearer in the darkness... A face

whiter than a skull … red eyes with slits for pupils …

“NOOOOOOOOO!”

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“What?” yelled a voice nearby.

Harry flailed around madly, became entangled in the

hangings, and fell out of his bed. For a few seconds

he did not know where he was; he was convinced that

he was about to see the white, skull-like face looming

at him out of the dark again, then Ron’s voice spoke

very near to him.

“Will you stop acting like a maniac, and I can get you

out of here!”

Ron wrenched the hangings apart, and Harry stared

up at him in the moonlight, as he lay flat on his back,

his scar searing with pain. Ron looked as though he

had just been getting ready for bed; one arm was out

of his robes.

“Has someone been attacked again?” asked Ron,

pulling Harry roughly to his feet. “Is it Dad? Is it that

snake?”

“No — everyone’s fine —” gasped Harry, whose

forehead felt as though it was on fire again. “Well …

Avery isn’t... He’s in trouble... He gave him the wrong

information... He’s really angry...”

Harry groaned and sank, shaking, onto his bed,

rubbing his scar.

“But Rookwood’s going to help him now... He’s on the

right track again...”

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, sounding

scared. “D’you mean … did you just see You-Know-

Who?”

“I was You-Know-Who,” said Harry, and he stretched

out his hands in the darkness and held them up to

P a g e | 747 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

his face to check that they were no longer deathly

white and long-fingered. “He was with Rookwood, he’s

one of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban,

remember? Rookwood’s just told him Bode couldn’t

have done it...”

“Done what?”

“Remove something... He said Bode would have

known he couldn’t have done it... Bode was under the

Imperius Curse... I think he said Malfoy’s dad put it

on him...”

“Bode was bewitched to remove something?” Ron

said. “But — Harry, that’s got to be —”

“The weapon,” Harry finished the sentence for him. “I

know.”

The dormitory door opened; Dean and Seamus came

in. Harry swung his legs back into bed. He did not

want to look as though anything odd had just

happened, seeing as Seamus had only just stopped

thinking Harry was a nutter.

“Did you say,” murmured Ron, putting his head close

to Harry’s on the pretense of helping himself to water

from the jug on his bedside table, “that you were You-

Know-Who?”

“Yeah,” said Harry quietly.

Ron took an unnecessarily large gulp of water. Harry

saw it spill over his chin onto his chest.

“Harry,” he said, as Dean and Seamus clattered

around noisily, pulling off their robes, and talking,

“you’ve got to tell —”

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“I haven’t got to tell anyone,” said Harry shortly. “I wouldn’t have seen it at all if I could do Occlumency.

I’m supposed to have learned to shut this stuff out.

That’s what they want.”

By “they” he meant Dumbledore. He got back into bed

and rolled over onto his side with his back to Ron and

after a while he heard Ron’s mattress creak as he lay

back down too. His scar began to burn; he bit hard on

his pillow to stop himself making a noise. Somewhere,

he knew, Avery was being punished...

Harry and Ron waited until break next morning to tell

Hermione exactly what had happened. They wanted

to be absolutely sure they could not be overheard.

Standing in their usual corner of the cool and breezy

courtyard, Harry told her every detail of the dream he

could remember. When he had finished, she said

nothing at all for a few moments, but stared with a

kind of painful intensity at Fred and George, who

were both headless and selling their magical hats

from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard.

“So that’s why they killed him,” she said quietly,

withdrawing her gaze from Fred and George at last.

“When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something

funny happened to him. I think there must be

defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people

from touching it. That’s why he was in St. Mungo’s,

his brain had gone all funny and he couldn’t talk. But

remember what the Healer told us? He was

recovering. And they couldn’t risk him getting better,

could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened

when he touched that weapon probably made the

Imperius Curse lift. Once he’d got his voice back, he’d

explain what he’d been doing, wouldn’t he? They

would have known he’d been sent to steal the

weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for

P a g e | 749 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of

the Ministry, is he?”

“He was even hanging around that day I had my

hearing,” said Harry. “In the — hang on …” he said

slowly. “He was in the Department of Mysteries

corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably

trying to sneak down and find out what happened in

my hearing, but what if —”

“Sturgis,” gasped Hermione, looking thunderstruck.

“Sorry?” said Ron, looking bewildered.

“Sturgis Podmore,” said Hermione, breathlessly.

“Arrested for trying to get through a door. Lucius

Malfoy got him too. I bet he did it the day you saw

him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody’s Invisibility

Cloak, right? So what if he was standing guard by the

door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move, or

guessed he was there, or just did the Imperius Curse

on the off chance that a guard was there? So when

Sturgis next had an opportunity — probably when it

was his turn on guard duty again — he tried to get

into the department to steal the weapon for Voldemort

— Ron, be quiet — but he got caught and sent to

Azkaban...”

She gazed at Harry.

“And now Rookwood’s told Voldemort how to get the

weapon?”

“I didn’t hear all the conversation, but that’s what it

sounded like,” said Harry. “Rookwood used to work

there... Maybe Voldemort’ll send Rookwood to do it?”

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Hermione nodded, apparently still lost in thought.

Then, quite abruptly, she said, “But you shouldn’t

have seen this at all, Harry.”

“What?” he said, taken aback.

“You’re supposed to be learning how to close your

mind to this sort of thing,” said Hermione, suddenly

stern.

“I know I am,” said Harry. “But —”

“Well, I think we should just try and forget what you

saw,” said Hermione firmly. “And you ought to put in

a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on.”

Harry was so angry with her that he did not talk to

her for the rest of the day, which proved to be another

bad one. When people were not discussing the

escaped Death Eaters in the corridors today, they

were laughing at Gryffindor’s abysmal performance in

their match against Hufflepuff; the Slytherins were

singing “Weasley Is Our King” so loudly and

frequently that by sundown Filch had banned it from

the corridors out of sheer irritation.

The week did not improve as it progressed: Harry

received two more D’s in Potions, was still on

tenterhooks that Hagrid might get the sack, and

could not stop himself from dwelling on the dream in

which he had seen Voldemort, though he did not

bring it up with Ron and Hermione again because he

did not want another telling-off from Hermione. He

wished very much that he could have talked to Sirius

about it, but that was out of the question, so he tried

to push the matter to the back of his mind.

Unfortunately, the back of his mind was no longer the

secure place it had once been.

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“Get up, Potter.”

A couple of weeks after his dream of Rookwood, Harry

was to be found, yet again, kneeling on the floor of

Snape’s office, trying to clear his head. He had just

been forced, yet again, to relive a stream of very early

memories he had not even realized he still had, most

of them concerning humiliations Dudley and his gang

had inflicted upon him in primary school.

“That last memory,” said Snape. “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, getting wearily to his feet.

He was finding it increasingly difficult to disentangle

separate memories from the rush of images and

sound that Snape kept calling forth. “You mean the

one where my cousin tried to make me stand in the

toilet?”

“No,” said Snape softly. “I mean the one concerning a

man kneeling in the middle of a darkened room...”

“It’s … nothing,” said Harry.

Snape’s dark eyes bored into Harry’s. Remembering

what Snape had said about eye contact being crucial

to Legilimency, Harry blinked and looked away.

“How do that man and that room come to be inside

your head, Potter?” said Snape.

“It —” said Harry, looking everywhere but at Snape,

“it was — just a dream I had.”

“A dream,” repeated Snape.

There was a pause during which Harry stared fixedly

at a large dead frog suspended in a purple liquid in

its jar.

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“You do know why we are here, don’t you, Potter?”

said Snape in a low, dangerous voice. “You do know

why I am giving up my evenings to this tedious job?”

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.

“Remind me why we are here, Potter.”

“So I can learn Occlumency,” said Harry, now glaring

at a dead eel.

“Correct, Potter. And dim though you may be” —

Harry looked back at Snape, hating him — “I would

have thought that after two months’ worth of lessons

you might have made some progress. How many other

dreams about the Dark Lord have you had?”

“Just that one,” lied Harry.

“Perhaps,” said Snape, his dark, cold eyes narrowing

slightly, “perhaps you actually enjoy having these

visions and dreams, Potter. Maybe they make you feel

special — important?”

“No, they don’t,” said Harry, his jaw set and his

fingers clenched tightly around the handle of his

wand.

“That is just as well, Potter,” said Snape coldly,

“because you are neither special nor important, and it

is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is

saying to his Death Eaters.”

“No — that’s your job, isn’t it?” Harry shot at him.

He had not meant to say it; it had burst out of him in

temper. For a long moment they stared at each other,

Harry convinced he had gone too far. But there was a

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curious, almost satisfied expression on Snape’s face

when he answered.

“Yes, Potter,” he said, his eyes glinting. “That is my

job. Now, if you are ready, we will start again...”

He raised his wand. “One — two — three —

Legilimens!”

A hundred dementors were swooping toward Harry

across the lake in the grounds... He screwed up his

face in concentration... They were coming closer... He

could see the dark holes beneath their hoods … yet

he could also see Snape standing in front of him, his

eyes fixed upon Harry’s face, muttering under his

breath... And somehow, Snape was growing clearer,

and the dementors were growing fainter …

Harry raised his own wand.

“Protego!”

Snape staggered; his wand flew upward, away from

Harry — and suddenly Harry’s mind was teeming

with memories that were not his — a hook-nosed man

was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small

dark-haired boy cried in a corner... A greasy-haired

teenager sat alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his

wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies... A girl was

laughing as a scrawny boy tried to mount a bucking

broomstick —

“ENOUGH!”

Harry felt as though he had been pushed hard in the

chest; he took several staggering steps backward, hit

some of the shelves covering Snape’s walls and heard

something crack. Snape was shaking slightly, very

white in the face.

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The back of Harry’s robes were damp. One of the jars

behind him had broken when he fell against it; the

pickled slimy thing within was swirling in its draining

potion.

“Reparo!” hissed Snape, and the jar sealed itself once

more. “Well, Potter … that was certainly an

improvement...” Panting slightly, Snape straightened

the Pensieve in which he had again stored some of his

thoughts before starting the lesson, almost as though

checking that they were still there. “I don’t remember

telling you to use a Shield Charm … but there is no

doubt that it was effective...”

Harry did not speak; he felt that to say anything

might be dangerous. He was sure he had just broken

into Snape’s memories, that he had just seen scenes

from Snape’s childhood, and it was unnerving to

think that the crying little boy who had watched his

parents shouting was actually standing in front of

him with such loathing in his eyes...

“Let’s try again, shall we?” said Snape.

Harry felt a thrill of dread: He was about to pay for

what had just happened, he was sure of it. They

moved back into position with the desk between

them, Harry feeling he was going to find it much

harder to empty his mind this time...

“On the count of three, then,” said Snape, raising his

wand once more. “One — two —”

Harry did not have time to gather himself together

and attempt to clear his mind, for Snape had already

cried “Legilimens!”

He was hurtling along the corridor toward the

Department of Mysteries, past the blank stone walls,

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past the torches — the plain black door was growing

ever larger; he was moving so fast he was going to

collide with it, he was feet from it and he could see

that chink of faint blue light again —

The door had flown open! He was through it at last,

inside a black-walled, black-floored circular room lit

with blue-flamed candles, and there were more doors

all around him — he needed to go on — but which

door ought he to take — ?

“POTTER!”

Harry opened his eyes. He was flat on his back again

with no memory of having gotten there; he was also

panting as though he really had run the length of the

Department of Mysteries corridor, really had sprinted

through the black door and found the circular room...

“Explain yourself!” said Snape, who was standing over

him, looking furious.

“I … dunno what happened,” said Harry truthfully,

standing up. There was a lump on the back of his

head from where he had hit the ground and he felt

feverish. “I’ve never seen that before. I mean, I told

you, I’ve dreamed about the door … but it’s never

opened before...”

“You are not working hard enough!”

For some reason, Snape seemed even angrier than he

had done two minutes before, when Harry had seen

into his own memories.

“You are lazy and sloppy, Potter, it is small wonder

that the Dark Lord —”

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“Can you tell me something, sir?” said Harry, firing up again. “Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord, I’ve

only ever heard Death Eaters call him that —”

Snape opened his mouth in a snarl — and a woman

screamed from somewhere outside the room.

Snape’s head jerked upward; he was gazing at the

ceiling.

“What the — ?” he muttered.

Harry could hear a muffled commotion coming from

what he thought might be the entrance hall. Snape

looked around at him, frowning.

“Did you see anything unusual on your way down

here, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. Somewhere above them, the

woman screamed again. Snape strode to his office

door, his wand still held at the ready, and swept out

of sight. Harry hesitated for a moment, then followed.

The screams were indeed coming from the entrance

hall; they grew louder as Harry ran toward the stone

steps leading up from the dungeons. When he

reached the top he found the entrance hall packed.

Students had come flooding out of the Great Hall,

where dinner was still in progress, to see what was

going on. Others had crammed themselves onto the

marble staircase. Harry pushed forward through a

knot of tall Slytherins and saw that the onlookers had

formed a great ring, some of them looking shocked,

others even frightened. Professor McGonagall was

directly opposite Harry on the other side of the hall;

she looked as though what she was watching made

her feel faintly sick.

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Professor Trelawney was standing in the middle of the entrance hall with her wand in one hand and an

empty sherry bottle in the other, looking utterly mad.

Her hair was sticking up on end, her glasses were

lopsided so that one eye was magnified more than the

other; her innumerable shawls and scarves were

trailing haphazardly from her shoulders, giving the

impression that she was falling apart at the seams.

Two large trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of

them upside down; it looked very much as though it

had been thrown down the stairs after her. Professor

Trelawney was staring, apparently terrified, at

something Harry could not see but that seemed to be

standing at the foot of the stairs.

“No!” she shrieked. “NO! This cannot be happening...

It cannot … I refuse to accept it!”

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” said a high

girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and Harry,

moving slightly to his right, saw that Trelawney’s

terrifying vision was nothing other than Professor

Umbridge. “Incapable though you are of predicting

even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have

realized that your pitiful performance during my

inspections, and lack of any improvement, would

make it inevitable you would be sacked?”

“You c-can’t!” howled Professor Trelawney, tears

streaming down her face from behind her enormous

lenses, “you c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen

years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!”

“It was your home,” said Professor Umbridge, and

Harry was revolted to see the enjoyment stretching

her toadlike face as she watched Professor Trelawney

sink, sobbing uncontrollably, onto one of her trunks,

“until an hour ago, when the Minister of Magic

countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now

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kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are

embarrassing us.”

But she stood and watched, with an expression of

gloating enjoyment, as Professor Trelawney

shuddered and moaned, rocking backward and

forward on her trunk in paroxysms of grief. Harry

heard a sob to his left and looked around. Lavender

and Parvati were both crying silently, their arms

around each other. Then he heard footsteps.

Professor McGonagall had broken away from the

spectators, marched straight up to Professor

Trelawney and was patting her firmly on the back

while withdrawing a large handkerchief from within

her robes.

“There, there, Sibyll … Calm down... Blow your nose

on this... It’s not as bad as you think, now... You are

not going to have to leave Hogwarts...”

“Oh really, Professor McGonagall?” said Umbridge in

a deadly voice, taking a few steps forward. “And your

authority for that statement is … ?”

“That would be mine,” said a deep voice.

The oak front doors had swung open. Students beside

them scuttled out of the way as Dumbledore appeared

in the entrance. What he had been doing out in the

grounds Harry could not imagine, but there was

something impressive about the sight of him framed

in the doorway against an oddly misty night. Leaving

the doors wide behind him, he strode forward through

the circle of onlookers toward the place where

Professor Trelawney sat, tearstained and trembling,

upon her trunk, Professor McGonagall alongside her.

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” said Umbridge with a

singularly unpleasant little laugh. “I’m afraid you do

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not understand the position. I have here” — she

pulled a parchment scroll from within her robes —

“an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the

Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational

Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of

Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon

probation, and sack any teacher she — that is to say,

I — feel is not performing up to the standard required

by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor

Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.”

To Harry’s very great surprise, Dumbledore continued

to smile. He looked down at Professor Trelawney, who

was still sobbing and choking on her trunk, and said,

“You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge.

As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my

teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to

send them away from the castle. I am afraid,” he went

on, with a courteous little bow, “that the power to do

that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my

wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at

Hogwarts.”

At this, Professor Trelawney gave a wild little laugh in

which a hiccup was barely hidden.

“No — no, I’ll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall l-leave

Hogwarts and s-seek my fortune elsewhere —”

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply. “It is my wish that

you remain, Sibyll.”

He turned to Professor McGonagall.

“Might I ask you to escort Sibyll back upstairs,

Professor McGonagall?”

“Of course,” said McGonagall. “Up you get, Sibyll...”

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Professor Sprout came hurrying forward out of the

crowd and grabbed Professor Trelawney’s other arm.

Together they guided her past Umbridge and up the

marble stairs. Professor Flitwick went scurrying after

them, his wand held out before him; he squeaked,

“Locomotor trunks!” and Professor Trelawney’s luggage

rose into the air and proceeded up the staircase after

her, Professor Flitwick bringing up the rear.

Professor Umbridge was standing stock-still, staring

at Dumbledore, who continued to smile benignly.

“And what,” she said in a whisper that nevertheless

carried all around the entrance hall, “are you going to

do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher

who needs her lodgings?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Dumbledore

pleasantly. “You see, I have already found us a new

Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the

ground floor.”

“You’ve found — ?” said Umbridge shrilly. “You’ve

found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under

Educational Decree Twenty-two —”

“— the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable

candidate if — and only if — the headmaster is

unable to find one,” said Dumbledore. “And I am

happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded.

May I introduce you?”

He turned to face the open front doors, through which

night mist was now drifting. Harry heard hooves.

There was a shocked murmur around the hall and

those nearest the doors hastily moved even farther

backward, some of them tripping over in their haste

to clear a path for the newcomer.

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Through the mist came a face Harry had seen once

before on a dark, dangerous night in the Forbidden

Forest: white-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes,

the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino

body of a horse.

“This is Firenze,” said Dumbledore happily to a

thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him

suitable.”

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THE CENTAUR AND THE SNEAK

“I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t given up Divination now,

don’t you, Hermione?” asked Parvati, smirking.

It was breakfast time a few days after the sacking of

Professor Trelawney, and Parvati was curling her

eyelashes around her wand and examining the effect

in the back of her spoon. They were to have their first

lesson with Firenze that morning.

“Not really,” said Hermione indifferently, who was

reading the Daily Prophet. “I’ve never really liked

horses.”

She turned a page of the newspaper, scanning its

columns.

“He’s not a horse, he’s a centaur!” said Lavender,

sounding shocked.

“A gorgeous centaur …” sighed Parvati.

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“Either way, he’s still got four legs,” said Hermione coolly. “Anyway, I thought you two were all upset that

Trelawney had gone?”

“We are!” Lavender assured her. “We went up to her

office to see her, we took her some daffodils — not the

honking ones that Sprout’s got, nice ones...”

“How is she?” asked Harry.

“Not very good, poor thing,” said Lavender

sympathetically. “She was crying and saying she’d

rather leave the castle forever than stay here if

Umbridge is still here, and I don’t blame her.

Umbridge was horrible to her, wasn’t she?”

“I’ve got a feeling Umbridge has only just started

being horrible,” said Hermione darkly.

“Impossible,” said Ron, who was tucking into a large

plate of eggs and bacon. “She can’t get any worse

than she’s been already.”

“You mark my words, she’s going to want revenge on

Dumbledore for appointing a new teacher without

consulting her,” said Hermione, closing the

newspaper. “Especially another part-human. You saw

the look on her face when she saw Firenze...”

After breakfast Hermione departed for her Arithmancy

class and Harry and Ron followed Parvati and

Lavender into the entrance hall, heading for

Divination.

“Aren’t we going up to North Tower?” asked Ron,

looking puzzled, as Parvati bypassed the marble

staircase.

Parvati looked scornfully over her shoulder at him.

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“How d’you expect Firenze to climb that ladder? We’re in classroom eleven now, it was on the notice board

yesterday.”

Classroom eleven was situated in the ground-floor

corridor leading off the entrance hall on the opposite

side to the Great Hall. Harry knew it to be one of

those classrooms that were never used regularly, and

that it therefore had the slightly neglected feeling of a

cupboard or storeroom. When he entered it right

behind Ron, and found himself right in the middle of

a forest clearing, he was therefore momentarily

stunned.

“What the — ?”

The classroom floor had become springily mossy and

trees were growing out of it; their leafy branches

fanned across the ceiling and windows, so that the

room was full of slanting shafts of soft, dappled, green

light. The students who had already arrived were

sitting on the earthy floor with their backs resting

against tree trunks or boulders, arms wrapped

around their knees or folded tightly across their

chests, looking rather nervous. In the middle of the

room, where there were no trees, stood Firenze.

“Harry Potter,” he said, holding out a hand when

Harry entered.

“Er — hi,” said Harry, shaking hands with the

centaur, who surveyed him unblinkingly through

those astonishingly blue eyes but did not smile. “Er —

good to see you …”

“And you,” said the centaur, inclining his white-blond

head. “It was foretold that we would meet again.”

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Harry noticed that there was the shadow of a hoof-

shaped bruise on Firenze’s chest. As he turned to join

the rest of the class upon the floor, he saw that they

were all looking at him with awe, apparently deeply

impressed that he was on speaking terms with

Firenze, whom they seemed to find intimidating.

When the door was closed and the last student had

sat down upon a tree stump beside the wastepaper

basket, Firenze gestured around the room.

“Professor Dumbledore has kindly arranged this

classroom for us,” said Firenze, when everyone had

settled down, “in imitation of my natural habitat. I

would have preferred to teach you in the Forbidden

Forest, which was — until Monday — my home … but

this is not possible.”

“Please — er — sir —” said Parvati breathlessly,

raising her hand, “why not? We’ve been in there with

Hagrid, we’re not frightened!”

“It is not a question of your bravery,” said Firenze,

“but of my position. I can no longer return to the

forest. My herd has banished me.”

“Herd?” said Lavender in a confused voice, and Harry

knew she was thinking of cows. “What — oh!”

Comprehension dawned on her face. “There are more

of you?” she said, stunned.

“Did Hagrid breed you, like the thestrals?” asked

Dean eagerly.

Firenze turned his head very slowly to face Dean, who

seemed to realize at once that he had said something

very offensive.

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“I didn’t — I meant — sorry,” he finished in a hushed voice.

“Centaurs are not the servants or playthings of

humans,” said Firenze quietly. There was a pause,

then Parvati raised her hand again.

“Please, sir … why have the other centaurs banished

you?”

“Because I have agreed to work for Professor

Dumbledore,” said Firenze. “They see this as a

betrayal of our kind.”

Harry remembered how, nearly four years ago, the

centaur Bane had shouted at Firenze for allowing

Harry to ride to safety upon his back, calling him a

“common mule.” He wondered whether it had been

Bane who had kicked Firenze in the chest.

“Let us begin,” said Firenze. He swished his long

palomino tail, raised his hand toward the leafy

canopy overhead then lowered it slowly, and as he did

so, the light in the room dimmed, so that they now

seemed to be sitting in a forest clearing by twilight,

and stars emerged upon the ceiling. There were oohs

and gasps, and Ron said audibly, “Blimey!”

“Lie back upon the floor,” said Firenze in his calm

voice, “and observe the heavens. Here is written, for

those who can see, the fortune of our races.”

Harry stretched out on his back and gazed upward at

the ceiling. A twinkling red star winked at him from

overhead.

“I know that you have learned the names of the

planets and their moons in Astronomy,” said Firenze’s

calm voice, “and that you have mapped the stars’

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progress through the heavens. Centaurs have

unraveled the mysteries of these movements over

centuries. Our findings teach us that the future may

be glimpsed in the sky above us...”

“Professor Trelawney did Astrology with us!” said

Parvati excitedly, raising her hand in front of her so

that it stuck up in the air as she lay on her back.

“Mars causes accidents and burns and things like

that, and when it makes an angle to Saturn, like now”

— she drew a right angle in the air above her — “that

means that people need to be extra careful when

handling hot things —”

“That,” said Firenze calmly, “is human nonsense.”

Parvati’s hand fell limply to her side.

“Trivial hurts, tiny human accidents,” said Firenze, as

his hooves thudded over the mossy floor. “These are

of no more significance than the scurryings of ants to

the wide universe, and are unaffected by planetary

movements.”

“Professor Trelawney —” began Parvati, in a hurt and

indignant voice.

“— is a human,” said Firenze simply. “And is

therefore blinkered and fettered by the limitations of

your kind.”

Harry turned his head very slightly to look at Parvati.

She looked very offended, as did several of the people

surrounding her.

“Sibyll Trelawney may have Seen, I do not know,”

continued Firenze, and Harry heard the swishing of

his tail again as he walked up and down before them,

“but she wastes her time, in the main, on the self-

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flattering nonsense humans call fortune-telling. I,

however, am here to explain the wisdom of centaurs,

which is impersonal and impartial. We watch the

skies for the great tides of evil or change that are

sometimes marked there. It may take ten years to be

sure of what we are seeing.”

Firenze pointed to the red star directly above Harry.

“In the past decade, the indications have been that

Wizard-kind is living through nothing more than a

brief calm between two wars. Mars, bringer of battle,

shines brightly above us, suggesting that the fight

must break out again soon. How soon, centaurs may

attempt to divine by the burning of certain herbs and

leaves, by the observation of fume and flame...”

It was the most unusual lesson Harry had ever

attended. They did indeed burn sage and mallowsweet

there on the classroom floor, and Firenze told them to

look for certain shapes and symbols in the pungent

fumes, but he seemed perfectly unconcerned that not

one of them could see any of the signs he described,

telling them that humans were hardly ever good at

this, that it took centaurs years and years to become

competent, and finished by telling them that it was

foolish to put too much faith in such things anyway,

because even centaurs sometimes read them wrongly.

He was nothing like any human teacher Harry had

ever had. His priority did not seem to be to teach

them what he knew, but rather to impress upon them

that nothing, not even centaurs’ knowledge, was

foolproof.

“He’s not very definite on anything, is he?” said Ron

in a low voice, as they put out their mallowsweet fire.

“I mean, I could do with a few more details about this

war we’re about to have, couldn’t you?”

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The bell rang right outside the classroom door and

everyone jumped; Harry had completely forgotten that

they were still inside the castle, quite convinced that

he was really in the forest. The class filed out, looking

slightly perplexed; Harry and Ron were on the point of

following them when Firenze called, “Harry Potter, a

word, please.”

Harry turned. The centaur advanced a little toward

him. Ron hesitated.

“You may stay,” Firenze told him. “But close the door,

please.”

Ron hastened to obey.

“Harry Potter, you are a friend of Hagrid’s, are you

not?” said the centaur.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Then give him a warning from me. His attempt is not

working. He would do better to abandon it.”

“His attempt is not working?” Harry repeated blankly.

“And he would do better to abandon it,” said Firenze,

nodding. “I would warn Hagrid myself, but I am

banished — it would be unwise for me to go too near

the forest now — Hagrid has troubles enough,

without a centaurs’ battle.”

“But — what’s Hagrid attempting to do?” said Harry

nervously.

Firenze looked at Harry impassively.

“Hagrid has recently rendered me a great service,”

said Firenze, “and he has long since earned my

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respect for the care he shows all living creatures. I shall not betray his secret. But he must be brought to

his senses. The attempt is not working. Tell him,

Harry Potter. Good day to you.”

The happiness Harry had felt in the aftermath of The

Quibbler interview had long since evaporated. As a

dull March blurred into a squally April, his life

seemed to have become one long series of worries and

problems again.

Umbridge had continued attending all Care of Magical

Creatures lessons, so it had been very difficult to

deliver Firenze’s warning to Hagrid. At last Harry had

managed it by pretending he had lost his copy of

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and

doubling back after class one day. When he passed on

Firenze’s message, Hagrid gazed at him for a moment

through his puffy, blackened eyes, apparently taken

aback. Then he seemed to pull himself together.

“Nice bloke, Firenze,” he said gruffly, “but he don’

know what he’s talkin’ abou’ on this. The attemp’s

comin’ on fine.”

“Hagrid, what’re you up to?” asked Harry seriously.

“Because you’ve got to be careful, Umbridge has

already sacked Trelawney and if you ask me, she’s on

a roll. If you’re doing anything you shouldn’t be —”

“There’s things more importan’ than keepin’ a job,”

said Hagrid, though his hands shook slightly as he

said this and a basin full of knarl droppings crashed

to the floor. “Don’ worry abou’ me, Harry, jus’ get

along now, there’s a good lad...”

P a g e | 771 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry had no choice but to leave Hagrid mopping up

the dung all over his floor, but he felt thoroughly

dispirited as he trudged back up to the castle.

Meanwhile, as the teachers and Hermione persisted

in reminding them, the O.W.L.s were drawing ever

nearer. All the fifth years were suffering from stress to

some degree, but Hannah Abbott became the first to

receive a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey after

she burst into tears during Herbology and sobbed

that she was too stupid to take exams and wanted to

leave school now.

If it had not been for the D.A. lessons, Harry thought

he would have been extremely unhappy. He

sometimes felt that he was living for the hours he

spent in the Room of Requirement, working hard but

thoroughly enjoying himself at the same time,

swelling with pride as he looked around at his fellow

D.A. members and saw how far they had come.

Indeed, Harry sometimes wondered how Umbridge

was going to react when all the members of the D.A.

received “Outstanding” in their Defense Against the

Dark Arts O.W.L.s.

They had finally started work on Patronuses, which

everybody had been very keen to practice, though as

Harry kept reminding them, producing a Patronus in

the middle of a brightly lit classroom when they were

not under threat was very different to producing it

when confronted by something like a dementor.

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” said Cho brightly,

watching her silvery swan-shaped Patronus soar

around the Room of Requirement during their last

lesson before Easter. “They’re so pretty!”

“They’re not supposed to be pretty, they’re supposed

to protect you,” said Harry patiently. “What we really

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need is a boggart or something; that’s how I learned, I had to conjure a Patronus while the boggart was

pretending to be a dementor —”

“But that would be really scary!” said Lavender, who

was shooting puffs of silver vapor out of the end of

her wand. “And I still — can’t — do it!” she added

angrily.

Neville was having trouble too. His face was screwed

up in concentration, but only feeble wisps of silver

smoke issued from his wand tip.

“You’ve got to think of something happy,” Harry

reminded him.

“I’m trying,” said Neville miserably, who was trying so

hard his round face was actually shining with sweat.

“Harry, I think I’m doing it!” yelled Seamus, who had

been brought along to his first ever D.A. meeting by

Dean. “Look — ah — it’s gone... But it was definitely

something hairy, Harry!”

Hermione’s Patronus, a shining silver otter, was

gamboling around her.

“They are sort of nice, aren’t they?” she said, looking

at it fondly.

The door of the Room of Requirement opened and

then closed again; Harry looked around to see who

had entered, but there did not seem to be anybody

there. It was a few moments before he realized that

the people close to the door had fallen silent. Next

thing he knew, something was tugging at his robes

somewhere near the knee. He looked down and saw,

to his very great astonishment, Dobby the house-elf

peering up at him from beneath his usual eight hats.

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“Hi, Dobby!” he said. “What are you — what’s wrong?”

For the elf’s eyes were wide with terror and he was

shaking. The members of the D.A. closest to Harry

had fallen silent now: Everybody in the room was

watching Dobby. The few Patronuses people had

managed to conjure faded away into silver mist,

leaving the room looking much darker than before.

“Harry Potter, sir …” squeaked the elf, trembling from

head to foot, “Harry Potter, sir … Dobby has come to

warn you … but the house-elves have been warned

not to tell …”

He ran headfirst at the wall: Harry, who had some

experience of Dobby’s habits of self-punishment,

made to seize him, but Dobby merely bounced off the

stone, cushioned by his eight hats. Hermione and a

few of the other girls let out squeaks of fear and

sympathy.

“What’s happened, Dobby?” Harry asked, grabbing

the elf’s tiny arm and holding him away from

anything with which he might seek to hurt himself.

“Harry Potter … she … she …”

Dobby hit himself hard on the nose with his free fist:

Harry seized that too.

“Who’s ‘she,’ Dobby?”

But he thought he knew — surely only one “she”

could induce such fear in Dobby? The elf looked up at

him, slightly cross-eyed, and mouthed wordlessly.

“Umbridge?” asked Harry, horrified.

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Dobby nodded, then tried to bang his head off Harry’s knees; Harry held him at bay.

“What about her? Dobby — she hasn’t found out

about this — about us — about the D.A.?”

He read the answer in the elf’s stricken face. His

hands held fast by Harry, the elf tried to kick himself

and fell to the floor.

“Is she coming?” Harry asked quietly.

Dobby let out a howl, and began beating his bare feet

hard on the floor. “Yes, Harry Potter, yes!”

Harry straightened up and looked around at the

motionless, terrified people gazing at the thrashing

elf.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Harry bellowed.

“RUN!”

They all pelted toward the exit at once, forming a

scrum at the door, then people burst through; Harry

could hear them sprinting along the corridors and

hoped they had the sense not to try and make it all

the way to their dormitories. It was only ten to nine, if

they just took refuge in the library or the Owlery,

which were both nearer —

“Harry, come on!” shrieked Hermione from the center

of the knot of people now fighting to get out.

He scooped up Dobby, who was still attempting to do

himself serious injury, and ran with the elf in his

arms to join the back of the queue.

“Dobby — this is an order — get back down to the

kitchen with the other elves, and if she asks you

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whether you warned me, lie and say no!” said Harry.

“And I forbid you to hurt yourself!” he added,

dropping the elf as he made it over the threshold at

last and slamming the door behind him.

“Thank you, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, and he

streaked off. Harry glanced left and right, the others

were all moving so fast that he caught only glimpses

of flying heels at either end of the corridor before they

vanished. He started to run right; there was a boys’

bathroom up ahead, he could pretend he’d been in

there all the time if he could just reach it —

“AAARGH!”

Something caught him around the ankles and he fell

spectacularly, skidding along on his front for six feet

before coming to a halt. Someone behind him was

laughing. He rolled over onto his back and saw Malfoy

concealed in a niche beneath an ugly dragon-shaped

vase.

“Trip Jinx, Potter!” he said. “Hey, Professor —

PROFESSOR! I’ve got one!”

Umbridge came bustling around the far corner,

breathless but wearing a delighted smile.

“It’s him!” she said jubilantly at the sight of Harry on

the floor. “Excellent, Draco, excellent, oh, very good —

fifty points to Slytherin! I’ll take him from here...

Stand up, Potter!”

Harry got to his feet, glaring at the pair of them. He

had never seen Umbridge looking so happy. She

seized his arm in a vicelike grip and turned, beaming

broadly, to Malfoy. “You hop along and see if you can

round up anymore of them, Draco,” she said. “Tell the

others to look in the library — anybody out of breath

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— check the bathrooms, Miss Parkinson can do the

girls’ ones — off you go — and you,” she added in her

softest, most dangerous voice, as Malfoy walked away.

“You can come with me to the headmaster’s office,

Potter.”

They were at the stone gargoyle within minutes. Harry

wondered how many of the others had been caught.

He thought of Ron — Mrs. Weasley would kill him —

and of how Hermione would feel if she was expelled

before she could take her O.W.L.s. And it had been

Seamus’s very first meeting … and Neville had been

getting so good...

“Fizzing Whizbee,” sang Umbridge, and the stone

gargoyle jumped aside, the wall behind split open,

and they ascended the moving stone staircase. They

reached the polished door with the griffin knocker,

but Umbridge did not bother to knock, she strode

straight inside, still holding tight to Harry.

The office was full of people. Dumbledore was sitting

behind his desk, his expression serene, the tips of his

long fingers together. Professor McGonagall stood

rigidly beside him, her face extremely tense. Cornelius

Fudge, Minister of Magic, was rocking backward and

forward on his toes beside the fire, apparently

immensely pleased with the situation. Kingsley

Shacklebolt and a tough-looking wizard Harry did not

recognize with very short, wiry hair were positioned

on either side of the door like guards, and the

freckled, bespectacled form of Percy Weasley hovered

excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of

parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take

notes.

The portraits of old headmasters and mistresses were

not shamming sleep tonight. All of them were

watching what was happening below, alert and

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serious. As Harry entered, a few flitted into

neighboring frames and whispered urgently into their

neighbors’ ears.

Harry pulled himself free of Umbridge’s grasp as the

door swung shut behind them. Cornelius Fudge was

glaring at him with a kind of vicious satisfaction upon

his face.

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well …”

Harry replied with the dirtiest look he could muster.

His heart drummed madly inside him, but his brain

was oddly cool and clear.

“He was heading back to Gryffindor Tower,” said

Umbridge. There was an indecent excitement in her

voice, the same callous pleasure Harry had heard as

she watched Professor Trelawney dissolving with

misery in the entrance hall. “The Malfoy boy cornered

him.”

“Did he, did he?” said Fudge appreciatively. “I must

remember to tell Lucius. Well, Potter … I expect you

know why you are here?”

Harry fully intended to respond with a defiant “yes”:

His mouth had opened and the word was half formed

when he caught sight of Dumbledore’s face.

Dumbledore was not looking directly at Harry; his

eyes were fixed upon a point just over his shoulder,

but as Harry stared at him, he shook his head a

fraction of an inch to each side.

Harry changed direction mid-word.

“Yeh — no.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Fudge.

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“No,” said Harry, firmly.

“You don’t know why you are here?”

“No, I don’t,” said Harry.

Fudge looked incredulously from Harry to Professor

Umbridge; Harry took advantage of his momentary

inattention to steal another quick look at

Dumbledore, who gave the carpet the tiniest of nods

and the shadow of a wink.

“So you have no idea,” said Fudge in a voice positively

sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has

brought you to this office? You are not aware that you

have broken any school rules?”

“School rules?” said Harry. “No.”

“Or Ministry decrees?” amended Fudge angrily.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Harry blandly.

His heart was still hammering very fast. It was almost

worth telling these lies to watch Fudge’s blood

pressure rising, but he could not see how on earth he

would get away with them. If somebody had tipped off

Umbridge about the D.A. then he, the leader, might

as well be packing his trunk right now.

“So it’s news to you, is it,” said Fudge, his voice now

thick with anger, “that an illegal student organization

has been discovered within this school?”

“Yes, it is,” said Harry, hoisting an unconvincing look

of innocent surprise onto his face.

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“I think, Minister,” said Umbridge silkily from beside him, “we might make better progress if I fetch our

informant.”

“Yes, yes, do,” said Fudge, nodding, and he glanced

maliciously at Dumbledore as Umbridge left the room.

“There’s nothing like a good witness, is there,

Dumbledore?”

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore gravely,

inclining his head.

There was a wait of several minutes, in which nobody

looked at each other, then Harry heard the door open

behind him. Umbridge moved past him into the room,

gripping by the shoulder Cho’s curly-haired friend

Marietta, who was hiding her face in her hands.

“Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” said

Professor Umbridge softly, patting her on the back,

“it’s quite all right, now. You have done the right

thing. The minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be

telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been.

Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she added, looking up at

Fudge, “is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of

Magical Transportation. Floo Network office — she’s

been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”

“Jolly good, jolly good!” said Fudge heartily. “Like

mother, like daughter, eh? Well, come on, now, dear,

look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to —

galloping gargoyles!”

As Marietta raised her head, Fudge leapt backward in

shock, nearly landing himself in the fire. He cursed

and stamped on the hem of his cloak, which had

started to smoke, and Marietta gave a wail and pulled

the neck of her robes right up to her eyes, but not

before the whole room had seen that her face was

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horribly disfigured by a series of close-set purple

pustules that had spread across her nose and cheeks

to form the word “SNEAK.”

“Never mind the spots now, dear,” said Umbridge

impatiently, “just take your robes away from your

mouth and tell the Minister —”

But Marietta gave another muffled wail and shook her

head frantically.

“Oh, very well, you silly girl, I’ll tell him,” snapped

Umbridge. She hitched her sickly smile back onto her

face and said, “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here

came to my office shortly after dinner this evening

and told me she had something she wanted to tell me.

She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the

seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of

Requirement, I would find out something to my

advantage. I questioned her a little further and she

admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting

there. Unfortunately at that point this hex,” she

waved impatiently at Marietta’s concealed face, “came

into operation and upon catching sight of her face in

my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me

any more.”

“Well, now,” said Fudge, fixing Marietta with what he

evidently imagined was a kind and fatherly look. “It is

very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor

Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will

you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was

its purpose? Who was there?”

But Marietta would not speak. She merely shook her

head again, her eyes wide and fearful.

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“Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge asked

Umbridge impatiently, gesturing at Marietta’s face.

“So she can speak freely?”

“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge

admitted grudgingly, and Harry felt a surge of pride in

Hermione’s jinxing ability. “But it doesn’t matter if

she won’t speak, I can take up the story from here.

“You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report

back in October that Potter had met a number of

fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade —”

“And what is your evidence for that?” cut in Professor

McGonagall.

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva,

who happened to be in the bar at the time. He was

heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite

unimpaired,” said Umbridge smugly. “He heard every

word Potter said and hastened straight to the school

to report to me —”

“Oh, so that’s why he wasn’t prosecuted for setting up

all those regurgitating toilets!” said Professor

McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “What an

interesting insight into our justice system!”

“Blatant corruption!” roared the portrait of the

corpulent, red-nosed wizard on the wall behind

Dumbledore’s desk. “The Ministry did not cut deals

with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!”

“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” said

Dumbledore softly.

“The purpose of Potter’s meeting with these students,”

continued Professor Umbridge, “was to persuade

them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn

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spells and curses the Ministry has decided are

inappropriate for school-age —”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” said

Dumbledore quietly, peering at her over the half-

moon spectacles perched halfway down his crooked

nose.

Harry stared at him. He could not see how

Dumbledore was going to talk him out of this one; if

Willy Widdershins had indeed heard every word he

said in the Hog’s Head there was simply no escaping

it.

“Oho!” said Fudge, bouncing up and down on the

balls of his feet again. “Yes, do let’s hear the latest

cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of

trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on — Willy

Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s

identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is there

the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of

time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of

invisible dementors?”

Percy Weasley let out a hearty laugh.

“Oh, very good, Minister, very good!”

Harry could have kicked him. Then he saw, to his

astonishment, that Dumbledore was smiling gently

too.

“Cornelius, I do not deny — and nor, I am sure, does

Harry — that he was in the Hog’s Head that day, nor

that he was trying to recruit students to a Defense

Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out

that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a

group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the

Ministry decree banning all student societies was not

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put into effect until two days after Harry’s Hogsmeade meeting, so he was not breaking any rules in the

Hog’s Head at all.”

Percy looked as though he had been struck in the

face by something very heavy. Fudge remained

motionless in mid-bounce, his mouth hanging open.

Umbridge recovered first.

“That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she said, smiling

sweetly. “But we are now nearly six months on from

the introduction of Educational Decree Number

Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all

those that have happened since most certainly are.”

“Well,” said Dumbledore, surveying her with polite

interest over the top of his interlocked fingers, “they

certainly would be, if they had continued after the

decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence

that these meetings continued?”

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry heard a rustle behind

him and rather thought Kingsley whispered

something. He could have sworn too that he felt

something brush against his side, a gentle something

like a draft or bird wings, but looking down he saw

nothing there.

“Evidence?” repeated Umbridge with that horrible

wide toadlike smile. “Have you not been listening,

Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is

here?”

“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of

meetings?” said Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows. “I

was under the impression that she was merely

reporting a meeting tonight.”

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“Miss Edgecombe,” said Umbridge at once, “tell us

how long these meetings have been going on, dear.

You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that

won’t make the spots worse. Have they been

happening regularly over the last six months?”

Harry felt a horrible plummeting in his stomach. This

was it, they had hit a dead end of solid evidence that

not even Dumbledore would be able to shift aside...

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge said

coaxingly to Marietta. “Come on, now, that won’t

activate the jinx further...”

Everyone in the room was gazing at the top of

Marietta’s face. Only her eyes were visible between

the pulled up robes and her curly fringe. Perhaps it

was a trick of the firelight, but her eyes looked oddly

blank. And then — to Harry’s utter amazement —

Marietta shook her head.

Umbridge looked quickly at Fudge and then back at

Marietta.

“I don’t think you understood the question, did you,

dear? I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these

meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t

you?”

Again, Marietta shook her head.

“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?”

said Umbridge in a testy voice.

“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,”

said Professor McGonagall harshly. “There have been

no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that

correct, Miss Edgecombe?”

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Marietta nodded.

“But there was a meeting tonight!” said Umbridge

furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe,

you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement!

And Potter was the leader, was he not, Potter

organized it, Potter — why are you shaking your head,

girl?”

“Well, usually when a person shakes their head,” said

McGonagall coldly, “they mean ‘no.’ So unless Miss

Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as yet

unknown to humans —”

Professor Umbridge seized Marietta, pulled her

around to face her, and began shaking her very hard.

A split second later Dumbledore was on his feet, his

wand raised. Kingsley started forward and Umbridge

leapt back from Marietta, waving her hands in the air

as though they had been burned.

“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students,

Dolores,” said Dumbledore, and for the first time, he

looked angry.

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” said

Kingsley in his deep, slow voice. “You don’t want to

get yourself into trouble now.”

“No,” said Umbridge breathlessly, glancing up at the

towering figure of Kingsley. “I mean, yes — you’re

right, Shacklebolt — I — I forgot myself.”

Marietta was standing exactly where Umbridge had

released her. She seemed neither perturbed by

Umbridge’s sudden attack, nor relieved by her

release. She was still clutching her robe up to her

oddly blank eyes, staring straight ahead of her. A

sudden suspicion connected to Kingsley’s whisper

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and the thing he had felt shoot past him sprang into

Harry’s mind.

“Dolores,” said Fudge, with the air of trying to settle

something once and for all, “the meeting tonight —

the one we know definitely happened —”

“Yes,” said Umbridge, pulling herself together, “yes …

well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded

at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain

trustworthy students, so as to catch those in the

meeting red-handed. It appears that they were

forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we

reached the seventh floor they were running in every

direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their

names here, Miss Parkinson ran into the Room of

Requirement for me to see if they had left anything

behind... We needed evidence and the room provided

…”

And to Harry’s horror, she withdrew from her pocket

the list of names that had been pinned upon the

Room of Requirement’s wall and handed it to Fudge.

“The moment I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew

what we were dealing with,” she said softly.

“Excellent,” said Fudge, a smile spreading across his

face. “Excellent, Dolores. And … by thunder …”

He looked up at Dumbledore, who was still standing

beside Marietta, his wand held loosely in his hand.

“See what they’ve named themselves?” said Fudge

quietly. “Dumbledore’s Army. ”

Dumbledore reached out and took the piece of

parchment from Fudge. He gazed at the heading

scribbled by Hermione months before and for a

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moment seemed unable to speak. Then he looked up,

smiling.

“Well, the game is up,” he said simply. “Would you

like a written confession from me, Cornelius — or will

a statement before these witnesses suffice?”

Harry saw McGonagall and Kingsley look at each

other. There was fear in both faces. He did not

understand what was going on, and neither,

apparently, did Fudge.

“Statement?” said Fudge slowly. “What — I don’t — ?”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore,

still smiling as he waved the list of names before

Fudge’s face. “Not Potter’s Army. Dumbledore’s Army. ”

“But — but —”

Understanding blazed suddenly in Fudge’s face. He

took a horrified step backward, yelped, and jumped

out of the fire again.

“You?” he whispered, stamping again on his

smoldering cloak.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.

“You organized this?”

“I did,” said Dumbledore.

“You recruited these students for — for your army?”

“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting,” said

Dumbledore, nodding. “Merely to see whether they

would be interested in joining me. I see now that it

was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.”

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Marietta nodded. Fudge looked from her to

Dumbledore, his chest swelling.

“Then you have been plotting against me!” he yelled.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

“NO!” shouted Harry.

Kingsley flashed a look of warning at him,

McGonagall widened her eyes threateningly, but it

had suddenly dawned upon Harry what Dumbledore

was about to do, and he could not let it happen.

“No — Professor Dumbledore!”

“Be quiet, Harry, or I am afraid you will have to leave

my office,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Yes, shut up, Potter!” barked Fudge, who was still

ogling Dumbledore with a kind of horrified delight.

“Well, well, well — I came here tonight expecting to

expel Potter and instead —”

“Instead you get to arrest me,” said Dumbledore,

smiling. “It’s like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon,

isn’t it?”

“Weasley!” cried Fudge, now positively quivering with

delight, “Weasley, have you written it all down,

everything he’s said, his confession, have you got it?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” said Percy eagerly, whose

nose was splattered with ink from the speed of his

note-taking.

“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an

army against the Ministry, how he’s been working to

destabilize me?”

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“Yes, sir, I’ve got it, yes!” said Percy, scanning his notes joyfully.

“Very well, then,” said Fudge, now radiant with glee.

“Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to

the Daily Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we

should make the morning edition!” Percy dashed from

the room, slamming the door behind him, and Fudge

turned back to Dumbledore. “You will now be

escorted back to the Ministry, where you will be

formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await

trial!”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore gently, “yes. Yes, I thought we

might hit that little snag.”

“Snag?” said Fudge, his voice still vibrating with joy.

“I see no snag, Dumbledore!”

“Well,” said Dumbledore apologetically, “I’m afraid I

do.”

“Oh really?”

“Well — it’s just that you seem to be laboring under

the delusion that I am going to — what is the phrase?

‘Come quietly.’ I am afraid I am not going to come

quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no

intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out,

of course — but what a waste of time, and frankly, I

can think of a whole host of things I would rather be

doing.”

Umbridge’s face was growing steadily redder, she

looked as though she was being filled with boiling

water. Fudge stared at Dumbledore with a very silly

expression on his face, as though he had just been

stunned by a sudden blow and could not quite believe

it had happened. He made a small choking noise and

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then looked around at Kingsley and the man with

short gray hair, who alone of everyone in the room

had remained entirely silent so far. The latter gave

Fudge a reassuring nod and moved forward a little,

away from the wall. Harry saw his hand drift, almost

casually, toward his pocket.

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” said Dumbledore kindly.

“I’m sure you are an excellent Auror, I seem to

remember that you achieved ‘Outstanding’ in all your

N.E.W.T.s, but if you attempt to — er — ‘bring me in’

by force, I will have to hurt you.”

The man called Dawlish blinked, looking rather

foolish. He looked toward Fudge again, but this time

seemed to be hoping for a clue as to what to do next.

“So,” sneered Fudge, recovering himself, “you intend

to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself

single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”

“Merlin’s beard, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “Not

unless you are foolish enough to force me to.”

“He will not be single-handed!” said Professor

McGonagall loudly, plunging her hand inside her

robes.

“Oh yes he will, Minerva!” said Dumbledore sharply.

“Hogwarts needs you!”

“Enough of this rubbish!” said Fudge, pulling out his

own wand. “Dawlish! Shacklebolt! Take him!”

A streak of silver light flashed around the room. There

was a bang like a gunshot, and the floor trembled. A

hand grabbed the scruff of Harry’s neck and forced

him down on the floor as a second silver flash went

off — several of the portraits yelled, Fawkes

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screeched, and a cloud of dust filled the air. Coughing in the dust, Harry saw a dark figure fall to the ground

with a crash in front of him. There was a shriek and a

thud and somebody cried, “No!” Then the sound of

breaking glass, frantically scuffling footsteps, a groan

— and silence.

Harry struggled around to see who was half-

strangling him and saw Professor McGonagall

crouched beside him. She had forced both him and

Marietta out of harm’s way. Dust was still floating

gently down through the air onto them. Panting

slightly, Harry saw a very tall figure moving toward

them.

“Are you all right?” said Dumbledore.

“Yes!” said Professor McGonagall, getting up and

dragging Harry and Marietta with her.

The dust was clearing. The wreckage of the office

loomed into view: Dumbledore’s desk had been

overturned, all of the spindly tables had been

knocked to the floor, their silver instruments in

pieces. Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish lay

motionless on the floor. Fawkes the phoenix soared in

wide circles above them, singing softly.

“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would

have looked very suspicious,” said Dumbledore in a

low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake,

modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that while

everyone was looking the other way — thank him for

me, won’t you, Minerva?

“Now, they will all awake very soon and it will be best

if they do not know that we had time to communicate

— you must act as though no time has passed, as

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though they were merely knocked to the ground, they

will not remember —”

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” whispered

Professor McGonagall. “Grimmauld Place?”

“Oh no,” said Dumbledore with a grim smile. “I am

not leaving to go into hiding. Fudge will soon wish

he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise

you...”

“Professor Dumbledore …” Harry began.

He did not know what to say first: how sorry he was

that he had started the D.A. in the first place and

caused all this trouble, or how terrible he felt that

Dumbledore was leaving to save him from expulsion?

But Dumbledore cut him off before he could say

another word.

“Listen to me, Harry,” he said urgently, “you must

study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you

understand me? Do everything Professor Snape tells

you and practice it particularly every night before

sleeping so that you can close your mind to bad

dreams — you will understand why soon enough, but

you must promise me —”

The man called Dawlish was stirring. Dumbledore

seized Harry’s wrist.

“Remember — close your mind —”

But as Dumbledore’s fingers closed over Harry’s skin,

a pain shot through the scar on his forehead, and he

felt again that terrible, snakelike longing to strike

Dumbledore, to bite him, to hurt him —

“— you will understand,” whispered Dumbledore.

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Fawkes circled the office and swooped low over him.

Dumbledore released Harry, raised his hand, and

grasped the phoenix’s long golden tail. There was a

flash of fire and the pair of them had gone.

“Where is he?” yelled Fudge, pushing himself up from

the ground. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” shouted Kingsley, also leaping to his

feet.

“Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” cried Umbridge.

“You can’t inside this school —”

“The stairs!” cried Dawlish, and he flung himself upon

the door, wrenched it open, and disappeared, followed

closely by Kingsley and Umbridge. Fudge hesitated,

then got to his feet slowly, brushing dust from his

front. There was a long and painful silence.

“Well, Minerva,” said Fudge nastily, straightening his

torn shirtsleeve, “I’m afraid this is the end of your

friend Dumbledore.”

“You think so, do you?” said Professor McGonagall

scornfully.

Fudge seemed not to hear her. He was looking around

at the wrecked office. A few of the portraits hissed at

him; one or two even made rude hand gestures.

“You’d better get those two off to bed,” said Fudge,

looking back at Professor McGonagall with a

dismissive nod toward Harry and Marietta.

She said nothing, but marched Harry and Marietta to

the door. As it swung closed behind them, Harry

heard Phineas Nigellus’s voice.

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“You know, Minister, I disagree with Dumbledore on

many counts … but you cannot deny he’s got style...”

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SNAPE’S WORST MEMORY

— BY ORDER OF —

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced

Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The above is in accordance with

Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight.

Signed:

Cornelius Oswald Fudge

MINISTER OF MAGIC

The notices had gone up all over the school overnight,

but they did not explain how every single person

within the castle seemed to know that Dumbledore

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had overcome two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the

Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant to escape.

No matter where Harry went within the castle next

day, the sole topic of conversation was Dumbledore’s

flight, and though some of the details might have

gone awry in the retelling (Harry overheard one

second-year girl assuring another that Fudge was

now lying in St. Mungo’s with a pumpkin for a head),

it was surprising how accurate the rest of their

information was. Everybody seemed aware, for

instance, that Harry and Marietta were the only

students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore’s

office, and as Marietta was now in the hospital wing,

Harry found himself besieged with requests to give a

firsthand account wherever he went.

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” said Ernie

Macmillan confidently on the way back from

Herbology after listening intently to Harry’s story.

“They couldn’t keep him away in our second year and

they won’t be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me

…” He dropped his voice conspiratorially, so that

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to lean closer to him

to hear, “… that Umbridge tried to get back into his

office last night after they’d searched the castle and

grounds for him. Couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The

Head’s office has sealed itself against her.” Ernie

smirked. “Apparently she had a right little tantrum...”

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up

there in the Head’s office,” said Hermione viciously, as

they walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall.

“Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid

puffed-up, power-crazy old —”

“Now, do you really want to finish that sentence,

Granger?”

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Draco Malfoy had slid out from behind the door,

followed by Crabbe and Goyle. His pale, pointed face

was alight with malice.

“Afraid I’m going to have to dock a few points from

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff,” he drawled.

“It’s only teachers that can dock points from Houses,

Malfoy,” said Ernie at once.

“Yeah, we’re prefects too, remember?” snarled Ron.

“I know prefects can’t dock points, Weasel King,”

sneered Malfoy; Crabbe and Goyle sniggered. “But

members of the Inquisitorial Squad —”

“The what?” said Hermione sharply.

“The Inquisitorial Squad, Granger,” said Malfoy,

pointing toward a tiny silver I upon his robes just

beneath his prefect’s badge. “A select group of

students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic,

hand-picked by Professor Umbridge. Anyway,

members of the Inquisitorial Squad do have the power

to dock points... So, Granger, I’ll have five from you

for being rude about our new headmistress...

Macmillan, five for contradicting me... Five because I

don’t like you, Potter … Weasley, your shirt’s

untucked, so I’ll have another five for that... Oh yeah,

I forgot, you’re a Mudblood, Granger, so ten for

that...”

Ron pulled out his wand, but Hermione pushed it

away, whispering, “Don’t!”

“Wise move, Granger,” breathed Malfoy. “New Head,

new times … Be good now, Potty … Weasel King …”

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He strode away, laughing heartily with Crabbe and

Goyle.

“He was bluffing,” said Ernie, looking appalled. “He

can’t be allowed to dock points … that would be

ridiculous... It would completely undermine the

prefect system...”

But Harry, Ron, and Hermione had turned

automatically toward the giant hourglasses set in

niches along the wall behind them, which recorded

the House points. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had been

neck and neck in the lead that morning. Even as they

watched, stones flew upward, reducing the amounts

in the lower bulbs. In fact, the only glass that seemed

unchanged was the emerald-filled one of Slytherin.

“Noticed, have you?” said Fred’s voice.

He and George had just come down the marble

staircase and joined Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie

in front of the hourglasses.

“Malfoy just docked us all about fifty points,” said

Harry furiously, as they watched several more stones

fly upward from the Gryffindor hourglass.

“Yeah, Montague tried to do us during break,” said

George.

“What do you mean, ‘tried’?” said Ron quickly.

“He never managed to get all the words out,” said

Fred, “due to the fact that we forced him headfirst

into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor.”

Hermione looked very shocked.

“But you’ll get into terrible trouble!”

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“Not until Montague reappears, and that could take

weeks, I dunno where we sent him,” said Fred coolly.

“Anyway … we’ve decided we don’t care about getting

into trouble anymore.”

“Have you ever?” asked Hermione.

“ ’Course we have,” said George. “Never been expelled,

have we?”

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” said

Fred.

“We might have put a toe across it occasionally,” said

George.

“But we’ve always stopped short of causing real

mayhem,” said Fred.

“But now?” said Ron tentatively.

“Well, now —” said George.

“— what with Dumbledore gone —” said Fred.

“— we reckon a bit of mayhem —” said George.

“— is exactly what our dear new Head deserves,” said

Fred.

“You mustn’t!” whispered Hermione. “You really

mustn’t! She’d love a reason to expel you!”

“You don’t get it, Hermione, do you?” said Fred,

smiling at her. “We don’t care about staying anymore.

We’d walk out right now if we weren’t determined to

do our bit for Dumbledore first. So anyway,” he

checked his watch, “phase one is about to begin. I’d

get in the Great Hall for lunch if I were you, that way

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the teachers will see you can’t have had anything to

do with it.”

“Anything to do with what?” said Hermione anxiously.

“You’ll see,” said George. “Run along, now.”

Fred and George turned away and disappeared in the

swelling crowd descending the stairs toward lunch.

Looking highly disconcerted, Ernie muttered

something about unfinished Transfiguration

homework and scurried away.

“I think we should get out of here, you know,” said

Hermione nervously. “Just in case …”

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron, and the three of them

moved toward the doors to the Great Hall, but Harry

had barely glimpsed today’s ceiling of scudding white

clouds when somebody tapped him on the shoulder

and, turning, he found himself almost nose to nose

with Filch, the caretaker. He took several hasty steps

backward; Filch was best viewed at a distance.

“The headmistress would like to see you, Potter,” he

leered.

“I didn’t do it,” said Harry stupidly, thinking of

whatever Fred and George were planning. Filch’s

jowls wobbled with silent laughter.

“Guilty conscience, eh?” he wheezed. “Follow me...”

Harry glanced back at Ron and Hermione, who were

both looking worried. He shrugged and followed Filch

back into the entrance hall, against the tide of hungry

students.

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Filch seemed to be in an extremely good mood; he

hummed creakily under his breath as they climbed

the marble staircase. As they reached the first landing

he said, “Things are changing around here, Potter.”

“I’ve noticed,” said Harry coldly.

“Yerse … I’ve been telling Dumbledore for years and

years he’s too soft with you all,” said Filch, chuckling

nastily. “You filthy little beasts would never have

dropped Stinkpellets if you’d known I had it in my

power to whip you raw, would you, now? Nobody

would have thought of throwing Fanged Frisbees

down the corridors if I could’ve strung you up by the

ankles in my office, would they? But when

Educational Decree Twenty-nine comes in, Potter, I’ll

be allowed to do them things... And she’s asked the

Minister to sign an order for the expulsion of Peeves...

Oh, things are going to be very different around here

with her in charge...”

Umbridge had obviously gone to some lengths to get

Filch on her side, Harry thought, and the worst of it

was that he would probably prove an important

weapon; his knowledge of the school’s secret

passageways and hiding places was probably second

only to the Weasley twins.

“Here we are,” he said, leering down at Harry as he

rapped three times upon Professor Umbridge’s door

and pushed it open. “The Potter boy to see you,

ma’am.”

Umbridge’s office, so very familiar to Harry from his

many detentions, was the same as usual except for

the large wooden block lying across the front of her

desk on which golden letters spelled the word

HEADMISTRESS; also his Firebolt, and Fred’s and

George’s Clean-sweeps, which he saw with a pang

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were now chained and padlocked to a stout iron peg

in the wall behind the desk. Umbridge was sitting

behind the desk, busily scribbling upon some of her

pink parchment, but looked up and smiled widely at

their entrance.

“Thank you, Argus,” she said sweetly.

“Not at all, ma’am, not at all,” said Filch, bowing as

low as his rheumatism would permit, and exiting

backward.

“Sit,” said Umbridge curtly, pointing toward a chair,

and Harry sat. She continued to scribble for a few

moments. He watched some of the foul kittens

gamboling around the plates over her head,

wondering what fresh horror she had in store for him.

“Well now,” she said finally, setting down her quill

and looking like a toad about to swallow a

particularly juicy fly. “What would you like to drink?”

“What?” said Harry, quite sure he had misheard her.

“To drink, Mr. Potter,” she said, smiling still more

widely. “Tea? Coffee? Pumpkin juice?”

As she named each drink, she gave her short wand a

wave, and a cup or glass of it appeared upon her

desk.

“Nothing, thank you,” said Harry.

“I wish you to have a drink with me,” she said, her

voice becoming more dangerously sweet. “Choose

one.”

“Fine … tea then,” said Harry, shrugging.

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She got up and made quite a performance of adding

milk with her back to him. She then bustled around

the desk with it, smiling in sinisterly sweet fashion.

“There,” she said, handing it to him. “Drink it before it

gets cold, won’t you? Well, now, Mr. Potter … I

thought we ought to have a little chat, after the

distressing events of last night.”

He said nothing. She settled herself back into her seat

and waited. When several long moments had passed

in silence, she said gaily, “You’re not drinking up!”

He raised the cup to his lips and then, just as

suddenly, lowered it. One of the horrible painted

kittens behind Umbridge had great round blue eyes

just like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical one, and it had

just occurred to Harry what Mad-Eye would say if he

ever heard that Harry had drunk anything offered by

a known enemy.

“What’s the matter?” said Umbridge, who was still

watching him. “Do you want sugar?”

“No,” said Harry.

He raised the cup to his lips again and pretended to

take a sip, though keeping his mouth tightly closed.

Umbridge’s smile widened.

“Good,” she whispered. “Very good. Now then …” She

leaned forward a little. “Where is Albus Dumbledore?”

“No idea,” said Harry promptly.

“Drink up, drink up,” she said, still smiling. “Now,

Mr. Potter, let us not play childish games. I know that

you know where he has gone. You and Dumbledore

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have been in this together from the beginning.

Consider your position, Mr. Potter...”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Harry pretended to drink again.

“Very well,” said Umbridge, looking displeased. “In

that case, you will kindly tell me the whereabouts of

Sirius Black.”

Harry’s stomach turned over and his hand holding

the teacup shook so that the cup rattled in its saucer.

He tilted the cup to his mouth with his lips pressed

together, so that some of the hot liquid trickled down

onto his robes.

“I don’t know,” he said a little too quickly.

“Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge, “let me remind you that

it was I who almost caught the criminal Black in the

Gryffindor fire in October. I know perfectly well it was

you he was meeting and if I had had any proof neither

of you would be at large today, I promise you. I

repeat, Mr. Potter … Where is Sirius Black?”

“No idea,” said Harry loudly. “Haven’t got a clue.”

They stared at each other so long that Harry felt his

eyes watering. Then she stood up.

“Very well, Potter, I will take your word for it this

time, but be warned: The might of the Ministry stands

behind me. All channels of communication in and out

of this school are being monitored. A Floo Network

Regulator is keeping watch over every fire in Hogwarts

— except my own, of course. My Inquisitorial Squad

is opening and reading all owl post entering and

leaving the castle. And Mr. Filch is observing all

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secret passages in and out of the castle. If I find a shred of evidence …”

BOOM!

The very floor of the office shook; Umbridge slipped

sideways, clutching her desk for support, looking

shocked.

“What was — ?”

She was gazing toward the door; Harry took the

opportunity to empty his almost full cup of tea into

the nearest vase of dried flowers. He could hear

people running and screaming several floors below.

“Back to lunch with you, Potter!” cried Umbridge,

raising her wand and dashing out of the office. Harry

gave her a few seconds’ start then hurried after her to

see what the source of all the uproar was.

It was not difficult to find. One floor down,

pandemonium reigned. Somebody (and Harry had a

very shrewd idea who) had set off what seemed to be

an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks.

Dragons comprised entirely of green-and-gold sparks

were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting

loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went. Shocking-

pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were

whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying

saucers. Rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars

were ricocheting off the walls. Sparklers were writing

swearwords in midair of their own accord.

Firecrackers were exploding like mines everywhere

Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out,

fading from sight, or fizzling to a halt, these

pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy

and momentum the longer he watched.

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Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently

transfixed with horror, halfway down the stairs. As

Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels

seemed to decide that what it needed was more room

to maneuver; it whirled toward Umbridge and Filch

with a sinister wheeeeeeeeee. Both adults yelled with

fright and ducked and it soared straight out of the

window behind them and off across the grounds.

Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple

bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of

the open door at the end of the corridor to escape

toward the second floor.

“Hurry, Filch, hurry!” shrieked Umbridge. “They’ll be

all over the school unless we do something —

Stupefy!”

A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and

hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it

exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a

painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a

meadow — she ran for it just in time, reappearing

seconds later squashed into the painting next door,

where a couple of wizards playing cards stood up

hastily to make room for her.

“Don’t Stun them, Filch!” shouted Umbridge angrily,

for all the world as though it had been his suggestion.

“Right you are, Headmistress!” wheezed Filch, who

was a Squib and could no more have Stunned the

fireworks than swallowed them. He dashed to a

nearby cupboard, pulled out a broom, and began

swatting at the fireworks in midair; within seconds

the head of the broom was ablaze.

Harry had seen enough. Laughing, he ducked down

low, ran to a door he knew was concealed behind a

tapestry a little way along the corridor and slipped

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through it to find Fred and George hiding just behind it, listening to Umbridge’s and Filch’s yells and

quaking with suppressed mirth.

“Impressive,” Harry said quietly, grinning. “Very

impressive … You’ll put Dr. Filibuster out of business,

no problem...”

“Cheers,” whispered George, wiping tears of laughter

from his face. “Oh, I hope she tries Vanishing them

next... They multiply by ten every time you try...”

The fireworks continued to burn and to spread all

over the school that afternoon. Though they caused

plenty of disruption, particularly the firecrackers, the

other teachers did not seem to mind them very much.

“Dear, dear,” said Professor McGonagall sardonically,

as one of the dragons soared around her classroom,

emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. “Miss Brown,

would you mind running along to the headmistress

and informing her that we have an escaped firework

in our classroom?”

The upshot of it all was that Professor Umbridge

spent her first afternoon as headmistress running all

over the school answering the summonses of the

other teachers, none of whom seemed able to rid their

rooms of the fireworks without her. When the final

bell rang and the students were heading back to

Gryffindor Tower with their bags, Harry saw, with

immense satisfaction, a disheveled and soot-

blackened Umbridge tottering sweaty-faced from

Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” said Professor

Flitwick in his squeaky little voice. “I could have got

rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t

sure whether I had the authority... ”

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Beaming, he closed his classroom door in her snarling face.

Fred and George were heroes that night in the

Gryffindor common room. Even Hermione fought her

way through the excited crowd around them to

congratulate them.

“They were wonderful fireworks,” she said admiringly.

“Thanks,” said George, looking both surprised and

pleased. “Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. Only thing

is, we used our whole stock, we’re going to have to

start again from scratch now...”

“It was worth it, though,” said Fred, who was taking

orders from clamoring Gryffindors. “If you want to

add your name to the waiting list, Hermione, it’s five

Galleons for your Basic Blaze box and twenty for the

Deflagration Deluxe...”

Hermione returned to the table where Harry and Ron

were sitting staring at their schoolbags as though

hoping their homework might spring out of it and

start doing itself.

“Oh, why don’t we have a night off?” said Hermione

brightly, as a silver-tailed Weasley rocket zoomed past

the window. “After all, the Easter holidays start on

Friday, we’ll have plenty of time then...”

“Are you feeling all right?” Ron asked, staring at her

in disbelief.

“Now you mention it,” said Hermione happily, “d’you

know … I think I’m feeling a bit … rebellious. ”

Harry could still hear the distant bangs of escaped

firecrackers when he and Ron went up to bed an hour

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later, and as he got undressed a sparkler floated past the tower, still resolutely spelling out the word POO.

He got into bed, yawning. With his glasses off, the

occasional fire-work still passing the window became

blurred, looking like sparkling clouds, beautiful and

mysterious against the black sky. He turned onto his

side, wondering how Umbridge was feeling about her

first day in Dumbledore’s job, and how Fudge would

react when he heard that the school had spent most

of the day in a state of advanced disruption... Smiling

to himself, he closed his eyes...

The whizzes and bangs of escaped fireworks in the

grounds seemed to be growing more distant … or

perhaps he, Harry, was simply speeding away from

them...

He had fallen right into the corridor leading to the

Department of Mysteries. He was speeding toward the

plain black door... Let it open... Let it open...

It did. He was inside the circular room lined with

doors... He crossed it, placed his hand upon an

identical door, and it swung inward...

Now he was in a long, rectangular room full of an odd,

mechanical clicking. There were dancing flecks of

light on the walls but he did not pause to

investigate... He had to go on...

There was a door at the far end... It too opened at his

touch...

And now he was in a dimly lit room as high and wide

as a church, full of nothing but rows and rows of

towering shelves, each laden with small, dusty, spun-

glass spheres... Now Harry’s heart was beating fast

with excitement... He knew where to go... He ran

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forward, but his footsteps made no noise in the

enormous, deserted room...

There was something in this room he wanted very,

very much...

Something he wanted... or somebody else wanted...

His scar was hurting...

BANG! Harry awoke instantly, confused and angry.

The dark dormitory was full of the sound of laughter.

“Cool!” said Seamus, who was silhouetted against the

window.

“I think one of those Catherine wheels hit a rocket

and it’s like they mated, come and see!”

Harry heard Ron and Dean scramble out of bed for a

better look. He lay quite still and silent while the pain

in his scar subsided and disappointment washed over

him. He felt as though a wonderful treat had been

snatched from him at the very last moment... He had

got so close that time...

Glittering, pink-and-silver winged piglets were now

soaring past the windows of Gryffindor Tower. Harry

lay and listened to the appreciative whoops of

Gryffindors in the dormitories below them. His

stomach gave a sickening jolt as he remembered that

he had Occlumency the following evening...

Harry spent the whole of the next day dreading what

Snape was going to say if he found out how much

farther into the Department of Mysteries he had

penetrated during his last dream. With a surge of

guilt he realized that he had not practiced

Occlumency once since their last lesson: There had

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been too much going on since Dumbledore had left.

He was sure he would not have been able to empty

his mind even if he had tried. He doubted, however,

whether Snape would accept that excuse...

He attempted a little last-minute practice during

classes that day, but it was no good, Hermione kept

asking him what was wrong whenever he fell silent

trying to rid himself of all thought and emotion and,

after all, the best moment to empty his brain was not

while teachers were firing review questions at the

class.

Resigned to the worst, he set off for Snape’s office

after dinner. Halfway across the entrance hall,

however, Cho came hurrying up to him.

“Over here,” said Harry, glad of a reason to postpone

his meeting with Snape and beckoning her across to

the corner of the entrance hall where the giant

hourglasses stood. Gryffindor’s was now almost

empty. “Are you okay? Umbridge hasn’t been asking

you about the D.A., has she?”

“Oh no,” said Cho hurriedly. “No, it was only … Well, I

just wanted to say … Harry, I never dreamed Marietta

would tell...”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry moodily. He did feel Cho

might have chosen her friends a bit more carefully. It

was small consolation that the last he had heard,

Marietta was still up in the hospital wing and Madam

Pomfrey had not been able to make the slightest

improvement to her pimples.

“She’s a lovely person really,” said Cho. “She just

made a mistake —”

Harry looked at her incredulously.

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“A lovely person who made a mistake? She sold us all out, including you!”

“Well … we all got away, didn’t we?” said Cho

pleadingly. “You know, her mum works for the

Ministry, it’s really difficult for her —”

“Ron’s dad works for the Ministry too!” Harry said

furiously. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t

got ‘sneak’ written across his face —”

“That was a really horrible trick of Hermione

Granger’s,” said Cho fiercely. “She should have told

us she’d jinxed that list —”

“I think it was a brilliant idea,” said Harry coldly. Cho

flushed and her eyes grew brighter.

“Oh yes, I forgot — of course, if it was darling

Hermione’s idea —”

“Don’t start crying again,” said Harry warningly.

“I wasn’t going to!” she shouted.

“Yeah … well … good,” he said. “I’ve got enough to

cope with at the moment.”

“Go and cope with it then!” she said furiously, turning

on her heel and stalking off.

Fuming, Harry descended the stairs to Snape’s

dungeon, and though he knew from experience how

much easier it would be for Snape to penetrate his

mind if he arrived angry and resentful, he succeeded

in nothing but thinking of a few more good things he

should have said to Cho about Marietta before

reaching the dungeon door.

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“You’re late, Potter,” said Snape coldly, as Harry

closed the door behind him.

Snape was standing with his back to Harry, removing,

as usual, certain of his thoughts and placing them

carefully in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. He dropped the

last silvery strand into the stone basin and turned to

face Harry.

“So,” he said. “Have you been practicing?”

“Yes,” Harry lied, looking carefully at one of the legs of

Snape’s desk.

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?” said Snape

smoothly. “Wand out, Potter.”

Harry moved into his usual position, facing Snape

with the desk between them. His heart was pumping

fast with anger at Cho and anxiety about how much

Snape was about to extract from his mind.

“On the count of three then,” said Snape lazily. “One

— two —”

Snape’s office door banged open and Draco Malfoy

sped in.

“Professor Snape, sir — oh — sorry —”

Malfoy was looking at Snape and Harry in some

surprise.

“It’s all right, Draco,” said Snape, lowering his wand.

“Potter is here for a little Remedial Potions.”

Harry had not seen Malfoy look so gleeful since

Umbridge had turned up to inspect Hagrid.

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“I didn’t know,” he said, leering at Harry, who knew

his face was burning. He would have given a great

deal to be able to shout the truth at Malfoy — or, even

better, to hit him with a good curse.

“Well, Draco, what is it?” asked Snape.

“It’s Professor Umbridge, sir — she needs your help,”

said Malfoy. “They’ve found Montague, sir. He’s

turned up jammed inside a toilet on the fourth floor.”

“How did he get in there?” demanded Snape.

“I don’t know, sir, he’s a bit confused...”

“Very well, very well — Potter,” said Snape, “we shall

resume this lesson tomorrow evening instead.”

He turned and swept from his office. Malfoy mouthed

“Remedial Potions?” at Harry behind Snape’s back

before following him.

Seething, Harry replaced his wand inside his robes

and made to leave the room. At least he had twenty-

four more hours in which to practice; he knew he

ought to feel grateful for the narrow escape, though it

was hard that it came at the expense of Malfoy telling

the whole school that he needed Remedial Potions...

He was at the office door when he saw it: a patch of

shivering light dancing on the door frame. He

stopped, looking at it, reminded of something... Then

he remembered: It was a little like the lights he had

seen in his dream last night, the lights in the second

room he had walked through on his journey through

the Department of Mysteries.

He turned around. The light was coming from the

Pensieve sitting on Snape’s desk. The silver-white

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contents were ebbing and swirling within. Snape’s

thoughts … things he did not want Harry to see if he

broke through Snape’s defenses accidentally...

Harry gazed at the Pensieve, curiosity welling inside

him... What was it that Snape was so keen to hide

from Harry?

The silvery lights shivered on the wall... Harry took

two steps toward the desk, thinking hard. Could it

possibly be information about the Department of

Mysteries that Snape was determined to keep from

him?

Harry looked over his shoulder, his heart now

pumping harder and faster than ever. How long would

it take Snape to release Montague from the toilet?

Would he come straight back to his office afterward,

or accompany Montague to the hospital wing? Surely

the latter … Montague was Captain of the Slytherin

Quidditch team, Snape would want to make sure he

was all right...

Harry walked the remaining few feet to the Pensieve

and stood over it, gazing into its depths. He hesitated,

listening, then pulled out his wand again. The office

and the corridor beyond were completely silent. He

gave the contents of the Pensieve a small prod with

the end of his wand.

The silvery stuff within began to swirl very fast. Harry

leaned forward over it and saw that it had become

transparent. He was, once again, looking down into a

room as though through a circular window in the

ceiling... In fact, unless he was much mistaken, he

was looking down upon the Great Hall...

His breath was actually fogging the surface of Snape’s

thoughts... His brain seemed to be in limbo... It would

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be insane to do the thing that he was so strongly

tempted to do... He was trembling... Snape could be

back at any moment … but Harry thought of Cho’s

anger, of Malfoy’s jeering face, and a reckless daring

seized him.

He took a great gulp of breath and plunged his face

into the surface of Snape’s thoughts. At once, the

floor of the office lurched, tipping Harry headfirst into

the Pensieve...

He was falling through cold blackness, spinning

furiously as he went, and then —

He was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, but

the four House tables were gone. Instead there were

more than a hundred smaller tables, all facing the

same way, at each of which sat a student, head bent

low, scribbling on a roll of parchment. The only sound

was the scratching of quills and the occasional rustle

as somebody adjusted their parchment. It was clearly

exam time.

Sunshine was streaming through the high windows

onto the bent heads, which shone chestnut and

copper and gold in the bright light. Harry looked

around carefully. Snape had to be here somewhere...

This was his memory...

And there he was, at a table right behind Harry.

Harry stared. Snape-the-teenager had a stringy, pallid

look about him, like a plant kept in the dark. His hair

was lank and greasy and was flopping onto the table,

his hooked nose barely half an inch from the surface

of the parchment as he scribbled. Harry moved

around behind Snape and read the heading of the

examination paper:

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS —

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ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL

So Snape had to be fifteen or sixteen, around Harry’s

own age. His hand was flying across the parchment;

he had written at least a foot more than his closest

neighbors, and yet his writing was minuscule and

cramped.

“Five more minutes!”

The voice made Harry jump; turning, he saw the top

of Professor Flitwick’s head moving between the desks

a short distance away. Professor Flitwick was walking

past a boy with untidy black hair … very untidy black

hair...

Harry moved so quickly that, had he been solid, he

would have knocked desks flying. Instead he seemed

to slide, dreamlike, across two aisles and up a third.

The back of the black-haired boy’s head drew nearer

and nearer... He was straightening up now, putting

down his quill, pulling his roll of parchment toward

him so as to reread what he had written...

Harry stopped in front of the desk and gazed down at

his fifteen-year-old father.

Excitement exploded in the pit of his stomach: It was

as though he was looking at himself but with

deliberate mistakes. James’s eyes were hazel, his

nose was slightly longer than Harry’s, and there was

no scar on his forehead, but they had the same thin

face, same mouth, same eyebrows. James’s hair

stuck up at the back exactly as Harry’s did, his hands

could have been Harry’s, and Harry could tell that

when James stood up, they would be within an inch

of each other’s heights.

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James yawned hugely and rumpled up his hair,

making it even messier than it had been. Then, with a

glance toward Professor Flitwick, he turned in his

seat and grinned at a boy sitting four seats behind

him.

With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius

give James the thumbs-up. Sirius was lounging in his

chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was

very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with

a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s

could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind

him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem

to have noticed. And two seats along from this girl —

Harry’s stomach gave another pleasurable squirm —

was Remus Lupin. He looked rather pale and peaky

(was the full moon approaching?) and was absorbed

in the exam: As he reread his answers he scratched

his chin with the end of his quill, frowning slightly.

So that meant Wormtail had to be around here

somewhere too … and sure enough, Harry spotted

him within seconds: a small, mousy-haired boy with a

pointed nose. Wormtail looked anxious; he was

chewing his fingernails, staring down at his paper,

scuffing the ground with his toes. Every now and then

he glanced hopefully at his neighbor’s paper. Harry

stared at Wormtail for a moment, then back at

James, who was now doodling on a bit of scrap

parchment. He had drawn a Snitch and was now

tracing the letters L. E. What did they stand for?

“Quills down, please!” squeaked Professor Flitwick.

“That means you too, Stebbins! Please remain seated

while I collect your parchment! Accio!”

More than a hundred rolls of parchment zoomed into

the air and into Professor Flitwick’s outstretched

arms, knocking him backward off his feet. Several

P a g e | 819 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

people laughed. A couple of students at the front

desks got up, took hold of Professor Flitwick beneath

the elbows, and lifted him onto his feet again.

“Thank you … thank you,” panted Professor Flitwick.

“Very well, everybody, you’re free to go!”

Harry looked down at his father, who had hastily

crossed out the L. E. he had been embellishing,

jumped to his feet, stuffed his quill and the exam

question paper into his bag, which he slung over his

back, and stood waiting for Sirius to join him.

Harry looked around and glimpsed Snape a short way

away, moving between the tables toward the doors

into the entrance hall, still absorbed in his own

examination paper. Round-shouldered yet angular, he

walked in a twitchy manner that recalled a spider, his

oily hair swinging about his face.

A gang of chattering girls separated Snape from

James and Sirius, and by planting himself in the

midst of this group, Harry managed to keep Snape in

sight while straining his ears to catch the voices of

James and his friends.

“Did you like question ten, Moony?” asked Sirius as

they emerged into the entrance hall.

“Loved it,” said Lupin briskly. “ ‘Give five signs that

identify the werewolf.’ Excellent question.”

“D’you think you managed to get all the signs?” said

James in tones of mock concern.

“Think I did,” said Lupin seriously, as they joined the

crowd thronging around the front doors eager to get

out into the sunlit grounds. “One: He’s sitting on my

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chair. Two: He’s wearing my clothes. Three: His

name’s Remus Lupin …”

Wormtail was the only one who didn’t laugh.

“I got the snout shape, the pupils of the eyes, and the

tufted tail,” he said anxiously, “but I couldn’t think

what else —”

“How thick are you, Wormtail?” said James

impatiently. “You run round with a werewolf once a

month —”

“Keep your voice down,” implored Lupin.

Harry looked anxiously behind him again. Snape

remained close by, still buried in his examination

questions; but this was Snape’s memory, and Harry

was sure that if Snape chose to wander off in a

different direction once outside in the grounds, he,

Harry, would not be able to follow James any farther.

To his intense relief, however, when James and his

three friends strode off down the lawn toward the

lake, Snape followed, still poring over the paper and

apparently with no fixed idea of where he was going.

By jogging a little ahead of him, Harry managed to

maintain a close watch on James and the others.

“Well, I thought that paper was a piece of cake,” he

heard Sirius say. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t get

Outstanding on it at least.”

“Me too,” said James. He put his hand in his pocket

and took out a struggling Golden Snitch.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Nicked it,” said James casually. He started playing

with the Snitch, allowing it to fly as much as a foot

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away and seizing it again; his reflexes were excellent.

Wormtail watched him in awe.

They stopped in the shade of the very same beech tree

on the edge of the lake where Harry, Ron, and

Hermione had spent a Sunday finishing their

homework, and threw themselves down on the grass.

Harry looked over his shoulder yet again and saw, to

his delight, that Snape had settled himself on the

grass in the dense shadows of a clump of bushes. He

was as deeply immersed in the O.W.L. paper as ever,

which left Harry free to sit down on the grass between

the beech and the bushes and watch the foursome

under the tree.

The sunlight was dazzling on the smooth surface of

the lake, on the bank of which the group of laughing

girls who had just left the Great Hall were sitting with

shoes and socks off, cooling their feet in the water.

Lupin had pulled out a book and was reading. Sirius

stared around at the students milling over the grass,

looking rather haughty and bored, but very

handsomely so. James was still playing with the

Snitch, letting it zoom farther and farther away,

almost escaping but always grabbed at the last

second. Wormtail was watching him with his mouth

open. Every time James made a particularly difficult

catch, Wormtail gasped and applauded. After five

minutes of this, Harry wondered why James didn’t

tell Wormtail to get a grip on himself, but James

seemed to be enjoying the attention. Harry noticed his

father had a habit of rumpling up his hair as though

to make sure it did not get too tidy, and also that he

kept looking over at the girls by the water’s edge.

“Put that away, will you?” said Sirius finally, as

James made a fine catch and Wormtail let out a

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cheer. “Before Wormtail wets himself from

excitement.”

Wormtail turned slightly pink but James grinned.

“If it bothers you,” he said, stuffing the Snitch back in

his pocket. Harry had the distinct impression that

Sirius was the only one for whom James would have

stopped showing off.

“I’m bored,” said Sirius. “Wish it was full moon.”

“You might,” said Lupin darkly from behind his book.

“We’ve still got Transfiguration, if you’re bored you

could test me... Here.” He held out his book.

Sirius snorted. “I don’t need to look at that rubbish, I

know it all.”

“This’ll liven you up, Padfoot,” said James quietly.

“Look who it is...”

Sirius’s head turned. He had become very still, like a

dog that has scented a rabbit.

“Excellent,” he said softly. “Snivellus. ”

Harry turned to see what Sirius was looking at.

Snape was on his feet again, and was stowing the

O.W.L. paper in his bag. As he emerged from the

shadows of the bushes and set off across the grass,

Sirius and James stood up. Lupin and Wormtail

remained sitting: Lupin was still staring down at his

book, though his eyes were not moving and a faint

frown line had appeared between his eyebrows.

Wormtail was looking from Sirius and James to

Snape with a look of avid anticipation on his face.

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“All right, Snivellus?” said James loudly.

Snape reacted so fast it was as though he had been

expecting an attack: Dropping his bag, he plunged his

hand inside his robes, and his wand was halfway into

the air when James shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew twelve feet into the air and fell with

a little thud in the grass behind him. Sirius let out a

bark of laughter.

“Impedimenta!” he said, pointing his wand at Snape,

who was knocked off his feet, halfway through a dive

toward his own fallen wand.

Students all around had turned to watch. Some of

them had gotten to their feet and were edging nearer

to watch. Some looked apprehensive, others

entertained.

Snape lay panting on the ground. James and Sirius

advanced on him, wands up, James glancing over his

shoulder at the girls at the water’s edge as he went.

Wormtail was on his feet now, watching hungrily,

edging around Lupin to get a clearer view.

“How’d the exam go, Snivelly?” said James.

“I was watching him, his nose was touching the

parchment,” said Sirius viciously. “There’ll be great

grease marks all over it, they won’t be able to read a

word.”

Several people watching laughed; Snape was clearly

unpopular. Wormtail sniggered shrilly. Snape was

trying to get up, but the jinx was still operating on

him; he was struggling, as though bound by invisible

ropes.

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“You — wait,” he panted, staring up at James with an

expression of purest loathing. “You — wait...”

“Wait for what?” said Sirius coolly. “What’re you going

to do, Snivelly, wipe your nose on us?”

Snape let out a stream of mixed swearwords and

hexes, but his wand being ten feet away nothing

happened.

“Wash out your mouth,” said James coldly.

“Scourgify!”

Pink soap bubbles streamed from Snape’s mouth at

once; the froth was covering his lips, making him gag,

choking him —

“Leave him ALONE!”

James and Sirius looked around. James’s free hand

jumped to his hair again.

It was one of the girls from the lake edge. She had

thick, dark red hair that fell to her shoulders and

startlingly green almond-shaped eyes — Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s mother …

“All right, Evans?” said James, and the tone of his

voice was suddenly pleasant, deeper, more mature.

“Leave him alone,” Lily repeated. She was looking at

James with every sign of great dislike. “What’s he

done to you?”

“Well,” said James, appearing to deliberate the point,

“it’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I

mean...”

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Many of the surrounding watchers laughed, Sirius

and Wormtail included, but Lupin, still apparently

intent on his book, didn’t, and neither did Lily.

“You think you’re funny,” she said coldly. “But you’re

just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him

alone. ”

“I will if you go out with me, Evans,” said James

quickly. “Go on … Go out with me, and I’ll never lay a

wand on old Snivelly again.”

Behind him, the Impediment Jinx was wearing off.

Snape was beginning to inch toward his fallen wand,

spitting out soapsuds as he crawled.

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between

you and the giant squid,” said Lily.

“Bad luck, Prongs,” said Sirius briskly, turning back

to Snape. “OY!”

But too late; Snape had directed his wand straight at

James; there was a flash of light and a gash appeared

on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with

blood. James whirled about; a second flash of light

later, Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his

robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs

and a pair of graying underpants.

Many people in the small crowd watching cheered.

Sirius, James, and Wormtail roared with laughter.

Lily, whose furious expression had twitched for an

instant as though she was going to smile, said, “Let

him down!”

“Certainly,” said James and he jerked his wand

upward. Snape fell into a crumpled heap on the

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ground. Disentangling himself from his robes, he got

quickly to his feet, wand up, but Sirius said,

“Petrificus Totalus!” and Snape keeled over again at

once, rigid as a board.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Lily shouted. She had her own

wand out now. James and Sirius eyed it warily.

“Ah, Evans, don’t make me hex you,” said James

earnestly.

“Take the curse off him, then!”

James sighed deeply, then turned to Snape and

muttered the countercurse.

“There you go,” he said, as Snape struggled to his feet

again, “you’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus —”

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like

her!”

Lily blinked. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I won’t bother in

future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you,

Snivellus. ”

“Apologize to Evans!” James roared at Snape, his

wand pointed threateningly at him.

“I don’t want you to make him apologize,” Lily

shouted, rounding on James. “You’re as bad as he

is...”

“What?” yelped James. “I’d NEVER call you a — you-

know-what!”

“Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool

to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick,

showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down

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corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just

because you can — I’m surprised your broomstick

can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You

make me SICK.”

She turned on her heel and hurried away.

“Evans!” James shouted after her, “Hey, EVANS!”

But she didn’t look back.

“What is it with her?” said James, trying and failing to

look as though this was a throwaway question of no

real importance to him.

“Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re

a bit conceited, mate,” said Sirius.

“Right,” said James, who looked furious now, “right —

”

There was another flash of light, and Snape was once

again hanging upside down in the air.

“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”

But whether James really did take off Snape’s pants,

Harry never found out. A hand had closed tight over

his upper arm, closed with a pincerlike grip. Wincing,

Harry looked around to see who had hold of him, and

saw, with a thrill of horror, a fully grown, adult-sized

Snape standing right beside him, white with rage.

“Having fun?”

Harry felt himself rising into the air. The summer’s

day evaporated around him, he was floating upward

through icy blackness, Snape’s hand still tight upon

his upper arm. Then, with a swooping feeling as

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though he had turned head over heels in midair, his

feet hit the stone floor of Snape’s dungeon, and he

was standing again beside the Pensieve on Snape’s

desk in the shadowy, present-day Potions master’s

study.

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly

Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. “So … been

enjoying yourself, Potter?”

“N-no …” said Harry, trying to free his arm.

It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was

white, his teeth were bared.

“Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” said Snape,

shaking Harry so hard that his glasses slipped down

his nose.

“I — didn’t —”

Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry

fell hard onto the dungeon floor.

“You will not tell anybody what you saw!” Snape

bellowed.

“No,” said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape

as he could. “No, of course I w —”

“Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office

ever again!”

And as Harry hurtled toward the door, a jar of dead

cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the

door open and flew away up the corridor, stopping

only when he had put three floors between himself

and Snape. There he leaned against the wall, panting,

and rubbing his bruised arm.

P a g e | 829 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He had no desire at all to return to Gryffindor Tower so early, nor to tell Ron and Hermione what he had

just seen. What was making Harry feel so horrified

and unhappy was not being shouted at or having jars

thrown at him — it was that he knew how it felt to be

humiliated in the middle of a circle of onlookers, knew

exactly how Snape had felt as his father had taunted

him, and that judging from what he had just seen, his

father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had

always told him.

P a g e | 830 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

CAREER ADVICE

“But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons

anymore?” said Hermione, frowning.

“I’ve told you,” Harry muttered. “Snape reckons I can

carry on by myself now I’ve got the basics...”

“So you’ve stopped having funny dreams?” said

Hermione skeptically.

“Pretty much,” said Harry, not looking at her.

“Well, I don’t think Snape should stop until you’re

absolutely sure you can control them!” said Hermione

indignantly. “Harry, I think you should go back to

him and ask —”

“No,” said Harry forcefully. “Just drop it, Hermione,

okay?”

It was the first day of the Easter holidays and

Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large part

of the day drawing up study schedules for the three of

P a g e | 831 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

them. Harry and Ron had let her do it — it was easier than arguing with her and, in any case, they might

come in useful.

Ron had been startled to discover that there were only

six weeks left until their exams.

“How can that come as a shock?” Hermione

demanded, as she tapped each little square on Ron’s

schedule with her wand so that it flashed a different

color according to its subject.

“I dunno …” said Ron, “there’s been a lot going on...”

“Well, there you are,” she said, handing him his

schedule, “if you follow that you should do fine.”

Ron looked down it gloomily, but then brightened.

“You’ve given me an evening off every week!”

“That’s for Quidditch practice,” said Hermione.

The smile faded from Ron’s face.

“What’s the point?” he said. “We’ve got about as much

chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as

Dad’s got of becoming Minister of Magic...”

Hermione said nothing. She was looking at Harry,

who was staring blankly at the opposite wall of the

common room while Crookshanks pawed at his hand,

trying to get his ears scratched.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

“What?” he said quickly. “Nothing …”

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He seized his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and pretended to be looking something up in the index.

Crookshanks gave him up as a bad job and slunk

away under Hermione’s chair.

“I saw Cho earlier,” said Hermione tentatively, “and

she looked really miserable too... Have you two had a

row again?”

“Wha — oh yeah, we have,” said Harry, seizing

gratefully on the excuse.

“What about?”

“That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,” said Harry.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you!” said Ron angrily,

setting down his study schedule. “If it hadn’t been for

her …”

Ron went into a rant about Marietta Edgecombe,

which Harry found helpful. All he had to do was look

angry, nod, and say “yeah” and “that’s right”

whenever Ron drew breath, leaving his mind free to

dwell, ever more miserably, on what he had seen in

the Pensieve.

He felt as though the memory of it was eating him

from inside. He had been so sure that his parents had

been wonderful people that he never had the slightest

difficulty in disbelieving Snape’s aspersions on his

father’s character. Hadn’t people like Hagrid and

Sirius told Harry how wonderful his father had been?

( Yeah, well, look what Sirius was like himself, said a

nagging voice inside Harry’s head... He was as bad,

wasn’t he?) Yes, he had once overheard Professor

McGonagall saying that his father and Sirius had

been troublemakers at school, but she had described

them as forerunners of the Weasley twins, and Harry

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could not imagine Fred and George dangling someone

upside down for the fun of it … not unless they really

loathed them … Perhaps Malfoy, or somebody who

really deserved it …

Harry tried to make a case for Snape having deserved

what he had suffered at James’s hands — but hadn’t

Lily asked, “What’s he done to you?” And hadn’t

James replied, “It’s more the fact that he exists, if you

know what I mean?” Hadn’t James started it all

simply because Sirius said he was bored? Harry

remembered Lupin saying back in Grimmauld Place

that Dumbledore had made him prefect in the hope

that he would be able to exercise some control over

James and Sirius... But in the Pensieve, he had sat

there and let it all happen...

Harry reminded himself that Lily had intervened; his

mother had been decent, yet the memory of the look

on her face as she had shouted at James disturbed

him quite as much as anything else. She had clearly

loathed James and Harry simply could not

understand how they could have ended up married.

Once or twice he even wondered whether James had

forced her into it...

For nearly five years the thought of his father had

been a source of comfort, of inspiration. Whenever

someone had told him he was like James he had

glowed with pride inside. And now … now he felt cold

and miserable at the thought of him.

The weather grew breezier, brighter, and warmer as

the holidays passed, but Harry was stuck with the

rest of the fifth and seventh years, who were all

trapped inside, traipsing back and forth to the library.

Harry pretended that his bad mood had no other

cause but the approaching exams, and as his fellow

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Gryffindors were sick of studying themselves, his

excuse went unchallenged.

“Harry, I’m talking to you, can you hear me?”

“Huh?”

He looked around. Ginny Weasley, looking very

windswept, had joined him at the library table where

he had been sitting alone. It was late on Sunday

evening; Hermione had gone back to Gryffindor Tower

to review Ancient Runes; Ron had Quidditch practice.

“Oh hi,” said Harry, pulling his books back toward

him. “How come you’re not at practice?”

“It’s over,” said Ginny. “Ron had to take Jack Sloper

up to the hospital wing.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re not sure, but we think he knocked himself

out with his own bat.” She sighed heavily. “Anyway …

a package just arrived, it’s only just got through

Umbridge’s new screening process...”

She hoisted a box wrapped in brown paper onto the

table; it had clearly been unwrapped and carelessly

rewrapped, and there was a scribbled note across it in

red ink, reading INSPECTED AND PASSED BY THE

HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR.

“It’s Easter eggs from Mum,” said Ginny. “There’s one

for you... There you go...”

She handed him a handsome chocolate egg decorated

with small, iced Snitches and, according to the

packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizbees.

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Harry looked at it for a moment, then, to his horror, felt a hard lump rise in his throat.

“Are you okay, Harry?” asked Ginny quietly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Harry gruffly. The lump in his

throat was painful. He did not understand why an

Easter egg should have made him feel like this.

“You seem really down lately,” Ginny persisted. “You

know, I’m sure if you just talked to Cho …”

“It’s not Cho I want to talk to,” said Harry brusquely.

“Who is it, then?” asked Ginny.

“I …”

He glanced around to make quite sure that nobody

was listening; Madam Pince was several shelves away,

stamping out a pile of books for a frantic-looking

Hannah Abbott.

“I wish I could talk to Sirius,” he muttered. “But I

know I can’t.”

More to give himself something to do than because he

really wanted any, Harry unwrapped his Easter egg,

broke off a large bit, and put it into his mouth.

“Well,” said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of

egg too, “if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect

we could think of a way to do it...”

“Come on,” said Harry hopelessly. “With Umbridge

policing the fires and reading all our mail?”

“The thing about growing up with Fred and George,”

said Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start

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thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough

nerve.”

Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the

chocolate — Lupin had always advised eating some

after encounters with dementors — or simply because

he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been

burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more

hopeful...

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

“Oh damn,” whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. “I

forgot —”

Madam Pince was swooping down upon them, her

shriveled face contorted with rage.

“Chocolate in the library!” she screamed. “Out — out

— OUT!”

And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry’s

books, bag, and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny

from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the

head as they ran.

As though to underline the importance of their

upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets,

leaflets, and notices concerning various Wizarding

careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower

shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet

another notice on the board, which read:

CAREER ADVICE

All fifth years will be required to attend a short

meeting with their Head of House during the first

week of the Summer term, in which they will be given

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the opportunity to discuss their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.

Harry looked down the list and found that he was

expected in Professor McGonagall’s office at half-past

two on Monday, which would mean missing most of

Divination. He and the other fifth years spent a

considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter

break reading all the career information that had

been left there for their perusal.

“Well, I don’t fancy Healing,” said Ron on the last

evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet

that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of

St. Mungo’s on its front. “It says here you need at

least an E at N.E.W.T. level in Potions, Herbology,

Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the

Dark Arts. I mean … blimey... Don’t want much, do

they?”

“Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?” said

Hermione absently. She was poring over a bright

pink-and-orange leaflet that was headed SO YOU

THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE

RELATIONS? “You don’t seem to need many

qualifications to liaise with Muggles... All they want is

an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies... ‘ Much more important

is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun!’

”

“You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise

with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of

when to duck, more like …” He was halfway through

a pamphlet on Wizard banking. “Listen to this:

“ ‘ Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel,

adventure, and substantial, danger-related treasure

bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts

Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-

P a g e | 838 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad... ’ They want Arithmancy, though... You could do it,

Hermione!”

“I don’t much fancy banking,” said Hermione vaguely,

now immersed in HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES

TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS?

“Hey,” said a voice in Harry’s ear. He looked around;

Fred and George had come to join them. “Ginny’s had

a word with us about you,” said Fred, stretching out

his legs on the table in front of them and causing

several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic

to slide off onto the floor. “She says you need to talk

to Sirius?”

“What?” said Hermione sharply, freezing with her

hand halfway toward picking up MAKE A BANG AT

THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND

CATASTROPHES.

“Yeah …” said Harry, trying to sound casual, “yeah, I

thought I’d like —”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Hermione, straightening

up and looking at him as though she could not

believe her eyes. “With Umbridge groping around in

the fires and frisking all the owls?”

“Well, we think we can find a way around that,” said

George, stretching and smiling. “It’s a simple matter

of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed

that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front

during the Easter holidays?”

“What was the point, we asked ourselves, of

disrupting leisure time?” continued Fred. “No point at

all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we’d have

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messed up people’s studying too, which would be the

very last thing we’d want to do.”

He gave Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She

looked rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness.

“But it’s business as usual from tomorrow,” Fred

continued briskly. “And if we’re going to be causing a

bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his

chat with Sirius?”

“Yes, but still, ” said Hermione with an air of

explaining something very simple to somebody very

obtuse, “even if you do cause a diversion, how is

Harry supposed to talk to him?”

“Umbridge’s office,” said Harry quietly.

He had been thinking about it for a fortnight and

could think of no alternative; Umbridge herself had

told him that the only fire that was not being watched

was her own.

“Are — you — insane?” said Hermione in a hushed

voice.

Ron had lowered his leaflet on jobs in the cultivated

fungus trade and was watching the conversation

warily.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging.

“And how are you going to get in there in the first

place?”

Harry was ready for this question.

“Sirius’s knife,” he said.

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“Excuse me?”

“Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll

open any lock,” said Harry. “So even if she’s

bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I

bet she has —”

“What do you think about this?” Hermione demanded

of Ron, and Harry was reminded irresistibly of Mrs.

Weasley appealing to her husband during Harry’s first

dinner in Grimmauld Place.

“I dunno,” said Ron, looking alarmed at being asked

to give an opinion. “If Harry wants to do it, it’s up to

him, isn’t it?”

“Spoken like a true friend and Weasley,” said Fred,

clapping Ron hard on the back. “Right, then. We’re

thinking of doing it tomorrow, just after lessons,

because it should cause maximum impact if

everybody’s in the corridors — Harry, we’ll set it off in

the east wing somewhere, draw her right away from

her own office — I reckon we should be able to

guarantee you, what, twenty minutes?” he said,

looking at George.

“Easy,” said George.

“What sort of diversion is it?” asked Ron.

“You’ll see, little bro,” said Fred, as he and George got

up again. “At least, you will if you trot along to

Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor round about five

o’clock tomorrow.”

Harry awoke very early the next day, feeling almost as

anxious as he had done on the morning of his hearing

at the Ministry of Magic. It was not only the prospect

of breaking into Umbridge’s office and using her fire

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to speak to Sirius that was making him feel nervous,

though that was certainly bad enough — today also

happened to be the first time he would be in close

proximity with Snape since Snape had thrown him

out of his office, as they had Potions that day.

After lying in bed for a while thinking about the day

ahead, Harry got up very quietly and moved across to

the window beside Neville’s bed, staring out on a truly

glorious morning. The sky was a clear, misty,

opalescent blue. Directly ahead of him, Harry could

see the towering beech tree below which his father

had once tormented Snape. He was not sure what

Sirius could possibly say to him that would make up

for what he had seen in the Pensieve, but he was

desperate to hear Sirius’s own account of what had

happened, to know of any mitigating factors there

might have been, any excuse at all for his father’s

behavior...

Something caught Harry’s attention: movement on

the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry squinted into

the sun and saw Hagrid emerging from between the

trees. He seemed to be limping. As Harry watched,

Hagrid staggered to the door of his cabin and

disappeared inside it. Harry watched the cabin for

several minutes. Hagrid did not emerge again, but

smoke furled from the chimney, so Hagrid could not

be so badly injured that he was unequal to stoking

the fire...

Harry turned away from the window, headed back to

his trunk, and started to dress.

With the prospect of forcing entry into Umbridge’s

office ahead, Harry had never expected the day to be a

restful one, but he had not reckoned on Hermione’s

almost continual attempts to dissuade him from what

he was planning to do at five o’clock. For the first time

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ever, she was at least as inattentive to Professor

Binns in History of Magic as Harry and Ron were,

keeping up a stream of whispered admonitions that

Harry tried very hard to ignore.

“… and if she does catch you there, apart from being

expelled, she’ll be able to guess you’ve been talking to

Snuffles and this time I expect she’ll force you to

drink Veritaserum and answer her questions...”

“Hermione,” said Ron in a low and indignant voice,

“are you going to stop telling Harry off and listen to

Binns, or am I going to have to take notes instead?”

“You take notes for a change, it won’t kill you!”

By the time they reached the dungeons, neither Harry

nor Ron was speaking to Hermione any longer.

Undeterred, she took advantage of their silence to

maintain an uninterrupted flow of dire warnings, all

uttered under her breath in a vehement hiss that

caused Seamus to waste five whole minutes checking

his cauldron for leaks.

Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as

though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course,

well used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle

Vernon’s favorites, and on the whole was grateful he

had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to

what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way

of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new

approach something of an improvement and was

pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able

to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the

end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a

flask, corked it, and took it up to Snape’s desk for

marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an

E.

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He had just turned away when he heard a smashing

noise; Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry

whipped around again. His potion sample lay in

pieces on the floor, and Snape was watching him with

a look of gloating pleasure.

“Whoops,” he said softly. “Another zero, then, Potter

…”

Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to

his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force

Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest

of the contents had vanished.

“I’m sorry!” said Hermione with her hands over her

mouth. “I’m really sorry, Harry, I thought you’d

finished, so I cleared up!”

Harry could not bring himself to answer. When the

bell rang he hurried out of the dungeon without a

backward glance and made sure that he found

himself a seat between Neville and Seamus for lunch

so that Hermione could not start nagging him about

using Umbridge’s office again.

He was in such a bad mood by the time that he got to

Divination that he had quite forgotten his career

appointment with Professor McGonagall,

remembering only when Ron asked him why he

wasn’t in her office. He hurtled back upstairs and

arrived out of breath, only a few minutes late.

“Sorry, Professor,” he panted, as he closed the door. “I

forgot...”

“No matter, Potter,” she said briskly, but as she

spoke, somebody else sniffed from the corner. Harry

looked around.

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Professor Umbridge was sitting there, a clipboard on

her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck, and a

small, horribly smug smile on her face.

“Sit down, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall tersely.

Her hands shook slightly as she shuffled the many

pamphlets littering her desk.

Harry sat down with his back to Umbridge and did

his best to pretend he could not hear the scratching

of her quill on her clipboard.

“Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career

ideas you might have, and to help you decide which

subjects you should continue into sixth and seventh

years,” said Professor McGonagall. “Have you had any

thoughts about what you would like to do after you

leave Hogwarts?”

“Er,” said Harry.

He was finding the scratching noise from behind him

very distracting.

“Yes?” Professor McGonagall prompted Harry.

“Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,” Harry

mumbled.

“You’d need top grades for that,” said Professor

McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from

under the mass on her desk and opening it. “They ask

for a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, and nothing under

‘Exceeds Expectations’ grade, I see. Then you would

be required to undergo a stringent series of character

and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It’s a difficult

career path, Potter; they only take the best. In fact, I

don’t think anybody has been taken on in the last

three years.”

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At this moment Professor Umbridge gave a very tiny

cough, as though she was trying to see how quietly

she could do it. Professor McGonagall ignored her.

“You’ll want to know which subjects you ought to

take, I suppose?” she went on, talking a little more

loudly than before.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Defense Against the Dark Arts, I

suppose?”

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “I

would also advise —”

Professor Umbridge gave another cough, a little more

audible this time. Professor McGonagall closed her

eyes for a moment, opened them again, and

continued as though nothing had happened.

“I would also advise Transfiguration, because Aurors

frequently need to Transfigure or Untransfigure in

their work. And I ought to tell you now, Potter, that I

do not accept students into my N.E.W.T. classes

unless they have achieved ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or

higher at Ordinary Wizarding Level. I’d say you’re

averaging ‘Acceptable’ at the moment, so you’ll need

to put in some good hard work before the exams to

stand a chance of continuing. Then you ought to do

Charms, always useful, and Potions. Yes, Potter,

Potions,” she added, with the merest flicker of a smile.

“Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors.

And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely

refuses to take students who get anything other than

‘Outstanding’ in their O.W.L.s, so —”

Professor Umbridge gave her most pronounced cough

yet.

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“May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?” Professor

McGonagall asked curtly, without looking at Professor

Umbridge.

“Oh no, thank you very much,” said Umbridge, with

that simpering laugh Harry hated so much. “I just

wondered whether I could make the teensiest

interruption, Minerva?”

“I daresay you’ll find you can,” said Professor

McGonagall through tightly gritted teeth.

“I was just wondering whether Mr. Potter has quite

the temperament for an Auror?” said Professor

Umbridge sweetly.

“Were you?” said Professor McGonagall haughtily.

“Well, Potter,” she continued, as though there had

been no interruption, “if you are serious in this

ambition, I would advise you to concentrate hard on

bringing your Transfiguration and Potions up to

scratch. I see Professor Flitwick has graded you

between Acceptable’ and ‘Exceeds Expectations’ for

the last two years, so your Charm work seems

satisfactory; as for Defense Against the Dark Arts,

your marks have been generally high, Professor Lupin

in particular thought you — are you quite sure you

wouldn’t like a cough drop, Dolores?”

“Oh, no need, thank you, Minerva,” simpered

Professor Umbridge, who had just coughed her

loudest yet. “I was just concerned that you might not

have Harry’s most recent Defense Against the Dark

Arts marks in front of you. I’m quite sure I slipped in

a note …”

“What, this thing?” said Professor McGonagall in a

tone of revulsion, as she pulled a sheet of pink

parchment from between the leaves of Harry’s folder.

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She glanced down it, her eyebrows slightly raised,

then placed it back into the folder without comment.

“Yes, as I was saying, Potter, Professor Lupin thought

you showed a pronounced aptitude for the subject,

and obviously for an Auror —”

“Did you not understand my note, Minerva?” asked

Professor Umbridge in honeyed tones, quite forgetting

to cough.

“Of course I understood it,” said Professor

McGonagall, her teeth clenched so tightly that the

words came out a little muffled.

“Well, then, I am confused... I’m afraid I don’t quite

understand how you can give Mr. Potter false hope

that —”

“False hope?” repeated Professor McGonagall, still

refusing to look round at Professor Umbridge. “He has

achieved high marks in all his Defense Against the

Dark Arts tests —”

“I’m terribly sorry to have to contradict you, Minerva,

but as you will see from my note, Harry has been

achieving very poor results in his classes with me —”

“I should have made my meaning plainer,” said

Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look

Umbridge directly in the eyes. “He has achieved high

marks in all Defense Against the Dark Arts tests set

by a competent teacher.”

Professor Umbridge’s smile vanished as suddenly as a

lightbulb blowing. She sat back in her chair, turned a

sheet on her clipboard, and began scribbling very fast

indeed, her bulging eyes rolling from side to side.

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Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, her thin

nostrils flared, her eyes burning.

“Any questions, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “What sort of character and

aptitude tests do the Ministry do on you, if you get

enough N.E.W.T.s?”

“Well, you’ll need to demonstrate the ability to react

well to pressure and so forth,” said Professor

McGonagall, “perseverance and dedication, because

Auror training takes a further three years, not to

mention very high skills in practical defense. It will

mean a lot more study even after you’ve left school, so

unless you’re prepared to —”

“I think you’ll also find,” said Umbridge, her voice

very cold now, “that the Ministry looks into the

records of those applying to be Aurors. Their criminal

records.”

“— unless you’re prepared to take even more exams

after Hogwarts, you should really look at another —”

“— which means that this boy has as much chance of

becoming an Auror as Dumbledore has of ever

returning to this school.”

“A very good chance, then,” said Professor

McGonagall.

“Potter has a criminal record,” said Umbridge loudly.

“Potter has been cleared of all charges,” said Professor

McGonagall, even more loudly.

Professor Umbridge stood up. She was so short that

this did not make a great deal of difference, but her

P a g e | 849 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

fussy, simpering demeanor had given place to a hard

fury that made her broad, flabby face look oddly

sinister.

“Potter has no chance whatsoever of becoming an

Auror!”

Professor McGonagall got to her feet too, and in her

case this was a much more impressive move. She

towered over Professor Umbridge.

“Potter,” she said in ringing tones, “I will assist you to

become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to

coach you nightly I will make sure you achieve the

required results!”

“The Minister of Magic will never employ Harry

Potter!” said Umbridge, her voice rising furiously.

“There may well be a new Minister of Magic by the

time Potter is ready to join!” shouted Professor

McGonagall.

“Aha!” shrieked Professor Umbridge, pointing a

stubby finger at McGonagall. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Of

course! That’s what you want, isn’t it, Minerva

McGonagall? You want Cornelius Fudge replaced by

Albus Dumbledore! You think you’ll be where I am,

don’t you, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and

headmistress to boot!”

“You are raving,” said Professor McGonagall, superbly

disdainful. “Potter, that concludes our career

consultation.”

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder and hurried

out of the room, not daring to look at Umbridge. He

could hear her and Professor McGonagall continuing

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to shout at each other all the way back along the

corridor.

Professor Umbridge was still breathing as though she

had just run a race when she strode into their

Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that afternoon.

“I hope you’ve thought better of what you were

planning to do, Harry,” Hermione whispered, the

moment they had opened their books to chapter

thirty-four (“Non-Retaliation and Negotiation”).

“Umbridge looks like she’s in a really bad mood

already...”

Every now and then Umbridge shot glowering looks at

Harry, who kept his head down, staring at Defensive

Magical Theory, his eyes unfocused, thinking...

He could just imagine Professor McGonagall’s

reaction if he were caught trespassing in Professor

Umbridge’s office mere hours after she had vouched

for him... There was nothing to stop him simply going

back to Gryffindor Tower and hoping that sometime

during the next summer holiday he would have a

chance to ask Sirius about the scene he had

witnessed in the Pensieve... Nothing, except that the

thought of taking this sensible course of action made

him feel as though a lead weight had dropped into his

stomach... And then there was the matter of Fred and

George, whose diversion was already planned, not to

mention the knife Sirius had given him, which was

currently residing in his schoolbag along with his

father’s old Invisibility Cloak...

But the fact remained that if he were caught …

“Dumbledore sacrificed himself to keep you in school,

Harry!” whispered Hermione, raising her book to hide

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her face from Umbridge. “And if you get thrown out

today it will all have been for nothing!”

He could abandon the plan and simply learn to live

with the memory of what his father had done on a

summer’s day more than twenty years ago...

And then he remembered Sirius in the fire upstairs in

the Gryffindor common room...”You’re less like your

father than I thought... The risk would’ve been what

made it fun for James...”

But did he want to be like his father anymore?

“Harry, don’t do it, please don’t do it!” Hermione said

in anguished tones as the bell rang at the end of the

class.

He did not answer; he did not know what to do. Ron

seemed determined to give neither his opinion nor his

advice. He would not look at Harry, though when

Hermione opened her mouth to try dissuading Harry

some more, he said in a low voice, “Give it a rest,

okay? He can make up his own mind.”

Harry’s heart beat very fast as he left the classroom.

He was halfway along the corridor outside when he

heard the unmistakable sounds of a diversion going

off in the distance. There were screams and yells

reverberating from somewhere above them. People

exiting the classrooms all around Harry were stopping

in their tracks and looking up at the ceiling fearfully

—

Then Umbridge came pelting out of her classroom as

fast as her short legs would carry her. Pulling out her

wand, she hurried off in the opposite direction: It was

now or never.

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“Harry — please!” said Hermione weakly.

But he had made up his mind — hitching his bag

more securely onto his shoulder he set off at a run,

weaving in and out of students now hurrying in the

opposite direction, off to see what all the fuss was

about in the east wing...

Harry reached the corridor where Umbridge’s office

was situated and found it deserted. Dashing behind a

large suit of armor whose helmet creaked around to

watch him, he pulled open his bag, seized Sirius’s

knife, and donned the Invisibility Cloak. He then

crept slowly and carefully back out from behind the

suit of armor and along the corridor until he reached

Umbridge’s door.

He inserted the blade of the magical knife into the

crack around it and moved it gently up and down,

then withdrew it. There was a tiny click, and the door

swung open. He ducked inside the office, closed the

door quickly behind him, and looked around.

It was empty; nothing was moving except the horrible

kittens on the plates continuing to frolic on the wall

above the confiscated broomsticks.

Harry pulled off his cloak and, striding over to the

fireplace, found what he was looking for within

seconds: a small box containing glittering Floo

powder.

He crouched down in front of the empty grate, his

hands shaking. He had never done this before,

though he thought he knew how it must work.

Sticking his head into the fireplace, he took a large

pinch of powder and dropped it onto the logs stacked

neatly beneath him. They exploded at once into

emerald-green flames.

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“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!” Harry said loudly

and clearly.

It was one of the most curious sensations he had ever

experienced; he had traveled by Floo powder before, of

course, but then it had been his entire body that had

spun around and around in the flames through the

network of Wizarding fireplaces that stretched over

the country: This time, his knees remained firm upon

the cold floor of Umbridge’s office, and only his head

hurtled through the emerald fire...

And then, abruptly as it had begun, the spinning

stopped. Feeling rather sick and as though he was

wearing an exceptionally hot muffler around his head,

Harry opened his eyes to find that he was looking up

out of the kitchen fireplace at the long, wooden table,

where a man sat poring over a piece of parchment.

“Sirius?”

The man jumped and looked around. It was not

Sirius, but Lupin.

“Harry!” he said, looking thoroughly shocked. “What

are you — what’s happened, is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I just wondered — I mean, I just

fancied a — a chat with Sirius.”

“I’ll call him,” said Lupin, getting to his feet, still

looking perplexed. “He went upstairs to look for

Kreacher, he seems to be hiding in the attic again...”

And Harry saw Lupin hurry out of the kitchen. Now

he was left with nothing to look at but the chair and

table legs. He wondered why Sirius had never

mentioned how very uncomfortable it was to speak

out of the fire — his knees were already objecting

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painfully to their prolonged contact with Umbridge’s

hard stone floor.

Lupin returned with Sirius at his heels moments

later.

“What is it?” said Sirius urgently, sweeping his long

dark hair out of his eyes and dropping to the ground

in front of the fire, so that he and Harry were on a

level; Lupin knelt down too, looking very concerned.

“Are you all right? Do you need help?”

“No,” said Harry, “it’s nothing like that... I just wanted

to talk … about my dad...”

They exchanged a look of great surprise, but Harry

did not have time to feel awkward or embarrassed; his

knees were becoming sorer by the second, and he

guessed that five minutes had already passed from

the start of the diversion — George had only

guaranteed him twenty. He therefore plunged

immediately into the story of what he had seen in the

Pensieve.

When he had finished, neither Sirius nor Lupin spoke

for a moment. Then Lupin said quietly, “I wouldn’t

like you to judge your father on what you saw there,

Harry. He was only fifteen —”

“I’m fifteen!” said Harry heatedly.

“Look, Harry,” said Sirius placatingly, “James and

Snape hated each other from the moment they set

eyes on each other, it was just one of those things,

you can understand that, can’t you? I think James

was everything Snape wanted to be — he was

popular, he was good at Quidditch, good at pretty

much everything. And Snape was just this little

oddball who was up to his eyes in the Dark Arts and

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James — whatever else he may have appeared to you,

Harry — always hated the Dark Arts.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he just attacked Snape for no

good reason, just because — well, just because you

said you were bored,” he finished with a slightly

apologetic note in his voice.

“I’m not proud of it,” said Sirius quickly.

Lupin looked sideways at Sirius and then said, “Look,

Harry, what you’ve got to understand is that your

father and Sirius were the best in the school at

whatever they did — everyone thought they were the

height of cool — if they sometimes got a bit carried

away —”

“If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you

mean,” said Sirius.

Lupin smiled.

“He kept messing up his hair,” said Harry in a pained

voice.

Sirius and Lupin laughed.

“I’d forgotten he used to do that,” said Sirius

affectionately.

“Was he playing with the Snitch?” said Lupin eagerly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, watching uncomprehendingly as

Sirius and Lupin beamed reminiscently. “Well … I

thought he was a bit of an idiot.”

“Of course he was a bit of an idiot!” said Sirius

bracingly. “We were all idiots! Well — not Moony so

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much,” he said fairly, looking at Lupin, but Lupin

shook his head.

“Did I ever tell you to lay off Snape?” he said. “Did I

ever have the guts to tell you I thought you were out

of order?”

“Yeah, well,” said Sirius, “you made us feel ashamed

of ourselves sometimes... That was something...”

“And,” said Harry doggedly, determined to say

everything that was on his mind now he was here, “he

kept looking over at the girls by the lake, hoping they

were watching him!”

“Oh, well, he always made a fool of himself whenever

Lily was around,” said Sirius, shrugging. “He couldn’t

stop himself showing off whenever he got near her.”

“How come she married him?” Harry asked miserably.

“She hated him!”

“Nah, she didn’t,” said Sirius.

“She started going out with him in seventh year,” said

Lupin.

“Once James had deflated his head a bit,” said Sirius.

“And stopped hexing people just for the fun of it,” said

Lupin.

“Even Snape?” said Harry.

“Well,” said Lupin slowly, “Snape was a special case. I

mean, he never lost an opportunity to curse James,

so you couldn’t really expect James to take that lying

down, could you?”

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“And my mum was okay with that?”

“She didn’t know too much about it, to tell you the

truth,” said Sirius. “I mean, James didn’t take Snape

on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did

he?”

Sirius frowned at Harry, who was still looking

unconvinced.

“Look,” he said, “your father was the best friend I ever

had, and he was a good person. A lot of people are

idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry heavily. “I just never thought

I’d feel sorry for Snape.”

“Now you mention it,” said Lupin, a faint crease

between his eyebrows, “how did Snape react when he

found you’d seen all this?”

“He told me he’d never teach me Occlumency again,”

said Harry indifferently, “like that’s a big disappoint

—”

“He WHAT?” shouted Sirius, causing Harry to jump

and inhale a mouthful of ashes.

“Are you serious, Harry?” said Lupin quickly. “He’s

stopped giving you lessons?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, surprised at what he considered a

great overreaction. “But it’s okay, I don’t care, it’s a

bit of a relief to tell you the —”

“I’m coming up there to have a word with Snape!” said

Sirius forcefully and he actually made to stand up,

but Lupin wrenched him back down again.

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“If anyone’s going to tell Snape it will be me!” he said firmly. “But Harry, first of all, you’re to go back to

Snape and tell him that on no account is he to stop

giving you lessons — when Dumbledore hears —”

“I can’t tell him that, he’d kill me!” said Harry,

outraged. “You didn’t see him when we got out of the

Pensieve —”

“Harry, there is nothing so important as you learning

Occlumency!” said Lupin sternly. “Do you understand

me? Nothing!”

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, thoroughly discomposed,

not to mention annoyed. “I’ll … I’ll try and say

something to him... But it won’t be …”

He fell silent. He could hear distant footsteps.

“Is that Kreacher coming downstairs?”

“No,” said Sirius, glancing behind him. “It must be

somebody your end …”

Harry’s heart skipped several beats.

“I’d better go!” he said hastily and he pulled his head

backward out of Grimmauld Place’s fire. For a

moment his head seemed to be revolving on his

shoulders, and then he found himself kneeling in

front of Umbridge’s fire with his head firmly back on,

watching the emerald flames flicker and die.

“Quickly, quickly!” he heard a wheezy voice mutter

right outside the office door. “Ah, she’s left it open...”

Harry dived for the Invisibility Cloak and had just

managed to pull it back over himself when Filch burst

into the office. He looked absolutely delighted about

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something and was talking to himself feverishly as he crossed the room, pulled open a drawer in Umbridge’s

desk, and began rifling through the papers inside it.

“Approval for Whipping … Approval for Whipping … I

can do it at last... They’ve had it coming to them for

years...”

He pulled out a piece of parchment, kissed it, then

shuffled rapidly back out of the door, clutching it to

his chest.

Harry leapt to his feet and, making sure that he had

his bag and the Invisibility Cloak was completely

covering him, he wrenched open the door and hurried

out of the office after Filch, who was hobbling along

faster than Harry had ever seen him go.

One landing down from Umbridge’s office and Harry

thought it was safe to become visible again; he pulled

off the cloak, shoved it in his bag and hurried

onward. There was a great deal of shouting and

movement coming from the entrance hall. He ran

down the marble staircase and found what looked like

most of the school assembled there.

It was just like the night when Trelawney had been

sacked. Students were standing all around the walls

in a great ring (some of them, Harry noticed, covered

in a substance that looked very like Stinksap);

teachers and ghosts were also in the crowd.

Prominent among the onlookers were members of the

Inquisitorial Squad, who were all looking

exceptionally pleased with themselves, and Peeves,

who was bobbing overhead, gazed down upon Fred

and George, who stood in the middle of the floor with

the unmistakable look of two people who had just

been cornered.

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“So!” said Umbridge triumphantly, whom Harry

realized was standing just a few stairs in front of him,

once more looking down upon her prey. “So … you

think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a

swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” said Fred, looking back up at

her without the slightest sign of fear.

Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge, almost

crying with happiness.

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he said hoarsely,

waving the piece of parchment Harry had just seen

him take from her desk. “I’ve got the form and I’ve got

the whips waiting... Oh, let me do it now...”

“Very good, Argus,” she said. “You two,” she went on,

gazing down at Fred and George, “are about to learn

what happens to wrongdoers in my school.”

“You know what?” said Fred. “I don’t think we are.”

He turned to his twin.

“George,” said Fred, “I think we’ve outgrown full-time

education.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” said George

lightly.

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you

reckon?” asked Fred.

“Definitely,” said George.

And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised

their wands and said together, “Accio Brooms!”

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Harry heard a loud crash somewhere in the distance.

Looking to his left he ducked just in time — Fred and

George’s broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy

chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened

them to the wall, were hurtling along the corridor

toward their owners. They turned left, streaked down

the stairs, and stopped sharply in front of the twins,

the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor.

“We won’t be seeing you,” Fred told Professor

Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” said George,

mounting his own.

Fred looked around at the assembled students, and

at the silent, watchful crowd.

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as

demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three,

Diagon Alley — Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes,” he

said in a loud voice. “Our new premises!”

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear

they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old

bat,” added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.

“STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late.

As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George

kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the

air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred

looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on

his level above the crowd.

“Give her hell from us, Peeves.”

And Peeves, whom Harry had never seen take an

order from a student before, swept his belled hat from

his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George

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wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the

students below and sped out of the open front doors

into the glorious sunset.

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GRAWP

The story of Fred and George’s flight to freedom was

retold so often over the next few days that Harry

could tell it would soon become the stuff of Hogwarts

legend. Within a week, even those who had been

eyewitnesses were half-convinced that they had seen

the twins dive-bomb Umbridge on their brooms,

pelting her with Dungbombs before zooming out of

the doors. In the immediate aftermath of their

departure there was a great wave of talk about

copying them, so that Harry frequently heard

students saying things like, “Honestly, some days I

just feel like jumping on my broom and leaving this

place,” or else, “One more lesson like that and I might

just do a Weasley...”

Fred and George had made sure that nobody was

likely to forget them very soon. For one thing, they

had not left instructions on how to remove the swamp

that now filled the corridor on the fifth floor of the

east wing. Umbridge and Filch had been observed

trying different means of removing it but without

success. Eventually the area was roped off and Filch,

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gnashing his teeth furiously, was given the task of

punting students across it to their classrooms. Harry

was certain that teachers like McGonagall or Flitwick

could have removed the swamp in an instant, but just

as in the case of Fred and George’s Wildfire Whiz-

Bangs, they seemed to prefer to watch Umbridge

struggle.

Then there were the two large broom-shaped holes in

Umbridge’s office door, through which Fred and

George’s Cleansweeps had smashed to rejoin their

masters. Filch fitted a new door and removed Harry’s

Firebolt to the dungeons where, it was rumored,

Umbridge had set an armed security troll to guard it.

However, her troubles were far from over.

Inspired by Fred and George’s example, a great

number of students were now vying for the newly

vacant positions of Troublemakers-in-Chief. In spite

of the new door, somebody managed to slip a hairy-

snouted niffler into Umbridge’s office, which promptly

tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects,

leapt on Umbridge on her re-entrance, and tried to

gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers. Dungbombs

and Stinkpellets were dropped so frequently in the

corridors that it became the new fashion for students

to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves

before leaving lessons, which ensured them a supply

of fresh clean air, even though it gave them all the

peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down goldfish

bowls on their heads.

Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip ready in

his hands, desperate to catch miscreants, but the

problem was that there were now so many of them

that he did not know which way to turn. The

Inquisitorial Squad were attempting to help him, but

odd things kept happening to its members.

Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team reported

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to the hospital wing with a horrible skin complaint

that made him look as though he had been coated in

cornflakes. Pansy Parkinson, to Hermione’s delight,

missed all her lessons the following day, as she had

sprouted antlers.

Meanwhile it became clear just how many Skiving

Snackboxes Fred and George had managed to sell

before leaving Hogwarts. Umbridge only had to enter

her classroom for the students assembled there to

faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or else spout

blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and

frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious

symptoms to their source, but the students told her

stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.” After

putting four successive classes in detention and

failing to discover their secret she was forced to give

up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and

vomiting students to leave her classes in droves.

But not even the users of the Snackboxes could

compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who

seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to

heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school,

upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and

toppling statues and vases. Twice he shut Mrs. Norris

inside suits of armor, from which she was rescued,

yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. He smashed

lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning

torches over the heads of screaming students, caused

neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires

or out of windows, flooded the second floor when he

pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a

bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall

during breakfast and, whenever he fancied a break,

spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge

and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke.

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None of the staff but Filch seemed to be stirring

themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and

George’s departure Harry witnessed Professor

McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was

determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and

could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out

of the corner of her mouth, “It unscrews the other

way.”

To cap matters, Montague had still not recovered from

his sojourn in the toilet. He remained confused and

disorientated and his parents were to be observed one

Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking

extremely angry.

“Should we say something?” said Hermione in a

worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms

window so that she could see Mr. and Mrs. Montague

marching inside. “About what happened to him? In

case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?”

“ ’Course not, he’ll recover,” said Ron indifferently.

“Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn’t it?” said

Harry in a satisfied voice.

He and Ron both tapped the teacups they were

supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry’s

spouted four very short legs that would not reach the

desk and wriggled pointlessly in midair. Ron’s grew

four very thin spindly legs that hoisted the cup off the

desk with great difficulty, trembled for a few seconds,

then folded, causing the cup to crack into two.

“Reparo!” said Hermione quickly, mending Ron’s cup

with a wave of her wand. “That’s all very well, but

what if Montague’s permanently injured?”

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“Who cares?” said Ron irritably, while his teacup

stood drunkenly again, trembling violently at the

knees. “Montague shouldn’t have tried to take all

those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want

to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me!”

“You?” she said, catching her teacup as it scampered

happily away across the desk on four sturdy little

willow-patterned legs and replacing it in front of her.

“Why should I be worried about you?”

“When Mum’s next letter finally gets through

Umbridge’s screening process,” said Ron bitterly, now

holding his cup up while its frail legs tried feebly to

support its weight, “I’m going to be in deep trouble. I

wouldn’t be surprised if she’s sent a Howler again.”

“But —”

“It’ll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,” said

Ron darkly. “She’ll say I should’ve stopped them

leaving, I should’ve grabbed the ends of their brooms

and hung on or something... Yeah, it’ll be all my

fault...”

“Well, if she does say that it’ll be very unfair, you

couldn’t have done anything! But I’m sure she won’t, I

mean, if it’s really true they’ve got premises in Diagon

Alley now, they must have been planning this for

ages...”

“Yeah, but that’s another thing, how did they get

premises?” said Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with

his wand that its legs collapsed again and it lay

twitching before him. “It’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it? They’ll

need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in

Diagon Alley, she’ll want to know what they’ve been

up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold...”

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“Well, yes, that occurred to me too,” said Hermione,

allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around

Harry’s, whose stubby little legs were still unable to

touch the desktop. “I’ve been wondering whether

Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods

or something awful...”

“He hasn’t,” said Harry curtly.

“How do you know?” said Ron and Hermione together.

“Because —” Harry hesitated, but the moment to

confess finally seemed to have come. There was no

good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone

suspected that Fred and George were criminals.

“Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my

Triwizard winnings last June.”

There was a shocked silence, then Hermione’s teacup

jogged right over the edge of the desk and smashed on

the floor.

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t!” she said.

“Yes, I did,” said Harry mutinously. “And I don’t regret

it either — I didn’t need the gold, and they’ll be great

at a joke shop...”

“But this is excellent!” said Ron, looking thrilled. “It’s

all your fault, Harry — Mum can’t blame me at all!

Can I tell her?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’d better,” said Harry dully. “

’Specially if she thinks they’re receiving stolen

cauldrons or something...”

Hermione said nothing at all for the rest of the lesson,

but Harry had a shrewd suspicion that her self-

restraint was bound to crack before long. Sure

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enough, once they had left the castle for break and

were standing around in the weak May sunshine, she

fixed Harry with a beady eye and opened her mouth

with a determined air.

Harry interrupted her before she had even started.

“It’s no good nagging me, it’s done,” he said firmly.

“Fred and George have got the gold — spent a good

bit of it too, by the sounds of it — and I can’t get it

back from them and I don’t want to. So save your

breath, Hermione.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about Fred and

George!” she said in an injured voice.

Ron snorted disbelievingly and Hermione threw him a

very dirty look.

“No, I wasn’t!” she said angrily. “As a matter of fact, I

was going to ask Harry when he’s going to go back to

Snape and ask for Occlumency lessons again!”

Harry’s heart sank. Once they had exhausted the

subject of Fred and George’s dramatic departure,

which admittedly had taken many hours, Ron and

Hermione had wanted to hear news of Sirius. As

Harry had not confided in them the reason he had

wanted to talk to Sirius in the first place, it had been

hard to think of things to tell them. He had ended up

saying to them truthfully that Sirius wanted Harry to

resume Occlumency lessons. He had been regretting

this ever since; Hermione would not let the subject

drop and kept reverting to it when Harry least

expected it.

“You can’t tell me you’ve stopped having funny

dreams,” Hermione said now, “because Ron told me

last night you were muttering in your sleep again...”

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Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to

look ashamed of himself.

“You were only muttering a bit,” he mumbled

apologetically. “Something about ‘just a bit farther.’ ”

“I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,”

Harry lied brutally. “I was trying to get you to stretch

out a bit farther to grab the Quaffle.”

Ron’s ears went red. Harry felt a kind of vindictive

pleasure: He had not, of course, dreamed anything of

the sort.

Last night he had once again made the journey along

the Department of Mysteries corridor. He had passed

through the circular room, then the room full of

clicking and dancing light, until he found himself

again inside that cavernous room full of shelves on

which were ranged dusty glass spheres...

He had hurried straight toward row number ninety-

seven, turned left, and ran along it... It had probably

been then that he had spoken aloud... Just a bit

farther … for he could feel his conscious self

struggling to wake … and before he had reached the

end of the row, he had found himself lying in bed

again, gazing up at the canopy of his four-poster.

“You are trying to block your mind, aren’t you?” said

Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. “You are keeping

going with your Occlumency?”

“Of course I am,” said Harry, trying to sound as

though this question was insulting, but not quite

meeting her eye. The truth was that he was so

intensely curious about what was hidden in that

room full of dusty orbs that he was quite keen for the

dreams to continue.

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The problem was that with just under a month to go

until the exams and every free moment devoted to

studying, his mind seemed saturated with

information when he went to bed so that he found it

very difficult to get to sleep at all. When he did, his

overwrought brain presented him most nights with

stupid dreams about the exams. He also suspected

that part of his mind — the part that often spoke in

Hermione’s voice — now felt guilty on the occasions it

strayed down that corridor ending in the black door,

and sought to wake him before he could reach

journey’s end.

“You know,” said Ron, whose ears were still flaming

red, “if Montague doesn’t recover before Slytherin play

Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning

the Cup.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so,” said Harry, glad of a change of

subject.

“I mean, we’ve won one, lost one — if Slytherin lose to

Hufflepuff next Saturday —”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, losing track of what

he was agreeing to: Cho Chang had just walked

across the courtyard, determinedly not looking at

him.

The final match of the Quidditch season, Gryffindor

versus Ravenclaw, was to take place on the last

weekend of May. Although Slytherin had been

narrowly defeated by Hufflepuff in their last match,

Gryffindor was not daring to hope for victory, due

mainly (though of course nobody said it to him) to

Ron’s abysmal goalkeeping record. He, however,

seemed to have found a new optimism.

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“I mean, I can’t get any worse, can I?” he told Harry and Hermione grimly over breakfast on the morning

of the match. “Nothing to lose now, is there?”

“You know,” said Hermione, as she and Harry walked

down to the pitch a little later in the midst of a very

excitable crowd, “I think Ron might do better without

Fred and George around. They never exactly gave him

a lot of confidence...”

Luna Lovegood overtook them with what appeared to

be a live eagle perched on top of her head.

“Oh gosh, I forgot!” said Hermione, watching the eagle

flapping its wings as Luna walked serenely past a

group of cackling and pointing Slytherins. “Cho will

be playing, won’t she?”

Harry, who had not forgotten this, merely grunted.

They found seats in the topmost row of the stands. It

was a fine, clear day. Ron could not wish for better,

and Harry found himself hoping against hope that

Ron would not give the Slytherins cause for more

rousing choruses of “Weasley Is Our King.”

Lee Jordan, who had been very dispirited since Fred

and George had left, was commentating as usual. As

the teams zoomed out onto the pitches he named the

players with something less than his usual gusto.

“… Bradley … Davies … Chang,” he said, and Harry

felt his stomach perform, less of a back flip, more a

feeble lurch as Cho walked out onto the pitch, her

shiny black hair rippling in the slight breeze. He was

not sure what he wanted to happen anymore, except

that he could not stand any more rows. Even the

sight of her chatting animatedly to Roger Davies as

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they prepared to mount their brooms caused him only

a slight twinge of jealousy.

“And they’re off!” said Lee. “And Davies takes the

Quaffle immediately, Ravenclaw Captain Davies with

the Quaffle, he dodges Johnson, he dodges Bell, he

dodges Spinnet as well... He’s going straight for goal!

He’s going to shoot — and — and —” Lee swore very

loudly. “And he’s scored.”

Harry and Hermione groaned with the rest of the

Gryffindors. Predictably, horribly, the Slytherins on

the other side of the stands began to sing:

Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring …

“Harry,” said a hoarse voice in Harry’s ear. “Hermione

…”

Harry looked around and saw Hagrid’s enormous

bearded face sticking between the seats; apparently

he had squeezed his way all along the row behind, for

the first and second years he had just passed had a

ruffled, flattened look about them. For some reason,

Hagrid was bent double as though anxious not to be

seen, though he was still at least four feet taller than

everybody else.

“Listen,” he whispered, “can yeh come with me? Now?

While ev’ryone’s watchin’ the match?”

“Er … can’t it wait, Hagrid?” asked Harry. “Till the

match is over?

“No,” said Hagrid. “No, Harry, it’s gotta be now …

while ev’ryone’s lookin’ the other way... Please?”

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Hagrid’s nose was gently dripping blood. His eyes

were both blackened. Harry had not seen him this

close up since his return to the school; he looked

utterly woebegone.

“ ’Course,” said Harry at once, “ ’course we’ll come...”

He and Hermione edged back along their row of seats,

causing much grumbling among the students who

had to stand up for them. The people in Hagrid’s row

were not complaining, merely attempting to make

themselves as small as possible.

“I ’ppreciate this, you two, I really do,” said Hagrid as

they reached the stairs. He kept looking around

nervously as they descended toward the lawn below.

“I jus’ hope she doesn’ notice us goin’...”

“You mean Umbridge?” said Harry. “She won’t, she’s

got her whole Inquisitorial Squad sitting with her,

didn’t you see? She must be expecting trouble at the

match.”

“Yeah, well, a bit o’ trouble wouldn’ hurt,” said

Hagrid, pausing to peer around the edge of the stands

to make sure the stretch of lawn between there and

his cabin was deserted. “Give us more time …”

“What is it, Hagrid?” said Hermione, looking up at

him with a concerned expression on her face as they

hurried across the lawn toward the edge of the forest.

“Yeh — yeh’ll see in a mo’,” said Hagrid, looking over

his shoulder as a great roar rose from the stands

behind them. “Hey — did someone jus’ score?”

“It’ll be Ravenclaw,” said Harry heavily.

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“Good … good …” said Hagrid distractedly. “Tha’s

good...”

They had to jog to keep up with him as he strode

across the lawn, looking around with every other step.

When they reached his cabin, Hermione turned

automatically left toward the front door; Hagrid,

however, walked straight past it into the shade of the

trees on the outermost edge of the forest, where he

picked up a crossbow that was leaning against a tree.

When he realized they were no longer with him, he

turned.

“We’re goin’ in here,” he said, jerking his shaggy head

behind him.

“Into the forest?” said Hermione, perplexed.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “C’mon now, quick, before we’re

spotted!”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then

ducked into the cover of the trees behind Hagrid, who

was already striding away from them into the green

gloom, his crossbow over his arm. Harry and

Hermione ran to catch up with him.

“Hagrid, why are you armed?” said Harry.

“Jus’ a precaution,” said Hagrid, shrugging his

massive shoulders.

“You didn’t bring your crossbow the day you showed

us the thestrals,” said Hermione timidly.

“Nah, well, we weren’ goin’ in so far then,” said

Hagrid. “An’ anyway, tha’ was before Firenze left the

forest, wasn’ it?”

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“Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?” asked

Hermione curiously.

“ ’Cause the other centaurs are good an’ riled at me,

tha’s why,” said Hagrid quietly, glancing around.

“They used ter be — well, yeh couldn’ call ’em friendly

— but we got on all righ’. Kept ’emselves to ’emselves,

bu’ always turned up if I wanted a word. Not anymore

…”

He sighed deeply.

“Firenze said that they’re angry because he went to

work for Dumbledore?” Harry asked, tripping on a

protruding root because he was busy watching

Hagrid’s profile.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid heavily. “Well, angry doesn’ cover

it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn’ stepped in, I reckon they’d’ve

kicked Firenze ter death —”

“They attacked him?” said Hermione, sounding

shocked.

“Yep,” said Hagrid gruffly, forcing his way through

several low-hanging branches. “He had half the herd

onto him —”

“And you stopped it?” said Harry, amazed and

impressed. “By yourself?”

“ ’Course I did, couldn’t stand by an’ watch ’em kill

him, could I?” said Hagrid. “Lucky I was passin’,

really … an’ I’d’ve thought Firenze mighta

remembered tha’ before he started sendin’ me stupid

warnin’s!” he added hotly and unexpectedly.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, startled,

but Hagrid, scowling, did not elaborate.

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“Anyway,” he said, breathing a little more heavily

than usual, “since then the other centaurs’ve bin livid

with me an’ the trouble is, they’ve got a lot of

influence in the forest... Cleverest creatures in here

…”

“Is that why we’re here, Hagrid?” asked Hermione.

“The centaurs?”

“Ah no,” said Hagrid, shaking his head dismissively,

“no, it’s not them... Well, o’ course, they could

complicate the problem, yeah... But yeh’ll see what I

mean in a bit...”

On this incomprehensible note he fell silent and

forged a little ahead, taking one stride for every three

of theirs, so that they had great trouble keeping up

with him.

The path was becoming increasingly overgrown and

the trees grew so closely together as they walked

farther and farther into the forest that it was as dark

as dusk. They were soon a long way past the clearing

where Hagrid had shown them the thestrals, but

Harry felt no sense of unease until Hagrid stepped

unexpectedly off the path and began wending his way

in and out of trees toward the dark heart of the forest.

“Hagrid?” said Harry, fighting his way through thickly

knotted brambles over which Hagrid had stepped

easily and remembering very vividly what had

happened to him on the other occasions he had

stepped off the forest path. “Where are we going?”

“Bit further,” said Hagrid over his shoulder. “C’mon,

Harry... We need ter keep together now...”

It was a great struggle to keep up with Hagrid, what

with branches and thickets of thorn through which

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Hagrid marched as easily as though they were

cobwebs, but which snagged Harry and Hermione’s

robes, frequently entangling them so severely that

they had to stop for minutes at a time to free

themselves. Harry’s arms and legs were soon covered

in small cuts and scratches. They were so deep in the

forest now that sometimes all Harry could see of

Hagrid in the gloom was a massive dark shape ahead

of him. Any sound seemed threatening in the muffled

silence. The breaking of a twig echoed loudly and the

tiniest rustle of movement, though it might have been

made by an innocent sparrow, caused Harry to peer

through the gloom for a culprit. It occurred to him

that he had never managed to get this far into the

forest without meeting some kind of creature — their

absence struck him as rather ominous.

“Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?” said

Hermione quietly.

“Er … all righ’,” Hagrid whispered back. “In fact …”

He stopped suddenly and turned around; Hermione

walked right into him and was knocked over

backward. Harry caught her just before she hit the

forest floor.

“Maybe we bes’ jus’ stop fer a momen’, so I can … fill

yeh in,” said Hagrid. “Before we ge’ there, like.”

“Good!” said Hermione, as Harry set her back on her

feet. They both murmured “Lumos!” and their wand

tips ignited. Hagrid’s face swam through the gloom by

the light of the two wavering beams and Harry saw

that he looked nervous and sad again.

“Righ,” said Hagrid. “Well … see … the thing is …”

He took a great breath.

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“Well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be gettin’ the sack any day now,” he said.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then back

at him.

“But you’ve lasted this long —” Hermione said

tentatively. “What makes you think —”

“Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ niffler in

her office.”

“And was it?” said Harry, before he could stop

himself.

“No, it ruddy well wasn’!” said Hagrid indignantly.

“On’y anythin’ ter do with magical creatures an’ she

thinks it’s got somethin’ ter do with me. Yeh know

she’s bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever

since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it

wasn’ fer … well … the special circumstances I’m

abou’ ter explain to yeh, I’d leave righ now, before

she’s go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole

school, like she did with Trelawney.”

Harry and Hermione both made noises of protest, but

Hagrid overrode them with a wave of one of his

enormous hands.

“It’s not the end o’ the world, I’ll be able ter help

Dumbledore once I’m outta here, I can be useful ter

the Order. An’ you lot’ll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh’ll —

yeh’ll get through yer exams fine...” His voice

trembled and broke.

“Don’ worry abou’ me,” he said hastily, as Hermione

made to pat his arm. He pulled his enormous spotted

handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and

mopped his eyes with it. “Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer

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this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go … well, I can’

leave withou’ … withou’ tellin’ someone … because I’ll

— I’ll need you two ter help me. An’ Ron, if he’s

willin’.”

“Of course we’ll help you,” said Harry at once. “What

do you want us to do?”

Hagrid gave a great sniff and patted Harry wordlessly

on the shoulder with such force that Harry was

knocked sideways into a tree.

“I knew yeh’d say yes,” said Hagrid into his

handkerchief, “but I won’ … never … forget … Well …

c’mon … jus’ a little bit further through here … Watch

yerselves, now, there’s nettles...”

They walked on in silence for another fifteen minutes.

Harry had opened his mouth to ask how much farther

they had to go when Hagrid threw out his right arm to

signal that they should stop.

“Really easy,” he said softly. “Very quiet, now …”

They crept forward and Harry saw that they were

facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall

as Hagrid that he thought, with a jolt of dread, was

sure to be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees

had been ripped up at the roots all around the

mound, so that it stood on a bare patch of ground

surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that

formed a kind of fence or barricade, behind which

Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid now stood.

“Sleepin’,” breathed Hagrid.

Sure enough, Harry could hear a distant, rhythmic

rumbling that sounded like a pair of enormous lungs

at work. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was

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gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open.

She looked utterly terrified.

“Hagrid,” she said in a whisper barely audible over

the sound of the sleeping creature, “who is he?”

Harry found this an odd question... “What is it?” was

the one he had been planning on asking.

“Hagrid, you told us,” said Hermione, her wand now

shaking in her hand, “you told us none of them

wanted to come!”

Harry looked from her to Hagrid and then, as

realization hit him, he looked back at the mound with

a small gasp of horror.

The great mound of earth, on which he, Hermione,

and Hagrid could easily have stood, was moving

slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting

breathing. It was not a mound at all. It was the

curved back of what was clearly …

“Well — no — he didn’ want ter come,” said Hagrid,

sounding desperate. “But I had ter bring him,

Hermione, I had ter!”

“But why?” asked Hermione, who sounded as though

she wanted to cry. “Why — what — oh, Hagrid!”

“I knew if I jus’ got him back,” said Hagrid, sounding

close to tears himself, “an’ — an’ taught him a few

manners — I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show

ev’ryone he’s harmless!”

“Harmless!” said Hermione shrilly, and Hagrid made

frantic hushing noises with his hands as the

enormous creature before them grunted loudly and

shifted in its sleep. “He’s been hurting you all this

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time, hasn’t he? That’s why you’ve had all these

injuries!”

“He don’ know his own strength!” said Hagrid

earnestly. “An’ he’s gettin’ better, he’s not fightin’ so

much anymore —”

“So this is why it took you two months to get home!”

said Hermione distractedly. “Oh Hagrid, why did you

bring him back if he didn’t want to come, wouldn’t he

have been happier with his own people?”

“They were all bullyin’ him, Hermione, ’cause he’s so

small!” said Hagrid.

“Small?” said Hermione. “Small?”

“Hermione, I couldn’ leave him,” said Hagrid, tears

now trickling down his bruised face into his beard.

“See — he’s my brother!”

Hermione simply stared at him, her mouth open.

“Hagrid, when you say ‘brother,’ ” said Harry slowly,

“do you mean — ?”

“Well — half-brother,” amended Hagrid. “Turns out

me mother took up with another giant when she left

me dad, an’ she went an’ had Grawp here —”

“Grawp?” said Harry.

“Yeah … well, tha’s what it sounds like when he says

his name,” said Hagrid anxiously. “He don’ speak a lot

of English... I’ve bin tryin’ ter teach him... Anyway,

she don’ seem ter have liked him much more’n she

liked me... See, with giantesses, what counts is

producin’ good big kids, and he’s always been a bit on

the runty side fer a giant — on’y sixteen foot —”

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“Oh yes, tiny!” said Hermione, with a kind of

hysterical sarcasm. “Absolutely minuscule!”

“He was bein’ kicked around by all o’ them — I jus’

couldn’ leave him —”

“Did Madame Maxime want to bring him back?”

asked Harry.

“She — well, she could see it was right importan’ ter

me,” said Hagrid, twisting his enormous hands. “Bu’

— bu’ she got a bit tired of him after a while, I must

admit … so we split up on the journey home... She

promised not ter tell anyone though...”

“How on earth did you get him back without anyone

noticing?” said Harry.

“Well, tha’s why it took so long, see,” said Hagrid.

“Could on’y travel by nigh an’ through wild country

an’ stuff. ’Course, he covers the ground pretty well

when he wants ter, but he kep’ wantin’ ter go back...”

“Oh Hagrid, why on earth didn’t you let him!” said

Hermione, flopping down onto a ripped-up tree and

burying her face in her hands. “What do you think

you’re going to do with a violent giant who doesn’t

even want to be here!”

“Well, now — ‘violent’ — tha’s a bit harsh,” said

Hagrid, still twisting his hands agitatedly. “I’ll admit

he mighta taken a couple o’ swings at me when he’s

bin in a bad mood, but he’s gettin’ better, loads

better, settlin’ down well...”

“What are those ropes for, then?” Harry asked.

He had just noticed ropes thick as saplings stretching

from around the trunks of the largest nearby trees

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toward the place where Grawp lay curled on the

ground with his back to them.

“You have to keep him tied up?” said Hermione

faintly.

“Well … yeah …” said Hagrid, looking anxious. “See —

it’s like I say — he doesn’ really know his strength —”

Harry understood now why there had been such a

suspicious lack of any other living creature in this

part of the forest.

“So what is it you want Harry and Ron and me to do?”

Hermione asked apprehensively.

“Look after him,” said Hagrid croakily. “After I’m

gone.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged miserable looks,

Harry uncomfortably aware that he had already

promised Hagrid that he would do whatever he asked.

“What — what does that involve, exactly?” Hermione

inquired.

“Not food or anythin’!” said Hagrid eagerly. “He can

get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff

… No, it’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone

was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit … teachin’

him, yeh know …”

Harry said nothing, but turned to look back at the

gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of

them. Grawp had his back to them. Unlike Hagrid,

who simply looked like a very oversize human, Grawp

looked strangely misshapen. What Harry had taken to

be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great

earthen mound he now recognized as Grawp’s head.

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It was much larger in proportion to the body than a

human head, almost perfectly round and covered with

tightly curling, close-growing hair the color of

bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was

visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit, rather

like Uncle Vernon’s, directly upon the shoulders with

little or no neck in between. The back, under what

looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of

animal skins sewn roughly together, was very broad,

and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the

rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up

under the body; Harry could see the soles of

enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting

one on top of the other on the earthy forest floor.

“You want us to teach him,” Harry said in a hollow

voice. He now understood what Firenze’s warning had

meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better

to abandon it. Of course, the other creatures who lived

in the forest would have heard Hagrid’s fruitless

attempts to teach Grawp English...

“Yeah — even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,” said

Hagrid hopefully. “ ’Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter

people, he’ll understand more that we all like him

really, an’ want him to stay...”

Harry looked at Hermione, who peered back at him

from between the fingers over her face.

“Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back,

doesn’t it?” he said and she gave a very shaky laugh.

“Yeh’ll do it, then?” said Hagrid, who did not seem to

have caught what Harry had just said.

“We’ll …” said Harry, already bound by his promise.

“We’ll try, Hagrid...”

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“I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,” Hagrid said,

beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face

with his handkerchief again. “An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter

put yerself out too much, like... I know yeh’ve got

exams... If yeh could jus’ nip down here in yer

Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an’ have a little

chat with him … I’ll wake him up, then — introduce

you —”

“Wha — no!” said Hermione, jumping up, “Hagrid, no,

don’t wake him, really, we don’t need —”

But Hagrid had already stepped over the great trunk

in front of them and was proceeding toward Grawp.

When he was around ten feet away, he lifted a long,

broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly

over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, and then

poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the

end of the bough.

The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent

forest. Birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering

from their perches and soared away. In front of Harry

and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was

rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed

an enormous hand upon it to push himself onto his

knees and turned his head to see who and what had

disturbed him.

“All righ’, Grawpy?” said Hagrid in a would-be cheery

voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready

to poke Grawp again. “Had a nice sleep, eh?”

Harry and Hermione retreated as far as they could

while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp

knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted.

They looked up into his startlingly huge face, which

resembled a gray full moon swimming in the gloom of

the clearing. It was as though the features had been

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hewn onto a great stone ball. The nose was stubby

and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of

misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks. The

small eyes were a muddy greenish-brown and just

now were half gummed together with sleep. Grawp

raised dirty knuckles as big as cricket balls to his

eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning,

pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and

agility.

“Oh my …” Harry heard Hermione squeal, terrified,

beside him.

The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around

Grawp’s wrists and ankles were attached creaked

ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least

sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, he reached

out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a

bird’s nest from the upper branches of a towering

pine and turned it upside down with a roar of

apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it —

eggs fell like grenades toward the ground and Hagrid

threw his arms over his head to protect himself.

“Anyway, Grawpy,” shouted Hagrid, looking up

apprehensively in case of further falling eggs, “I’ve

brought some friends ter meet yeh. Remember, I told

yeh I might? Remember, when I said I might have ter

go on a little trip an’ leave them ter look after yeh fer

a bit? Remember that, Grawpy?”

But Grawp merely gave another low roar; it was hard

to say whether he was listening to Hagrid or whether

he even recognized the sounds Hagrid was making as

speech. He had now seized the top of the pine tree

and was pulling it toward him, evidently for the

simple pleasure of seeing how far it would spring

back when he let go.

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“Now, Grawpy, don’ do that!” shouted Hagrid. “Tha’s

how you ended up pullin’ up the others —”

And sure enough, Harry could see the earth around

the tree’s roots beginning to crack.

“I got company fer yeh!” Hagrid shouted. “Company,

see! Look down, yeh big buffoon, I brought yeh some

friends!”

“Oh Hagrid, don’t,” moaned Hermione, but Hagrid

had already raised the bough again and gave Grawp’s

knee a sharp poke.

The giant let go of the top of the pine tree, which

swayed menacingly and deluged Hagrid with a rain of

needles, and looked down.

“This, ” said Hagrid, hastening over to where Harry

and Hermione stood, “is Harry, Grawp! Harry Potter!

He migh’ be comin’ ter visit yeh if I have ter go away,

understand?”

The giant had only just realized that Harry and

Hermione were there. They watched, in great

trepidation, as he lowered his huge boulder of a head

so that he could peer blearily at them.

“An’ this is Hermione, see? Her —” Hagrid hesitated.

Turning to Hermione he said, “Would yeh mind if he

called yeh Hermy, Hermione? On’y it’s a difficult

name fer him ter remember...”

“No, not at all,” squeaked Hermione.

“This is Hermy, Grawp! An’ she’s gonna be comin’ an’

all! Is’n tha’ nice? Eh? Two friends fer yeh ter —

GRAWPY, NO!”

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Grawp’s hand had shot out of nowhere toward

Hermione — Harry seized her and pulled her

backward behind the tree, so that Grawp’s fist

scraped the trunk but closed on thin air.

“BAD BOY, GRAWPY!” Harry heard Hagrid yelling, as

Hermione clung to Harry behind the tree, shaking

and whimpering. “VERY BAD BOY! YEH DON’ GRAB

— OUCH!”

Harry poked his head out from around the trunk and

saw Hagrid lying on his back, his hand over his nose.

Grawp, apparently losing interest, had straightened

up again and was again engaged in pulling back the

pine as far as it would go.

“Righ’,” said Hagrid thickly, getting up with one hand

pinching his bleeding nose and the other grasping his

crossbow. “Well … there yeh are... Yeh’ve met him an’

— an’ now he’ll know yeh when yeh come back. Yeah

… well …”

He looked up at Grawp, who was now pulling back

the pine with an expression of detached pleasure on

his boulderish face; the roots were creaking as he

ripped them away from the ground...

“Well, I reckon tha’s enough fer one day,” said Hagrid.

“We’ll — er — we’ll go back now, shall we?”

Harry and Hermione nodded. Hagrid shouldered his

crossbow again and, still pinching his nose, led the

way back into the trees.

Nobody spoke for a while, not even when they heard

the distant crash that meant Grawp had pulled over

the pine tree at last. Hermione’s face was pale and

set. Harry could not think of a single thing to say.

What on earth was going to happen when somebody

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found out that Hagrid had hidden Grawp in the

forest? And he had promised that he, Ron, and

Hermione would continue Hagrid’s totally pointless

attempts to civilize the giant... How could Hagrid,

even with his immense capacity to delude himself

that fanged monsters were lovably harmless, fool

himself that Grawp would ever be fit to mix with

humans?

“Hold it,” said Hagrid abruptly, just as Harry and

Hermione were struggling through a patch of thick

knotgrass behind him. He pulled an arrow out of the

quiver over his shoulder and fitted it into the

crossbow. Harry and Hermione raised their wands;

now that they had stopped walking, they too could

hear movement close by.

“Oh blimey,” said Hagrid quietly.

“I thought that we told you, Hagrid,” said a deep male

voice, “that you are no longer welcome here?”

A man’s naked torso seemed for an instant to be

floating toward them through the dappled green half-

light. Then they saw that his waist joined smoothly

with a horse’s chestnut body. This centaur had a

proud, high-cheekboned face and long black hair.

Like Hagrid, he was armed: A quiverful of arrows and

a long bow were slung over his shoulders.

“How are yeh, Magorian?” said Hagrid warily.

The trees behind the centaur rustled and four or five

more emerged behind him. Harry recognized the

black-bodied and bearded Bane, whom he had met

nearly four years ago on the same night he had met

Firenze. Bane gave no sign that he had ever seen

Harry before.

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“So,” he said, with a nasty inflection in his voice,

before turning immediately to Magorian. “We agreed, I

think, what we would do if this human showed his

face in the forest again?”

“ ‘This human’ now, am I?” said Hagrid testily. “Jus’

fer stoppin’ all of yeh committin’ murder?”

“You ought not to have meddled, Hagrid,” said

Magorian. “Our ways are not yours, nor are our laws.

Firenze has betrayed and dishonored us.”

“I dunno how yeh work that out,” said Hagrid

impatiently. “He’s done nothin’ except help Albus

Dumbledore —”

“Firenze has entered into servitude to humans,” said

a gray centaur with a hard, deeply lined face.

“Servitude!” said Hagrid scathingly. “He’s doin’

Dumbledore a favor is all —”

“He is peddling our knowledge and secrets among

humans,” said Magorian quietly. “There can be no

return from such disgrace.”

“If yeh say so,” said Hagrid, shrugging, “but

personally I think yeh’re makin’ a big mistake —”

“As are you, human,” said Bane, “coming back into

our forest when we warned you —”

“Now, you listen ter me,” said Hagrid angrily. “I’ll have

less of the ‘our’ forest, if it’s all the same ter you. It’s

not up ter you who comes an’ goes in here —”

“No more is it up to you, Hagrid,” said Magorian

smoothly. “I shall let you pass today because you are

accompanied by your young —”

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“They’re not his!” interrupted Bane contemptuously.

“Students, Magorian, from up at the school! They

have probably already profited from the traitor

Firenze’s teachings...”

“Nevertheless,” said Magorian calmly, “the slaughter

of foals is a terrible crime... We do not touch the

innocent. Today, Hagrid, you pass. Henceforth, stay

away from this place. You forfeited the friendship of

the centaurs when you helped the traitor Firenze

escape us.”

“I won’ be kept outta the fores’ by a bunch of mules

like you!” said Hagrid loudly.

“Hagrid,” said Hermione in a high-pitched and

terrified voice, as both Bane and the gray centaur

pawed at the ground, “let’s go, please lets go!

Hagrid moved forward, but his crossbow was still

raised and his eyes were still fixed threateningly upon

Magorian.

“We know what you are keeping in the forest, Hagrid!”

Magorian called after them, as the centaurs slipped

out of sight. “And our tolerance is waning!”

Hagrid turned and gave every appearance of wanting

to walk straight back to Magorian again.

“You’ll tolerate him as long as he’s here, it’s as much

his forest as yours!” he yelled, while Harry and

Hermione both pushed with all their might against

Hagrid’s moleskin waistcoat in an effort to keep him

moving forward. Still scowling, he looked down; his

expression changed to mild surprise at the sight of

them both pushing him. He seemed not to have felt it.

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“Calm down, you two,” he said, turning to walk on

while they panted along behind him. “Ruddy old nags

though, eh?”

“Hagrid,” said Hermione breathlessly, skirting the

patch of nettles they had passed on their way there,

“if the centaurs don’t want humans in the forest, it

doesn’t really look as though Harry and I will be able

—”

“Ah, you heard what they said,” said Hagrid

dismissively “They wouldn’t hurt foals — I mean,

kids. Anyway, we can’ let ourselves be pushed around

by that lot...”

“Nice try,” Harry murmured to Hermione, who looked

crestfallen.

At last they rejoined the path and after another ten

minutes, the trees began to thin. They were able to

see patches of clear blue sky again and hear, in the

distance, the definite sounds of cheering and

shouting.

“Was that another goal?” asked Hagrid, pausing in

the shelter of the trees as the Quidditch stadium

came into view. “Or d’you reckon the match is over?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione miserably. Harry saw

that she looked much the worse for wear; her hair

was full of bits of twig and leaves, her robes were

ripped in several places and there were numerous

scratches on her face and arms. He knew he could

look little better.

“I reckon it’s over, yeh know!” said Hagrid, still

squinting toward the stadium. “Look — there’s people

comin’ out already — if you two hurry yeh’ll be able

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ter blend in with the crowd an’ no one’ll know you

weren’t there!”

“Good idea,” said Harry. “Well … see you later, then,

Hagrid...”

“I don’t believe him,” said Hermione in a very

unsteady voice, the moment they were out of earshot

of Hagrid. “I don’t believe him. I really don’t believe

him...”

“Calm down,” said Harry.

“Calm down!” she said feverishly. “A giant! A giant in

the forest! And we’re supposed to give him English

lessons! Always assuming, of course, we can get past

the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and

out! I — don’t — believe — him!”

“We haven’t got to do anything yet!” Harry tried to

reassure her in a quiet voice, as they joined a stream

of jabbering Hufflepuffs heading back toward the

castle. “He’s not asking us to do anything unless he

gets chucked out and that might not even happen —”

“Oh come off it, Harry!” said Hermione angrily,

stopping dead in her tracks so that the people behind

her had to swerve to avoid her. “Of course he’s going

to be chucked out and to be perfectly honest, after

what we’ve just seen, who can blame Umbridge?”

There was a pause in which Harry glared at her, and

her eyes filled slowly with tears.

“You didn’t mean that,” said Harry quietly.

“No … well … all right … I didn’t,” she said, wiping

her eyes angrily. “But why does he have to make life

so difficult for himself — for us?”

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“I dunno —”

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He didn’t let the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King …

“And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” said

Hermione miserably, “haven’t they gloated enough?”

A great tide of students was moving up the sloping

lawns from the pitch.

“Oh, let’s get in before we have to meet the

Slytherins,” said Hermione.

Weasley can save anything,

He never leaves a single ring

That’s why Gryffindors all sing:

Weasley is our King.

“Hermione …” said Harry slowly.

The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not

from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but

from a mass of red and gold moving slowly toward the

castle, which was bearing a solitary figure upon its

many shoulders...

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He didn’t let the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King …

“No!” said Hermione in a hushed voice.

“YES!” said Harry loudly.

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“HARRY! HERMIONE!” yelled Ron, waving the silver

Quidditch Cup in the air and looking quite beside

himself. “WE DID IT! WE WON!”

They beamed up at him as he passed; there was a

scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head got

rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody

seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the

crowd squeezed itself into the entrance hall and out of

sight. Harry and Hermione watched them go,

beaming, until the last echoing strains of “Weasley Is

Our King” died away. Then they turned to each other,

their smiles fading.

“We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” said

Harry.

“Yes, all right,” said Hermione wearily. “I’m not in any

hurry...”

They climbed the steps together. At the front doors

both instinctively looked back at the Forbidden

Forest. Harry was not sure whether it was his

imagination or not, but he rather thought he saw a

small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the

treetops in the distance, almost as though the tree in

which they had been nesting had just been pulled up

by the roots.

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O.W.L.S

Ron’s euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the

Quidditch Cup was such that he could not settle to

anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over

the match and Harry and Hermione found it very

difficult to find an opening in which to mention

Grawp — not that either of them tried very hard;

neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to

reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was

another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join

them in studying under the beech tree on the edge of

the lake, where they stood less chance of being

overheard than in the common room. Ron was not

particularly keen on this idea at first; he was

thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by

Gryffindors walking past his chair, not to mention the

occasional outbursts of “Weasley Is Our King,” but

agreed after a while that some fresh air might do him

good.

They spread their books out in the shade of the beech

tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his

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first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth time.

“Well, I mean, I’d already let in that one of Davies’s,

so I wasn’t feeling that confident, but I dunno, when

Bradley came toward me, just out of nowhere, I

thought — you can do this! And I had about a second

to decide which way to fly, you know, because he

looked like he was aiming for the right goal hoop —

my right, obviously, his left — but I had a funny

feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance

and flew left — his right, I mean — and — well — you

saw what happened,” he concluded modestly,

sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it

looked interestingly windswept and glancing around

to see whether the people nearest to them — a bunch

of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs — had heard him.

“And then, when Chambers came at me about five

minutes later — what?” Ron said, stopping mid-

sentence at the look on Harry’s face. “Why are you

grinning?”

“I’m not,” said Harry quickly, looking down at his

Transfiguration notes and attempting to straighten

his face. The truth was that Ron had just reminded

Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player

who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very

tree. “I’m just glad we won, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” said Ron slowly, savoring the words, “we won.

Did you see the look on Chang’s face when Ginny got

the Snitch right out from under her nose?”

“I suppose she cried, did she?” said Harry bitterly.

“Well, yeah — more out of temper than anything,

though …” Ron frowned slightly. “But you saw her

chuck her broom away when she got back to the

ground, didn’t you?”

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“Er —” said Harry.

“Well, actually … no, Ron,” said Hermione with a

heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him

apologetically. “As a matter of fact, the only bit of the

match Harry and I saw was Davies’s first goal.”

Ron’s carefully ruffled hair seemed to wilt with

disappointment.

“You didn’t watch?” he said faintly, looking from one

to the other. “You didn’t see me make any of those

saves?”

“Well — no,” said Hermione, stretching out a

placatory hand toward him. “But Ron, we didn’t want

to leave — we had to!”

“Yeah?” said Ron, whose face was growing rather red.

“How come?”

“It was Hagrid,” said Harry. “He decided to tell us why

he’s been covered in injuries ever since he got back

from the giants. He wanted us to go into the forest

with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets...

Anyway …”

The story was told in five minutes, by the end of

which Ron’s indignation had been replaced by a look

of total incredulity.

“He brought one back and hid it in the forest?”

“Yep,” said Harry grimly.

“No,” said Ron, as though by saying this he could

make it untrue. “No, he can’t have...”

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“Well, he has,” said Hermione firmly. “Grawp’s about

sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine

trees, and knows me,” she snorted, “as Hermy. ”

Ron gave a nervous laugh.

“And Hagrid wants us to … ?”

“Teach him English, yeah,” said Harry.

“He’s lost his mind,” said Ron in an almost awed

voice.

“Yes,” said Hermione irritably, turning a page of

Intermediate Transfiguration and glaring at a series of

diagrams showing an owl turning into a pair of opera

glasses. “Yes, I’m starting to think he has. But

unfortunately, he made Harry and me promise.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to break your promise,

that’s all,” said Ron firmly. “I mean, come on … We’ve

got exams and we’re about that far,” he held up his

hand to show thumb and forefinger a millimeter

apart, “from being chucked out as it is. And anyway

… remember Norbert? Remember Aragog? Have we

ever come off better for mixing with any of Hagrid’s

monster mates?”

“I know, it’s just that — we promised,” said Hermione

in a small voice.

Ron smoothed his hair flat again, looking

preoccupied.

“Well,” he sighed, “Hagrid hasn’t been sacked yet, has

he? He’s hung on this long, maybe he’ll hang on till

the end of term and we won’t have to go near Grawp

at all.”

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The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as

though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at

itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green

lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze: June

had arrived, but to the fifth years this meant only one

thing: Their O.W.L.s were upon them at last.

Their teachers were no longer setting them

homework; lessons were devoted to reviewing those

topics their teachers thought most likely to come up

in the exams. The purposeful, feverish atmosphere

drove nearly everything but the O.W.L.s from Harry’s

mind, though he did wonder occasionally during

Potions lessons whether Lupin had ever told Snape

that he must continue giving Harry Occlumency

tuition: If he had, then Snape had ignored Lupin as

thoroughly as he was now ignoring Harry. This suited

Harry very well; he was quite busy and tense enough

without extra classes with Snape, and to his relief

Hermione was much too preoccupied these days to

badger him about Occlumency. She was spending a

lot of time muttering to herself and had not laid out

any elf clothes for days.

She was not the only person acting oddly as the

O.W.L.s drew steadily nearer. Ernie Macmillan had

developed an irritating habit of interrogating people

about their study habits.

“How many hours d’you think you’re doing a day?” he

demanded of Harry and Ron as they queued outside

Herbology, a manic gleam in his eyes.

“I dunno,” said Ron. “A few …”

“More or less than eight?”

“Less, I s’pose,” said Ron, looking slightly alarmed.

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“I’m doing eight,” said Ernie, puffing out his chest.

“Eight or nine. I’m getting an hour in before breakfast

every day. Eight’s my average. I can do ten on a good

weekend day. I did nine and a half on Monday. Not so

good on Tuesday — only seven and a quarter. Then

on Wednesday —”

Harry was deeply thankful that Professor Sprout

ushered them into greenhouse three at that point,

forcing Ernie to abandon his recital.

Meanwhile Draco Malfoy had found a different way to

induce panic.

“Of course, it’s not what you know,” he was heard to

tell Crabbe and Goyle loudly outside Potions a few

days before the exams were to start, “it’s who you

know. Now, Father’s been friendly with the head of

the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years — old

Griselda Marchbanks — we’ve had her round for

dinner and everything...”

“Do you think that’s true?” Hermione whispered to

Harry and Ron, looking frightened.

“Nothing we can do about it if it is,” said Ron

gloomily.

“I don’t think it’s true,” said Neville quietly from

behind them. “Because Griselda Marchbanks is a

friend of my gran’s, and she’s never mentioned the

Malfoys.”

“What’s she like, Neville?” asked Hermione at once.

“Is she strict?”

“Bit like Gran, really,” said Neville in a subdued voice.

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“Knowing her won’t hurt your chances though, will

it?” Ron told him encouragingly.

“Oh, I don’t think it will make any difference,” said

Neville, still more miserably. “Gran’s always telling

Professor Marchbanks I’m not as good as my dad...

Well … you saw what she’s like at St. Mungo’s...”

Neville looked fixedly at the floor. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione glanced at one another, but didn’t know

what to say. It was the first time that Neville had

acknowledged that they had met at the Wizarding

hospital.

Meanwhile a flourishing black-market trade in aids to

concentration, mental agility, and wakefulness had

sprung up among the fifth and seventh years. Harry

and Ron were much tempted by the bottle of

Baruffio’s Brain Elixir offered to them by Ravenclaw

sixth year Eddie Carmichael, who swore it was solely

responsible for the nine “Outstanding” O.W.L.s he

had gained the previous summer and was offering the

whole pint for a mere twelve Galleons. Ron assured

Harry he would reimburse him for his half the

moment he left Hogwarts and got a job, but before

they could close the deal, Hermione had confiscated

the bottle from Carmichael and poured the contents

down a toilet.

“Hermione, we wanted to buy that!” shouted Ron.

“Don’t be stupid,” she snarled. “You might as well

take Harold Dingle’s powdered dragon claw and have

done with it.”

“Dingle’s got powdered dragon claw?” said Ron

eagerly.

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“Not anymore,” said Hermione. “I confiscated that too.

None of these things actually works you know —”

“Dragon claw does work!” said Ron. “It’s supposed to

be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you

come over all cunning for a few hours — Hermione,

let me have a pinch, go on, it can’t hurt —”

“This stuff can,” said Hermione grimly. “I’ve had a

look at it, and it’s actually dried doxy droppings.”

This information took the edge off Harry and Ron’s

desire for brain stimulants.

They received their examination schedules and details

of the procedure for O.W.L.s during their next

Transfiguration lesson.

“As you can see,” Professor McGonagall told the class

while they copied down the dates and times of their

exams from the blackboard, “your O.W.L.s are spread

over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory

exams in the mornings and the practice in the

afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination

will, of course, take place at night.

“Now, I must warn you that the most stringent Anti-

Cheating Charms have been applied to your

examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned

from the examination hall, as are Remembralls,

Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, and Self-Correcting Ink.

Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbor at

least one student who thinks that he or she can get

around the Wizarding Examinations Authority’s rules.

I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our

new — headmistress” — Professor McGonagall

pronounced the word with the same look on her face

that Aunt Petunia had whenever she was

contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt —

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“has asked the Heads of House to tell their students

that cheating will be punished most severely —

because, of course, your examination results will

reflect upon the headmistress’s new regime at the

school...”

Professor McGonagall gave a tiny sigh. Harry saw the

nostrils of her sharp nose flare.

“However, that is no reason not to do your very best.

You have your own futures to think about.”

“Please, Professor,” said Hermione, her hand in the

air, “when will we find out our results?”

“An owl will be sent to you some time in July,” said

Professor McGonagall.

“Excellent,” said Dean Thomas in an audible whisper,

“so we don’t have to worry about it till the holidays...”

Harry imagined sitting in his bedroom in Privet Drive

in six weeks’ time, waiting for his O.W.L. results.

Well, he thought, at least he would be sure of one bit

of post next summer...

Their first exam, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for

Monday morning. Harry agreed to test Hermione after

lunch on Sunday but regretted it almost at once. She

was very agitated and kept snatching the book back

from him to check that she had gotten the answer

completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose

with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming.

“Why don’t you just do it yourself?” he said firmly,

handing the book back to her, his eyes watering.

Meanwhile Ron was reading two years of Charms

notes with his fingers in his ears, his lips moving

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soundlessly; Seamus was lying flat on his back on the floor, reciting the definition of a Substantive Charm,

while Dean checked it against The Standard Book of

Spells, Grade 5; and Parvati and Lavender, who were

practicing basic locomotion charms, were making

their pencil cases race each other around the edge of

the table.

Dinner was a subdued affair that night. Harry and

Ron did not talk much, but ate with gusto, having

studied hard all day. Hermione on the other hand

kept putting down her knife and fork and diving

under the table for her bag, from which she would

seize a book to check some fact or figure. Ron was

just telling her that she ought to eat a decent meal or

she would not sleep that night, when her fork slid

from her limp fingers and landed with a loud tinkle on

her plate.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said faintly, staring into the

entrance hall. “Is that them? Is that the examiners?”

Harry and Ron whipped around on their bench.

Through the doors to the Great Hall they could see

Umbridge standing with a small group of ancient-

looking witches and wizards. Umbridge, Harry was

pleased to see, looked rather nervous.

“Shall we go and have a closer look?” said Ron.

Harry and Hermione nodded and they hastened

toward the double doors into the entrance hall,

slowing down as they stepped over the threshold to

walk sedately past the examiners. Harry thought

Professor Marchbanks must be the tiny, stooped

witch with a face so lined it looked as though it had

been draped in cobwebs; Umbridge was speaking to

her very deferentially. Professor Marchbanks seemed

P a g e | 907 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

to be a little deaf; she was answering Umbridge very

loudly considering that they were only a foot apart.

“Journey was fine, journey was fine, we’ve made it

plenty of times before!” she said impatiently. “Now, I

haven’t heard from Dumbledore lately!” she added,

peering around the hall as though hopeful he might

suddenly emerge from a broom cupboard. “No idea

where he is, I suppose?”

“None at all,” said Umbridge, shooting a malevolent

look at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were now

dawdling around the foot of the stairs as Ron

pretended to do up his shoelace. “But I daresay the

Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough...”

“I doubt it,” shouted tiny Professor Marchbanks, “not

if Dumbledore doesn’t want to be found! I should

know... Examined him personally in Transfiguration

and Charms when he did N.E.W.T.s … Did things

with a wand I’d never seen before …”

“Yes … well …” said Professor Umbridge as Harry,

Ron, and Hermione dragged their feet up the marble

staircase as slowly as they dared, “let me show you to

the staffroom … I daresay you’d like a cup of tea after

your journey...”

It was an uncomfortable sort of an evening. Everyone

was trying to do some last-minute studying but

nobody seemed to be getting very far. Harry went to

bed early but then lay awake for what felt like hours.

He remembered his careers consultation and

McGonagall’s furious declaration that she would help

him become an Auror if it was the last thing she did...

He wished he had expressed a more achievable

ambition now that exam time was here... He knew

that he was not the only one lying awake, but none of

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the others in the dormitory spoke and finally, one by one, they fell asleep.

None of the fifth years talked very much at breakfast

next day either. Parvati was practicing incantations

under her breath while the salt cellar in front of her

twitched, Hermione was rereading Achievement in

Charming so fast that her eyes appeared blurred, and

Neville kept dropping his knife and fork and knocking

over the marmalade.

Once breakfast was over, the fifth and seventh years

milled around in the entrance hall while the other

students went off to lessons. Then, at half-past nine,

they were called forward class by class to reenter the

Great Hall, which was now arranged exactly as Harry

had seen it in the Pensieve when his father, Sirius,

and Snape had been taking their O.W.L.s. The four

House tables had been removed and replaced instead

with many tables for one, all facing the staff-table end

of the Hall where Professor McGonagall stood facing

them. When they were all seated and quiet she said,

“You may begin,” and turned over an enormous

hourglass on the desk beside her, on which were also

spare quills, ink bottles, and rolls of parchment.

Harry turned over his paper, his heart thumping

hard... Three rows to his right and four seats ahead,

Hermione was already scribbling... He lowered his

eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation, and

b) describe the wand movement required to make

objects fly...

Harry had a fleeting memory of a club soaring high

into the air and landing loudly on the thick skull of a

troll... Smiling slightly, he bent over the paper and

began to write...

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“Well, it wasn’t too bad, was it?” asked Hermione

anxiously in the entrance hall two hours later, still

clutching the exam paper. “I’m not sure I did myself

justice on Cheering Charms, I just ran out of time —

did you put in the countercharm for hiccups? I wasn’t

sure whether I ought to, it felt like too much — and

on question twenty-three —”

“Hermione,” said Ron sternly, “we’ve been through

this before... We’re not going through every exam

afterward, it’s bad enough doing them once.”

The fifth years ate lunch with the rest of the school

(the four House tables reappeared over the lunch

hour) and then trooped off into the small chamber

beside the Great Hall, where they were to wait until

called for their practical examination. As small groups

of students were called forward in alphabetical order,

those left behind muttered incantations and practiced

wand movements, occasionally poking one another in

the back or eye by mistake.

Hermione’s name was called. Trembling, she left the

chamber with Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, and

Daphne Greengrass. Students who had already been

tested did not return afterward, so Harry and Ron

had no idea how Hermione had done.

“She’ll be fine — remember she got a hundred and

twelve percent on one of our Charms tests?” said Ron.

Ten minutes later, Professor Flitwick called,

“Parkinson, Pansy — Patil, Padma — Patil, Parvati —

Potter, Harry.”

“Good luck,” said Ron quietly. Harry walked into the

Great Hall, clutching his wand so tightly his hand

shook.

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“Professor Tofty is free, Potter,” squeaked Professor Flitwick, who was standing just inside the door. He

pointed Harry toward what looked like the very oldest

and baldest examiner, who was sitting behind a small

table in a far corner, a short distance from Professor

Marchbanks, who was halfway through testing Draco

Malfoy.

“Potter, is it?” said Professor Tofty, consulting his

notes and peering over his pince-nez at Harry as he

approached. “The famous Potter?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry distinctly saw

Malfoy throw a scathing look over at him; the wine

glass Malfoy had been levitating fell to the floor and

smashed. Harry could not suppress a grin. Professor

Tofty smiled back at him encouragingly.

“That’s it,” he said in his quavery old voice, “no need

to be nervous... Now, if I could ask you to take this

eggcup and make it do some cartwheels for me...”

On the whole Harry thought it went rather well; his

Levitation Charm was certainly much better than

Malfoy’s had been, though he wished he had not

mixed up the incantations for Color-Change and

Growth Charms, so that the rat he was supposed to

be turning orange swelled shockingly and was the size

of a badger before Harry could rectify his mistake. He

was glad Hermione had not been in the Hall at the

time and neglected to mention it to her afterward. He

could tell Ron, though; Ron had caused a dinner plate

to mutate into a large mushroom and had no idea

how it had happened.

There was no time to relax that night — they went

straight to the common room after dinner and

submerged themselves in studying for Transfiguration

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next day. Harry went to bed, his head buzzing with

complex spell models and theories.

He forgot the definition of a Switching Spell during his

written exam next morning, but thought his practical

could have been a lot worse. At least he managed to

vanish the whole of his iguana, whereas poor Hannah

Abbott lost her head completely at the next table and

somehow managed to multiply her ferret into a flock

of flamingos, causing the examination to be halted for

ten minutes while the birds were captured and

carried out of the Hall.

They had their Herbology exam on Wednesday (other

than a small bite from a Fanged Geranium, Harry felt

he had done reasonably well) and then, on Thursday,

Defense Against the Dark Arts. Here, for the first

time, Harry felt sure he had passed. He had no

problem with any of the written questions and took

particular pleasure, during the practical examination,

in performing all the counterjinxes and defensive

spells right in front of Umbridge, who was watching

coolly from near the doors into the entrance hall.

“Oh bravo!” cried Professor Tofty, who was examining

Harry again, when Harry demonstrated a perfect

boggart banishing spell. “Very good indeed! Well, I

think that’s all, Potter … unless …”

He leaned forward a little.

“I heard, from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that

you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point … ?”

Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge,

and imagined her being sacked.

“Expecto Patronum!”

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The silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and

cantered the length of the hall. All of the examiners

looked around to watch its progress and when it

dissolved into silver mist, Professor Tofty clapped his

veined and knotted hands enthusiastically.

“Excellent!” he said. “Very well, Potter, you may go!”

As Harry passed Umbridge beside the door their eyes

met. There was a nasty smile playing around her

wide, slack mouth, but he did not care. Unless he was

very much mistaken (and he was not planning on

saying it to anybody, in case he was), he had just

achieved an “Outstanding” O.W.L.

On Friday, Harry and Ron had a day off while

Hermione sat her Ancient Runes exam, and as they

had the whole weekend in front of them, they

permitted themselves a break from studying. They

stretched and yawned beside the open window,

through which warm summer air wafted over them as

they played a desultory game of wizard chess. Harry

could see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on

the edge of the forest. He was trying to guess what

creatures they were examining — he thought it must

be unicorns, because the boys seemed to be standing

back a little — when the portrait hole opened and

Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad

tempered.

“How were the runes?” said Ron, yawning and

stretching.

“I mistranslated ‘ehwaz,’ ” said Hermione furiously. “It

means ‘partnership,’ not ‘defense,’ I mixed it up with

‘eihwaz.’ ”

“Ah well,” said Ron lazily, “that’s only one mistake,

isn’t it, you’ll still get —”

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“Oh shut up,” said Hermione angrily, “it could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass

and a fail. And what’s more, someone’s put another

niffler in Umbridge’s office, I don’t know how they got

it through that new door, but I just walked past there

and Umbridge is shrieking her head off — by the

sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg —”

“Good,” said Harry and Ron together.

“It is not good!” said Hermione hotly. “She thinks it’s

Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want

Hagrid chucked out!”

“He’s teaching at the moment, she can’t blame him,”

said Harry, gesturing out of the window.

“Oh, you’re so naive sometimes, Harry, you really

think Umbridge will wait for proof?” said Hermione,

who seemed determined to be in a towering temper,

and she swept off toward the girls’ dormitories,

banging the door behind her.

“Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,” said Ron, very

quietly, prodding his queen forward so that she could

begin beating up one of Harry’s knights.

Hermione’s bad mood persisted for most of the

weekend, though Harry and Ron found it quite easy

to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday

studying for Potions on Monday, the exam to which

Harry was looking forward least and which he was

sure would be the one that would be the downfall of

his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he

found the written exam difficult, though he thought

he might have got full marks on the question about

Polyjuice Potion: He could describe its effects

extremely accurately, having taken it illegally in his

second year.

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The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had expected it to be. With Snape absent from the

proceedings he found that he was much more relaxed

than he usually was while making potions. Neville,

who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier

than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class.

When Professor Marchbanks said, “Step away from

your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,”

Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might

not have achieved a good grade but that he had, with

luck, avoided a fail.

“Only four exams left,” said Parvati Patil wearily as

they headed back to Gryffindor common room.

“Only!” said Hermione snappishly. “I’ve got

Arithmancy and it’s probably the toughest subject

there is!”

Nobody was foolish enough to snap back, so she was

unable to vent her spleen on any of them and was

reduced to telling off some first years for giggling too

loudly in the common room.

Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday’s

Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let

Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in

the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the

Forbidden Forest, where students were required to

correctly identify the knarl hidden among a dozen

hedgehogs (the trick was to offer them all milk in

turn: knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills

had many magical properties, generally went berserk

at what they saw as an attempt to poison them); then

demonstrate correct handling of a bowtruckle, feed

and clean a fire-crab without sustaining serious

burns, and choose, from a wide selection of food, the

diet they would give a sick unicorn.

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Harry could see Hagrid watching anxiously out of his

cabin window. When Harry’s examiner, a plump little

witch this time, smiled at him and told him he could

leave, Harry gave Hagrid a fleeting thumbs-up before

heading back up to the castle.

The Astronomy theory exam on Wednesday morning

went well enough; Harry was not convinced he had

got the names of all of Jupiter’s moons right, but was

at least confident that none of them was inhabited by

mice. They had to wait until evening for their practical

Astronomy; the afternoon was devoted instead to

Divination.

Even by Harry’s low standards in Divination, the

exam went very badly. He might as well have tried to

see moving pictures in the desktop as in the

stubbornly blank crystal ball; he lost his head

completely during tea-leaf reading, saying it looked to

him as though Professor Marchbanks would shortly

be meeting a round, dark, soggy stranger, and

rounded off the whole fiasco by mixing up the life and

head lines on her palm and informing her that she

ought to have died the previous Tuesday.

“Well, we were always going to fail that one,” said Ron

gloomily as they ascended the marble staircase. He

had just made Harry feel rather better by telling him

how he told the examiner in detail about the ugly

man with a wart on his nose in his crystal ball, only

to look up and realize he had been describing his

examiner’s reflection.

“We shouldn’t have taken the stupid subject in the

first place,” said Harry.

“Still, at least we can give it up now.”

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“Yeah,” said Harry. “No more pretending we care what

happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly …”

“And from now on, I don’t care if my tea leaves spell

die, Ron, die — I’m just chucking them in the bin

where they belong.”

Harry laughed just as Hermione came running up

behind them. He stopped laughing at once, in case it

annoyed her.

“Well, I think I’ve done all right in Arithmancy,” she

said, and Harry and Ron both sighed with relief. “Just

time for a quick look over our star charts before

dinner, then …”

When they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower at

eleven o’clock they found a perfect night for

stargazing, cloudless and still. The grounds were

bathed in silvery moonlight, and there was a slight

chill in the air. Each of them set up his or her

telescope and, when Professor Marchbanks gave the

word, proceeded to fill in the blank star chart he or

she had been given.

Professors Marchbanks and Tofty strolled among

them, watching as they entered the precise positions

of the stars and planets they were observing. All was

quiet except for the rustle of parchment, the

occasional creak of a telescope as it was adjusted on

its stand, and the scribbling of many quills. Half an

hour passed, then an hour; the little squares of

reflected gold light flickering on the ground below

started to vanish as lights in the castle windows were

extinguished.

As Harry completed the constellation Orion on his

chart, however, the front doors of the castle opened

directly below the parapet where he was standing, so

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that light spilled down the stone steps a little way

across the lawn. Harry glanced down as he made a

slight adjustment to the position of his telescope and

saw five or six elongated shadows moving over the

brightly lit grass before the doors swung shut and the

lawn became a sea of darkness once more.

Harry put his eye back to his telescope and refocused

it, now examining Venus. He looked down at his chart

to enter the planet there, but something distracted

him. Pausing with his quill suspended over the

parchment, he squinted down into the shadowy

grounds and saw half a dozen figures walking over

the lawn. If they had not been moving, and the

moonlight had not been gilding the tops of their

heads, they would have been indistinguishable from

the dark ground on which they stood. Even at this

distance, Harry had a funny feeling that he

recognized the walk of the squattest among them,

who seemed to be leading the group.

He could not think why Umbridge would be taking a

stroll outside past midnight, much less accompanied

by five others. Then somebody coughed behind him,

and he remembered that he was halfway through an

exam. He had quite forgotten Venus’s position —

jamming his eye to his telescope, he found it again

and was again on the point of entering it on his chart

when, alert for any odd sound, he heard a distant

knock that echoed through the deserted grounds,

followed immediately by the muffled barking of a large

dog.

He looked up, his heart hammering. There were lights

on in Hagrid’s windows and the people he had

observed crossing the lawn were now silhouetted

against them. The door opened and he distinctly saw

six tiny but sharply defined figures walk over the

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threshold. The door closed again and there was

silence.

Harry felt very uneasy. He glanced around to see

whether Ron or Hermione had noticed what he had,

but Professor Marchbanks came walking behind him

at that moment, and not wanting to appear as though

he was sneaking looks at anyone else’s work, he

hastily bent over his star chart and pretended to be

adding notes to it while really peering over the top of

the parapet toward Hagrid’s cabin. Figures were now

moving across the cabin windows, temporarily

blocking the light.

He could feel Professor Marchbanks’s eyes on the

back of his neck and pressed his eye again to his

telescope, staring up at the moon though he had

marked its position an hour ago, but as Professor

Marchbanks moved on he heard a roar from the

distant cabin that echoed through the darkness right

to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Several of the

people around Harry ducked out from behind their

telescopes and peered instead in the direction of

Hagrid’s cabin.

Professor Tofty gave another dry little cough.

“Try and concentrate, now, boys and girls,” he said

softly.

Most people returned to their telescopes. Harry looked

to his left. Hermione was gazing transfixed at

Hagrid’s.

“Ahem — twenty minutes to go,” said Professor Tofty.

Hermione jumped and returned at once to her star

chart; Harry looked down at his own and noticed that

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he had mislabelled Venus as Mars. He bent to correct

it.

There was a loud BANG from the grounds. Several

people said “Ouch!” as they poked themselves in the

face with the ends of their telescopes, hastening to

see what was going on below.

Hagrid’s door had burst open and by the light flooding

out of the cabin they saw him quite clearly, a massive

figure roaring and brandishing his fists, surrounded

by six people, all of whom, judging by the tiny threads

of red light they were casting in his direction, seemed

to be attempting to Stun him.

“No!” cried Hermione.

“My dear!” said Professor Tofty in a scandalized voice.

“This is an examination!”

But nobody was paying the slightest attention to their

star charts anymore: Jets of red light were still flying

beside Hagrid’s cabin, yet somehow they seemed to be

bouncing off him. He was still upright and still, as far

as Harry could see, fighting. Cries and yells echoed

across the grounds; a man yelled, “Be reasonable,

Hagrid!” and Hagrid roared, “Reasonable be damned,

yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!”

Harry could see the tiny outline of Fang, attempting

to defend Hagrid, leaping at the wizards surrounding

him until a Stunning Spell caught him and he fell to

the ground. Hagrid gave a howl of fury, lifted the

culprit bodily from the ground, and threw him: The

man flew what looked like ten feet and did not get up

again. Hermione gasped, both hands over her mouth;

Harry looked around at Ron and saw that he too was

looking scared. None of them had ever seen Hagrid in

a real temper before...

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“Look!” squealed Parvati, who was leaning over the

parapet and pointing to the foot of the castle where

the front doors seemed to have opened again; more

light had spilled out onto the dark lawn and a single

long black shadow was now rippling across the lawn.

“Now, really!” said Professor Tofty anxiously. “Only

sixteen minutes left, you know!”

But nobody paid him the slightest attention: They

were watching the person now sprinting toward the

battle beside Hagrid’s cabin.

“How dare you!” the figure shouted as she ran. “How

dare you!”

“It’s McGonagall!” whispered Hermione.

“Leave him alone! Alone, I say!” said Professor

McGonagall’s voice through the darkness. “On what

grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing,

nothing to warrant such —”

Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender all screamed. No

fewer than four Stunners had shot from the figures

around the cabin toward Professor McGonagall.

Halfway between cabin and castle the red beams

collided with her. For a moment she looked luminous,

illuminated by an eerie red glow, then was lifted right

off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no

more.

“Galloping gargoyles!” shouted Professor Tofty, who

seemed to have forgotten the exam completely. “Not

so much as a warning! Outrageous behavior!”

“COWARDS!” bellowed Hagrid, his voice carrying

clearly to the top of the tower, and several lights

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flickered back on inside the castle. “RUDDY

COWARDS! HAVE SOME O’ THAT — AN’ THAT —”

“Oh my —” gasped Hermione.

Hagrid took two massive swipes at his closest

attackers; judging by their immediate collapse, they

had been knocked cold. Harry saw him double over

and thought for a moment that he had finally been

overcome by a spell, but on the contrary, next

moment Hagrid was standing again with what

appeared to be a sack on his back — then Harry

realized that Fang’s limp body was draped around his

shoulders.

“Get him, get him!” screamed Umbridge, but her

remaining helper seemed highly reluctant to go within

reach of Hagrid’s fists. Indeed, he was backing away

so fast he tripped over one of his unconscious

colleagues and fell over. Hagrid had turned and

begun to run with Fang still hung around his neck;

Umbridge sent one last Stunning Spell after him but

it missed, and Hagrid, running full-pelt toward the

distant gates, disappeared into the darkness.

There was a long minute’s quivering silence,

everybody gazing openmouthed into the grounds.

Then Professor Tofty’s voice said feebly, “Um … five

minutes to go, everybody …”

Though he had only filled in two-thirds of his chart,

Harry was desperate for the end of the exam. When it

came at last he, Ron, and Hermione forced their

telescopes haphazardly back into their holders and

dashed back down the spiral staircase. None of the

students were going to bed — they were all talking

loudly and excitedly at the foot of the stairs about

what they had witnessed.

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“That evil woman!” gasped Hermione, who seemed to

be having difficulty talking due to rage. “Trying to

sneak up on Hagrid in the dead of night!”

“She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like

Trelawney’s,” said Ernie Macmillan sagely, squeezing

over to join them.

“Hagrid did well, didn’t he?” said Ron, who looked

more alarmed than impressed. “How come all the

spells bounced off him?”

“It’ll be his giant blood,” said Hermione shakily. “It’s

very hard to Stun a giant, they’re like trolls, really

tough... But poor Professor McGonagall... Four

Stunners straight in the chest, and she’s not exactly

young, is she?”

“Dreadful, dreadful,” said Ernie, shaking his head

pompously. “Well, I’m off to bed... ’Night, all …”

People around them were drifting away, still talking

excitedly about what they had just seen.

“At least they didn’t get to take Hagrid off to

Azkaban,” said Ron. “I ’spect he’s gone to join

Dumbledore, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, who looked tearful.

“Oh, this is awful, I really thought Dumbledore would

be back before long, but now we’ve lost Hagrid too...”

They traipsed back to the Gryffindor common room to

find it full. The commotion out in the grounds had

woken several people, who had hastened to rouse

their friends. Seamus and Dean, who had arrived

ahead of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, were now telling

everyone what they had heard from the top of the

Astronomy Tower.

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“But why sack Hagrid now?” asked Angelina Johnson,

shaking her head. “It’s not like Trelawney, he’s been

teaching much better than usual this year!”

“Umbridge hates part-humans,” said Hermione

bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. “She was

always going to try and get Hagrid out.”

“And she thought Hagrid was putting nifflers in her

office,” piped up Katie Bell.

“Oh blimey,” said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth.

“It’s me’s been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred

and George left me a couple, I’ve been levitating them

in through her window...”

“She’d have sacked him anyway,” said Dean. “He was

too close to Dumbledore.”

“That’s true,” said Harry, sinking into an armchair

beside Hermione’s.

“I just hope Professor McGonagall’s all right,” said

Lavender tearfully.

“They carried her back up to the castle, we watched

through the dormitory window,” said Colin Creevey.

“She didn’t look very well...”

“Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,” said Alicia

Spinnet firmly. “She’s never failed yet.”

It was nearly four in the morning before the common

room cleared. Harry felt wide awake — the image of

Hagrid sprinting away into the dark was haunting

him. He was so angry with Umbridge he could not

think of a punishment bad enough for her, though

Ron’s suggestion of having her fed to a box of starving

Blast-Ended Skrewts had its merits. He fell asleep

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contemplating hideous revenges and arose from bed

three hours later feeling distinctly unrested.

Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take

place until that afternoon. Harry would very much

have liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but he

had been counting on the morning for a spot of last-

minute studying, so instead he sat with his head in

his hands by the common room window, trying hard

not to doze off as he read through some of the notes

stacked three-and-a-half feet high that Hermione had

lent him.

The fifth years entered the Great Hall at two o’clock

and took their places in front of their overturned

examination papers. Harry felt exhausted. He just

wanted this to be over so that he could go and sleep.

Then tomorrow, he and Ron were going to go down to

the Quidditch pitch — he was going to have a fly on

Ron’s broom and savor their freedom from studying...

“Turn over your papers,” said Professor Marchbanks

from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant

hourglass. “You may begin...”

Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was

several seconds before it occurred to him that he had

not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing

distractingly against one of the high windows. Slowly,

tortuously, he began to write an answer.

He was finding it very difficult to remember names

and kept confusing dates. He simply skipped question

four: In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute

to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the

eighteenth century? thinking that he would go back to

it if he had time at the end. He had a stab at question

five: How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749

and what measures were introduced to prevent a

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recurrence? but had a nagging suspicion that he had missed several important points. He had a feeling

vampires had come into the story somewhere...

He looked ahead for a question he could definitely

answer and his eyes alighted upon number ten.

Describe the circumstances that led to the Formation

of the International Confederation of Wizards and

explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to

join.

I know this, Harry thought, though his brain felt

torpid and slack. He could visualize a heading, in

Hermione’s handwriting: The Formation of the

International Confederation of Wizards… He had read

these notes only this morning...

He began to write, looking up now and again to check

the large hourglass on the desk beside Professor

Marchbanks. He was sitting right behind Parvati

Patil, whose long dark hair fell below the back of her

chair. Once or twice he found himself staring at the

tiny golden lights that glistened in it when she moved

her head very slightly and had to give his own head a

little shake to clear it.

… the first Supreme Mugwump of the International

Confederation of Wizards was Pierre Bonaccord, but

his appointment was contested by the Wizarding

community of Liechtenstein, because —

All around Harry quills were scratching on parchment

like scurrying, burrowing rats. The sun was very hot

on the back of his head. What was it that Bonaccord

had done to offend the wizards of Liechtenstein?

Harry had a feeling it had something to do with

trolls... He gazed blankly at the back of Parvati’s head

again. If he could only perform Legilimency and open

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a window in the back of her head and see what it was

about trolls that had caused the breach between

Pierre Bonaccord and Liechtenstein...

Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in his

hands, so that the glowing red of his eyelids grew

dark and cool. Bonaccord had wanted to stop troll-

hunting and give the trolls rights … but Liechtenstein

was having problems with a tribe of particularly

vicious mountain trolls... That was it...

He opened his eyes; they stung and watered at the

sight of the blazing-white parchment. Slowly he wrote

two lines about the trolls then read through what he

had done so far. It did not seem very informative or

detailed, yet he was sure Hermione’s notes on the

confederation had gone on for pages and pages...

He closed his eyes again, trying to see them, trying to

remember... The confederation had met for the first

time in France, yes, he had written that already...

Goblins had tried to attend and been ousted... He had

written that too...

And nobody from Liechtenstein had wanted to come

…

Think, he told himself, his face in his hands, while all

around him quills scratched out never-ending

answers and the sand trickled through the hourglass

at the front...

He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the

Department of Mysteries again, walking with a firm

and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a

run, determined to reach his destination at last... The

black door swung open for him as usual, and here he

was in the circular room with its many doors...

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Straight across the stone floor and through the

second door … patches of dancing light on the walls

and floor and that odd mechanical clicking, but no

time to explore, he must hurry...

He jogged the last few feet to the third door, which

swung open just like the others...

Once again he was in the cathedral-sized room full of

shelves and glass spheres... His heart was beating

very fast now... He was going to get there this time...

When he reached number ninety-seven he turned left

and hurried along the aisle between two rows...

But there was a shape on the floor at the very end, a

black shape moving upon the floor like a wounded

animal... Harry’s stomach contracted with fear … with

excitement...

A voice issued from his own mouth, a high, cold voice

empty of any human kindness, “Take it for me... Lift it

down, now... I cannot touch it … but you can...”

The black shape upon the floor shifted a little. Harry

saw a long-fingered white hand clutching a wand rise

on the end of his own arm … heard the high, cold

voice say, “Crucio!”

The man on the floor let out a scream of pain,

attempted to stand but fell back, writhing. Harry was

laughing. He raised his wand, the curse lifted, and

the figure groaned and became motionless.

“Lord Voldemort is waiting...”

Very slowly, his arms trembling, the man on the

ground raised his shoulders a few inches and lifted

his head. His face was bloodstained and gaunt,

twisted in pain yet rigid with defiance...

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“You’ll have to kill me,” whispered Sirius.

“Undoubtedly I shall in the end,” said the cold voice.

“But you will fetch it for me first, Black... You think

you have felt pain thus far? Think again... We have

hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream...”

But somebody screamed as Voldemort lowered his

wand again; somebody yelled and fell sideways off a

hot desk onto the cold stone floor. Harry hit the

ground and awoke, still yelling, his scar on fire, as the

Great Hall erupted all around him.

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OUT OF THE FIRE

“I’m not going... I don’t need the hospital wing... I

don’t want …”

He was gibbering, trying to pull away from Professor

Tofty, who was looking at him with much concern,

and who had just helped Harry out into the entrance

hall while the students all around them stared.

“I’m — I’m fine, sir,” Harry stammered, wiping the

sweat from his face. “Really … I just fell asleep... Had

a nightmare …”

“Pressure of examinations!” said the old wizard

sympathetically, patting Harry shakily on the

shoulder. “It happens, young man, it happens! Now, a

cooling drink of water, and perhaps you will be ready

to return to the Great Hall? The examination is nearly

over, but you may be able to round off your last

answer nicely?”

“Yes,” said Harry wildly. “I mean … no … I’ve done —

done as much as I can, I think...”

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“Very well, very well,” said the old wizard gently. “I shall go and collect your examination paper, and I

suggest that you go and have a nice lie down...”

“I’ll do that,” said Harry, nodding vigorously. “Thanks

very much.”

He waited for the second when the old man’s heels

disappeared over the threshold into the Great Hall,

then ran up the marble staircase and then more

staircases toward the hospital wing, hurtling along

the corridors so fast that the portraits he passed

muttered reproaches, and burst through the double

doors like a hurricane, causing Madam Pomfrey, who

had been spooning some bright blue liquid into

Montague’s open mouth, to shriek in alarm.

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to see Professor McGonagall,” gasped Harry,

the breath tearing his lungs. “Now … It’s urgent...”

“She’s not here, Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey sadly.

“She was transferred to St. Mungo’s this morning.

Four Stunning Spells straight to the chest at her age?

It’s a wonder they didn’t kill her.”

“She’s … gone?” said Harry, stunned.

The bell rang just outside the dormitory, and he

heard the usual distant rumbling of students starting

to flood out into the corridors above and below him.

He remained quite still, looking at Madam Pomfrey.

Terror was rising inside him.

There was nobody left to tell. Dumbledore had gone,

Hagrid had gone, but he had always expected

Professor McGonagall to be there, irascible and

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inflexible, perhaps, but always dependably, solidly

present...

“I don’t wonder you’re shocked, Potter,” said Madam

Pomfrey with a kind of fierce approval in her face. “As

if one of them could have Stunned Minerva

McGonagall face on by daylight! Cowardice, that’s

what it was... Despicable cowardice … If I wasn’t

worried what would happen to you students without

me, I’d resign in protest...”

“Yes,” said Harry blankly.

He strode blindly from the hospital wing into the

teeming corridor where he stood, buffeted by the

crowd, the panic expanding inside him like poison gas

so that his head swam and he could not think what to

do...

Ron and Hermione, said a voice in his head.

He was running again, pushing students out of the

way, oblivious to their angry protests and shouts. He

sprinted back down two floors and was at the top of

the marble staircase when he saw them hurrying

toward him.

“Harry!” said Hermione at once, looking very

frightened. “What happened? Are you all right? Are

you ill?”

“Where have you been?” demanded Ron.

“Come with me,” Harry said quickly. “Come on, I’ve

got to tell you something...”

He led them along the first-floor corridor, peering

through doorways, and at last found an empty

classroom into which he dived, closing the door

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behind Ron and Hermione the moment they were

inside and leaning against it, facing them.

“Voldemort’s got Sirius.”

“What?”

“How d’you — ?”

“Saw it. Just now. When I fell asleep in the exam.”

“But — but where? How?” said Hermione, whose face

was white.

“I dunno how,” said Harry. “But I know exactly where.

There’s a room in the Department of Mysteries full of

shelves covered in these little glass balls, and they’re

at the end of row ninety-seven … He’s trying to use

Sirius to get whatever it is he wants from in there...

He’s torturing him... Says he’ll end by killing him …”

Harry found his voice was shaking, as were his knees.

He moved over to a desk and sat down on it, trying to

master himself.

“How’re we going to get there?” he asked them.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Ron said, “G-get

there?”

“Get to the Department of Mysteries, so we can rescue

Sirius!” Harry said loudly.

“But — Harry …” said Ron weakly.

“What? What?” said Harry.

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He could not understand why they were both gaping

at him as though he was asking them something

unreasonable.

“Harry,” said Hermione in a rather frightened voice,

“er … how … how did Voldemort get into the Ministry

of Magic without anybody realizing he was there?”

“How do I know?” bellowed Harry. “The question is

how we’re going to get in there!”

“But … Harry, think about this,” said Hermione,

taking a step toward him, “it’s five o’clock in the

afternoon... The Ministry of Magic must be full of

workers... How would Voldemort and Sirius have got

in without being seen? Harry … they’re probably the

two most wanted wizards in the world... You think

they could get into a building full of Aurors

undetected?”

“I dunno, Voldemort used an Invisibility Cloak or

something!” Harry shouted. “Anyway, the Department

of Mysteries has always been completely empty

whenever I’ve been —”

“You’ve never been there, Harry,” said Hermione

quietly. “You’ve dreamed about the place, that’s all.”

“They’re not normal dreams!” Harry shouted in her

face, standing up and taking a step closer to her in

turn. He wanted to shake her. “How d’you explain

Ron’s dad then, what was all that about, how come I

knew what had happened to him?”

“He’s got a point,” said Ron quietly, looking at

Hermione.

“But this is just — just so unlikely!” said Hermione

desperately. “Harry, how on earth could Voldemort

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have got hold of Sirius when he’s been in Grimmauld

Place all the time?”

“Sirius might’ve cracked and just wanted some fresh

air,” said Ron, sounding worried. “He’s been

desperate to get out of that house for ages —”

“But why,” Hermione persisted, “why on earth would

Voldemort want to use Sirius to get the weapon, or

whatever the thing is?”

“I dunno, there could be loads of reasons!” Harry

yelled at her. “Maybe Sirius is just someone

Voldemort doesn’t care about seeing hurt —”

“You know what, I’ve just thought of something,” said

Ron in a hushed voice. “Sirius’s brother was a Death

Eater, wasn’t he? Maybe he told Sirius the secret of

how to get the weapon!”

“Yeah — and that’s why Dumbledore’s been so keen

to keep Sirius locked up all the time!” said Harry.

“Look, I’m sorry,” cried Hermione, “but neither of you

are making sense, and we’ve got no proof for any of

this, no proof Voldemort and Sirius are even there —”

“Hermione, Harry’s seen them!” said Ron, rounding

on her.

“Okay,” she said, looking frightened yet determined,

“I’ve just got to say this...”

“What?”

“You … This isn’t a criticism, Harry! But you do …

sort of … I mean — don’t you think you’ve got a bit of

a — a — saving-people-thing?” she said.

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He glared at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean,

a ‘saving-people-thing’?”

“Well … you …” She looked more apprehensive than

ever. “I mean … last year, for instance … in the lake

… during the Tournament … you shouldn’t have … I

mean, you didn’t need to save that little Delacour

girl... You got a bit … carried away …”

A wave of hot, prickly anger swept Harry’s body —

how could she remind him of that blunder now?

“… I mean, it was really great of you and everything,”

said Hermione quickly, looking positively petrified at

the look on Harry’s face. “Everyone thought it was a

wonderful thing to do —”

“That’s funny,” said Harry in a trembling voice,

“because I definitely remember Ron saying I’d wasted

time acting the hero... Is that what you think this is?

You reckon I want to act the hero again?”

“No, no, no!” said Hermione, looking aghast. “That’s

not what I mean at all!”

“Well, spit out what you’ve got to say, because we’re

wasting time here!” Harry shouted.

“I’m trying to say — Voldemort knows you, Harry! He

took Ginny down into the Chamber of Secrets to lure

you there, it’s the kind of thing he does, he knows

you’re the — the sort of person who’d go to Sirius’s

aid! What if he’s just trying to get you into the

Department of Myst — ?”

“Hermione, it doesn’t matter if he’s done it to get me

there or not — they’ve taken McGonagall to St.

Mungo’s, there isn’t anyone left from the Order at

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Hogwarts who we can tell, and if we don’t go, Sirius is dead!”

“But Harry — what if your dream was — was just

that, a dream?”

Harry let out a roar of frustration. Hermione actually

stepped back from him, looking alarmed.

“You don’t get it!” Harry shouted at her. “I’m not

having nightmares, I’m not just dreaming! What d’you

think all the Occlumency was for, why d’you think

Dumbledore wanted me prevented from seeing these

things? Because they’re REAL, Hermione — Sirius is

trapped — I’ve seen him — Voldemort’s got him, and

no one else knows, and that means we’re the only

ones who can save him, and if you don’t want to do it,

fine, but I’m going, understand? And if I remember

rightly, you didn’t have a problem with my saving-

people-thing when it was you I was saving from the

dementors, or” — he rounded on Ron — “when it was

your sister I was saving from the basilisk —”

“I never said I had a problem!” said Ron heatedly.

“But Harry, you’ve just said it,” said Hermione

fiercely. “Dumbledore wanted you to learn to shut

these things out of your mind, if you’d done

Occlumency properly you’d never have seen this —”

“IF YOU THINK I’M JUST GOING TO ACT LIKE I

HAVEN’T SEEN —”

“Sirius told you there was nothing more important

than you learning to close your mind!”

“WELL, I EXPECT HE’D SAY SOMETHING

DIFFERENT IF HE KNEW WHAT I’D JUST —”

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The classroom door opened. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione whipped around. Ginny walked in, looking

curious, followed by Luna, who as usual looked as

though she had drifted in accidentally.

“Hi,” said Ginny uncertainly. “We recognized Harry’s

voice — what are you yelling about?”

“Never you mind,” said Harry roughly.

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she said

coolly. “I was only wondering whether I could help.”

“Well, you can’t,” said Harry shortly.

“You’re being rather rude, you know,” said Luna

serenely.

Harry swore and turned away. The very last thing he

wanted now was a conversation with Luna Lovegood.

“Wait,” said Hermione suddenly. “Wait … Harry, they

can help.”

Harry and Ron looked at her.

“Listen,” she said urgently, “Harry, we need to

establish whether Sirius really has left headquarters

—”

“I’ve told you, I saw —”

“Harry, I’m begging you, please!” said Hermione

desperately. “Please let’s just check that Sirius isn’t at

home before we go charging off to London — if we find

out he’s not there then I swear I won’t try and stop

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you, I’ll come, I’ll d-do whatever it takes to try and save him —”

“Sirius is being tortured NOW!” shouted Harry. “We

haven’t got time to waste —”

“But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort’s — Harry, we’ve

got to check, we’ve got to —”

“How?” Harry demanded. “How’re we going to check?”

“We’ll have to use Umbridge’s fire and see if we can

contact him,” said Hermione, who looked positively

terrified at the thought. “We’ll draw Umbridge away

again, but we’ll need lookouts, and that’s where we

can use Ginny and Luna.”

Though clearly struggling to understand what was

going on, Ginny said immediately, “Yeah, we’ll do it,”

and Luna said, “When you say ‘Sirius,’ are you

talking about Stubby Boardman?”

Nobody answered her.

“Okay,” Harry said aggressively to Hermione, “Okay, if

you can think of a way of doing this quickly, I’m with

you, otherwise I’m going to the Department of

Mysteries right now —”

“The Department of Mysteries?” said Luna, looking

mildly surprised. “But how are you going to get

there?”

Again, Harry ignored her.

“Right,” said Hermione, twisting her hands together

and pacing up and down between the desks. “Right …

well … One of us has to go and find Umbridge and —

and send her off in the wrong direction, keep her

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away from her office. They could tell her — I don’t

know — that Peeves is up to something awful as

usual...”

“I’ll do it,” said Ron at once. “I’ll tell her Peeves is

smashing up the Transfiguration department or

something, it’s miles away from her office. Come to

think of it, I could probably persuade Peeves to do it if

I met him on the way...”

It was a mark of the seriousness of the situation that

Hermione made no objection to the smashing up of

the Transfiguration department.

“Okay,” she said, her brow furrowed as she continued

to pace. “Now, we need to keep students away from

her office while we force entry, or some Slytherin’s

bound to go and tip her off...”

“Luna and I can stand at either end of the corridor,”

said Ginny promptly, “and warn people not to go

down there because someone’s let off a load of

Garroting Gas.” Hermione looked surprised at the

readiness with which Ginny had come up with this

lie. Ginny shrugged and said, “Fred and George were

planning to do it before they left.”

“Okay,” said Hermione, “well then, Harry, you and I

will be under the Invisibility Cloak, and we’ll sneak

into the office and you can talk to Sirius —”

“He’s not there, Hermione!”

“I mean, you can — can check whether Sirius is at

home or not while I keep watch, I don’t think you

should be in there alone, Lee’s already proved the

window’s a weak spot, sending those nifflers through

it.”

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Even through his anger and impatience Harry

recognized Hermione’s offer to accompany him into

Umbridge’s office as a sign of solidarity and loyalty.

“I … okay, thanks,” he muttered.

“Right, well, even if we do all of that, I don’t think

we’re going to be able to bank on more than five

minutes,” said Hermione, looking relieved that Harry

seemed to have accepted the plan, “not with Filch and

the wretched Inquisitorial Squad floating around.”

“Five minutes’ll be enough,” said Harry. “C’mon, let’s

go —”

“Now?” said Hermione, looking shocked.

“Of course now!” said Harry angrily. “What did you

think, we’re going to wait until after dinner or

something? Hermione, Sirius is being tortured right

now!”

“I — oh all right,” she said desperately. “You go and

get the Invisibility Cloak and we’ll meet you at the end

of Umbridge’s corridor, okay?”

Harry did not answer, but flung himself out of the

room and began to fight his way through the milling

crowds outside. Two floors up he met Seamus and

Dean, who hailed him jovially and told him they were

planning a dusk-till-dawn end-of-exams celebration

in the common room. Harry barely heard them. He

scrambled through the portrait hole while they were

still arguing about how many black-market

butterbeers they would need and was climbing back

out of it, the Invisibility Cloak and Sirius’s knife

secure in his bag, before they noticed he had left

them.

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“Harry, d’you want to chip in a couple of Galleons?

Harold Dingle reckons he could sell us some

firewhisky...”

But Harry was already tearing away back along the

corridor, and a couple of minutes later was jumping

the last few stairs to join Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and

Luna, who were huddled together at the end of

Umbridge’s corridor.

“Got it,” he panted. “Ready to go, then?”

“All right,” whispered Hermione as a gang of loud

sixth years passed them. “So Ron — you go and head

Umbridge off... Ginny, Luna, if you can start moving

people out of the corridor... Harry and I will get the

cloak on and wait until the coast is clear...”

Ron strode away, his bright red hair visible right to

the end of the passage. Meanwhile, Ginny’s equally

vivid head bobbed between the jostling students

surrounding them in the other direction, trailed by

Luna’s blonde one.

“Get over here,” muttered Hermione, tugging at

Harry’s wrist and pulling him back into a recess

where the ugly stone head of a medieval wizard stood

muttering to itself on a column. “Are — are you sure

you’re okay, Harry? You’re still very pale...”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, tugging the Invisibility

Cloak from out of his bag. In truth, his scar was

aching, but not so badly that he thought Voldemort

had yet dealt Sirius a fatal blow. It had hurt much

worse than this when Voldemort had been punishing

Avery...

P a g e | 942 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Here,” he said. He threw the Invisibility Cloak over both of them and they stood listening carefully over

the Latin mumblings of the bust in front of them.

“You can’t come down here!” Ginny was calling to the

crowd. “No, sorry, you’re going to have to go round by

the swiveling staircase, someone’s let off Garroting

Gas just along here —”

They could hear people complaining; one surly voice

said, “I can’t see no gas …”

“That’s because it’s colorless,” said Ginny in a

convincingly exasperated voice, “but if you want to

walk through it, carry on, then we’ll have your body

as proof for the next idiot who didn’t believe us...”

Slowly the crowd thinned. The news about the

Garroting Gas seemed to have spread — people were

not coming this way anymore. When at last the

surrounding area was quite clear, Hermione said

quietly, “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get,

Harry — come on, let’s do it.”

Together they moved forward, covered by the cloak.

Luna was standing with her back to them at the far

end of the corridor. As they passed Ginny, Hermione

whispered, “Good one … don’t forget the signal …”

“What’s the signal?” muttered Harry, as they

approached Umbridge’s door.

“A loud chorus of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ if they see

Umbridge coming,” replied Hermione, as Harry

inserted the blade of Sirius’s knife in the crack

between door and wall. The lock clicked open, and

they entered the office.

P a g e | 943 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

The garish kittens were basking in the late afternoon sunshine warming their plates, but otherwise the

office was as still and empty as last time. Hermione

breathed a sigh of relief.

“I thought she might have added extra security after

the second niffler...”

They pulled off the cloak. Hermione hurried over to

the window and stood out of sight, peering down into

the grounds with her wand out. Harry dashed over to

the fireplace, seized the pot of Floo powder, and threw

a pinch into the grate, causing emerald flames to

burst into life there. He knelt down quickly, thrust his

head into the dancing fire, and cried, “Number twelve,

Grimmauld Place!”

His head began to spin as though he had just got off a

fairground ride though his knees remained firmly

planted upon the cold office floor. He kept his eyes

screwed up against the whirling ash, and when the

spinning stopped, he opened them to find himself

looking out upon the long, cold kitchen of Grimmauld

Place.

There was nobody there. He had expected this, yet

was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and

panic that seemed to burst through his stomach floor

at the sight of the deserted room.

“Sirius?” he shouted. “Sirius, are you there?”

His voice echoed around the room, but there was no

answer except a tiny scuffing sound to the right of the

fire.

“Who’s there?” he called, wondering whether it was

just a mouse.

P a g e | 944 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Kreacher the house-elf came creeping into view. He

looked highly delighted about something, though he

seemed to have recently sustained a nasty injury to

both hands, which were heavily bandaged.

“It’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire,” Kreacher

informed the empty kitchen, stealing furtive, oddly

triumphant glances at Harry. “What has he come for,

Kreacher wonders?”

“Where’s Sirius, Kreacher?” Harry demanded.

The house-elf gave a wheezy chuckle. “Master has

gone out, Harry Potter.”

“Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone, Kreacher?”

Kreacher merely cackled.

“I’m warning you!” said Harry, fully aware that his

scope for inflicting punishment upon Kreacher was

almost nonexistent in this position. “What about

Lupin? Mad-Eye? Any of them, are any of them here?”

“Nobody here but Kreacher!” said the elf gleefully, and

turning away from Harry he began to walk slowly

toward the door at the end of the kitchen. “Kreacher

thinks he will have a little chat with his Mistress now,

yes, he hasn’t had a chance in a long time, Kreacher’s

Master has been keeping him away from her —”

“Where has Sirius gone?” Harry yelled after the elf.

“Kreacher, has he gone to the Department of

Mysteries?”

Kreacher stopped in his tracks. Harry could just

make out the back of his bald head through the forest

of chair legs before him.

P a g e | 945 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is

going,” said the elf quietly.

“But you know!” shouted Harry. “Don’t you? You

know where he is!”

There was a moment’s silence, then the elf let out his

loudest cackle yet. “Master will not come back from

the Department of Mysteries!” he said gleefully.

“Kreacher and his Mistress are alone again!”

And he scurried forward and disappeared through the

door to the hall.

“You — !”

But before he could utter a single curse or insult,

Harry felt a great pain at the top of his head. He

inhaled a lot of ash and, choking, found himself being

dragged backward through the flames until, with a

horrible abruptness, he was staring up into the wide,

pallid face of Professor Umbridge, who had dragged

him backward out of the fire by the hair and was now

bending his neck back as far as it would go as though

she was going to slit his throat.

“You think,” she whispered, bending Harry’s neck

back even farther, so that he was looking up at the

ceiling above him, “that after two nifflers I was going

to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter

my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth

Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after

the last one got in, you foolish boy. Take his wand,”

she barked at someone he could not see, and he felt a

hand grope inside the chest pocket of his robes and

remove the wand. “Hers too …”

P a g e | 946 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry heard a scuffle over by the door and knew that

Hermione had just had her wand wrested from her as

well.

“I want to know why you are in my office,” said

Umbridge, shaking the fist clutching his hair so that

he staggered.

“I was — trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry croaked.

“Liar.” She shook his head again. “Your Firebolt is

under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well

know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With

whom have you been communicating?”

“No one —” said Harry, trying to pull away from her.

He felt several hairs part company with his scalp.

“Liar!” shouted Umbridge. She threw him from her,

and he slammed into the desk. Now he could see

Hermione pinioned against the wall by Millicent

Bulstrode. Malfoy was leaning on the windowsill,

smirking as he threw Harry’s wand into the air one-

handed and then caught it again.

There was a commotion outside and several large

Slytherins entered, each gripping Ron, Ginny, Luna,

and — to Harry’s bewilderment — Neville, who was

trapped in a stranglehold by Crabbe and looked in

imminent danger of suffocation. All four of them had

been gagged.

“Got ’em all,” said Warrington, shoving Ron roughly

forward into the room. “That one.” he poked a thick

finger at Neville, “tried to stop me taking her, ” he

pointed at Ginny, who was trying to kick the shins of

the large Slytherin girl holding her, “so I brought him

along too.”

P a g e | 947 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Good, good,” said Umbridge, watching Ginny’s

struggles. “Well, it looks as though Hogwarts will

shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy laughed loudly and sycophantically. Umbridge

gave her wide, complacent smile and settled herself

into a chintz-covered armchair, blinking up at her

captives like a toad in a flowerbed.

“So, Potter,” she said. “You stationed lookouts around

my office and you sent this buffoon,” she nodded at

Ron, and Malfoy laughed even louder, “to tell me the

poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration

department when I knew perfectly well that he was

busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all the school

telescopes, Mr. Filch having just informed me so.

“Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to

somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-

breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I

hear she is still too ill to talk to anyone...”

Malfoy and a few of the other members of the

Inquisitorial Squad laughed some more at that. Harry

found he was so full of rage and hatred he was

shaking.

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” he snarled.

Umbridge’s slack face seemed to tighten.

“Very well,” she said in her most dangerous and

falsely sweet voice. “Very well, Mr. Potter … I offered

you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have

no alternative but to force you. Draco — fetch

Professor Snape.”

Malfoy stowed Harry’s wand inside his robes and left

the room smirking, but Harry hardly noticed. He had

P a g e | 948 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

just realized something; he could not believe he had

been so stupid as to forget it. He had thought that all

the members of the Order, all those who could help

him save Sirius, were gone — but he had been wrong.

There was still a member of the Order of the Phoenix

at Hogwarts — Snape.

There was silence in the office except for the

fidgetings and scufflings resultant from the

Slytherins’ efforts to keep Ron and the others under

control. Ron’s lip was bleeding onto Umbridge’s carpet

as he struggled against Warrington’s half nelson.

Ginny was still trying to stamp on the feet of the

sixth-year girl who had both her upper arms in a tight

grip. Neville was turning steadily more purple in the

face while tugging at Crabbe’s arms, and Hermione

was attempting vainly to throw Millicent Bulstrode off

her. Luna, however, stood limply by the side of her

captor, gazing vaguely out of the window as though

rather bored by the proceedings.

Harry looked back at Umbridge, who was watching

him closely. He kept his face deliberately smooth and

blank as footsteps were heard in the corridor outside

and Draco Malfoy came back into the room, holding

open the door for Snape.

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?” said Snape,

looking around at all the pairs of struggling students

with an expression of complete indifference.

“Ah, Professor Snape,” said Umbridge, smiling widely

and standing up again. “Yes, I would like another

bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please.”

“You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter,” he

said, observing her coolly through his greasy curtains

of black hair. “Surely you did not use it all? I told you

that three drops would be sufficient.”

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Umbridge flushed.

“You can make some more, can’t you?” she said, her

voice becoming more sweetly girlish as it always did

when she was furious.

“Certainly,” said Snape, his lip curling. “It takes a full

moon cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for

you in around a month.”

“A month?” squawked Umbridge, swelling toadishly.

“A month? But I need it this evening, Snape! I have

just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a

person or persons unknown!”

“Really?” said Snape, showing his first, faint sign of

interest as he looked around at Harry. “Well, it

doesn’t surprise me. Potter has never shown much

inclination to follow school rules.”

His cold, dark eyes were boring into Harry’s, who met

his gaze unflinchingly, concentrating hard on what he

had seen in his dream, willing Snape to read it in his

mind, to understand …

“I wish to interrogate him!” shouted Umbridge angrily,

and Snape looked away from Harry back into her

furiously quivering face. “I wish you to provide me

with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!”

“I have already told you,” said Snape smoothly, “that I

have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you

wish to poison Potter — and I assure you I would

have the greatest sympathy with you if you did — I

cannot help you. The only trouble is that most

venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for

truth-telling...”

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Snape looked back at Harry, who stared at him,

frantic to communicate without words.

Voldemort’s got Sirius in the Department of Mysteries,

he thought desperately. Voldemort’s got Sirius —

“You are on probation!” shrieked Professor Umbridge,

and Snape looked back at her, his eyebrows slightly

raised. “You are being deliberately unhelpful! I

expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most

highly of you! Now get out of my office!”

Snape gave her an ironic bow and turned to leave.

Harry knew his last chance of letting the Order know

what was going on was walking out of the door.

“He’s got Padfoot!” he shouted. “He’s got Padfoot at

the place where it’s hidden!”

Snape had stopped with his hand on Umbridge’s door

handle.

“Padfoot?” cried Professor Umbridge, looking eagerly

from Harry to Snape. “What is Padfoot? Where what is

hidden? What does he mean, Snape?”

Snape looked around at Harry. His face was

inscrutable. Harry could not tell whether he had

understood or not, but he did not dare speak more

plainly in front of Umbridge.

“I have no idea,” said Snape coldly. “Potter, when I

want nonsense shouted at me I shall give you a

Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a

little, if Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of

tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I shall have to

mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a

job.”

P a g e | 951 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He closed the door behind him with a snap, leaving

Harry in a state of worse turmoil than before: Snape

had been his very last hope. He looked at Umbridge,

who seemed to be feeling the same way; her chest was

heaving with rage and frustration.

“Very well,” she said, and she pulled out her wand.

“Very well … I am left with no alternative... This is

more than a matter of school discipline... This is an

issue of Ministry security... Yes … yes …”

She seemed to be talking herself into something. She

was shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot,

staring at Harry, beating her wand against her empty

palm and breathing heavily. Harry felt horribly

powerless without his own wand as he watched her.

“You are forcing me, Potter... I do not want to,” said

Umbridge, still moving restlessly on the spot, “but

sometimes circumstances justify the use … I am sure

the Minister will understand that I had no choice...”

Malfoy was watching her with a hungry expression on

his face.

“The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue,”

said Umbridge quietly.

“No!” shrieked Hermione. “Professor Umbridge — it’s

illegal” — but Umbridge took no notice. There was a

nasty, eager, excited look on her face that Harry had

never seen before. She raised her wand.

“The Minister wouldn’t want you to break the law,

Professor Umbridge!” cried Hermione.

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said

Umbridge, who was now panting slightly as she

pointed her wand at different parts of Harry’s body in

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turn, apparently trying to decide what would hurt the most. “He never knew I ordered dementors after

Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given

the chance to expel him, all the same...”

“It was you?” gasped Harry. “You sent the dementors

after me?”

“Somebody had to act,” breathed Umbridge, as her

wand came to rest pointing directly at Harry’s

forehead. “They were all bleating about silencing you

somehow — discrediting you — but I was the one who

actually did something about it... Only you wriggled

out of that one, didn’t you, Potter? Not today, though,

not now …”

And taking a deep breath, she cried, “Cruc —”

“NO!” shouted Hermione in a cracked voice from

behind Millicent Bulstrode. “No — Harry — Harry,

we’ll have to tell her!”

“No way!” yelled Harry, staring at the little of

Hermione he could see.

“We’ll have to, Harry, she’ll force it out of you anyway,

what’s … what’s the point… ?”

And Hermione began to cry weakly into the back of

Millicent Bulstrode’s robes. Millicent stopped trying to

squash her against the wall immediately and dodged

out of her way looking disgusted.

“Well, well, well!” said Umbridge, looking triumphant.

“Little Miss Question-All is going to give us some

answers! Come on then, girl, come on!”

“Er — my — nee — no!” shouted Ron through his gag.

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Ginny was staring at Hermione as though she had

never seen her before; Neville, still choking for breath,

was gazing at her too. But Harry had just noticed

something. Though Hermione was sobbing

desperately into her hands, there was no trace of a

tear...

“I’m — I’m sorry everyone,” said Hermione. “But — I

can’t stand it —”

“That’s right, that’s right, girl!” said Umbridge, seizing

Hermione by the shoulders, thrusting her into the

abandoned chintz chair and leaning over her. “Now

then … with whom was Potter communicating just

now?”

“Well,” gulped Hermione into her hands, “well, he was

trying to speak to Professor Dumbledore...”

Ron froze, his eyes wide; Ginny stopped trying to

stamp on her Slytherin captor’s toes; even Luna

looked mildly surprised. Fortunately, the attention of

Umbridge and her minions was focused too

exclusively upon Hermione to notice these suspicious

signs.

“Dumbledore?” said Umbridge eagerly. “You know

where Dumbledore is, then?”

“Well … no!” sobbed Hermione. “We’ve tried the Leaky

Cauldron in Diagon Alley and the Three Broomsticks

and even the Hog’s Head —”

“Idiot girl, Dumbledore won’t be sitting in a pub when

the whole Ministry’s looking for him!” shouted

Umbridge, disappointment etched in every sagging

line of her face.

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“But — but we needed to tell him something

important!” wailed Hermione, holding her hands more

tightly over her face, not, Harry knew, out of anguish,

but to disguise the continued absence of tears.

“Yes?” said Umbridge with a sudden resurgence of

excitement. “What was it you wanted to tell him?”

“We … we wanted to tell him it’s r-ready!” choked

Hermione.

“What’s ready?” demanded Umbridge, and now she

grabbed Hermione’s shoulders again and shook her

slightly. “What’s ready, girl?”

“The … the weapon,” said Hermione.

“Weapon? Weapon?” said Umbridge, and her eyes

seemed to pop with excitement. “You have been

developing some method of resistance? A weapon you

could use against the Ministry? On Professor

Dumbledore’s orders, of course?”

“Y-y-yes,” gasped Hermione. “But he had to leave

before it was finished and n-n-now we’ve finished it

for him, and we c-c-can’t find him t-t-to tell him!”

“What kind of weapon is it?” said Umbridge harshly,

her stubby hands still tight on Hermione’s shoulders.

“We don’t r-r-really understand it,” said Hermione,

sniffing loudly. “We j-j-just did what P-P-Professor

Dumbledore told us t-t-to do …”

Umbridge straightened up, looking exultant.

“Lead me to the weapon,” she said.

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“I’m not showing … them,” said Hermione shrilly, looking around at the Slytherins through her fingers.

“It is not for you to set conditions,” said Professor

Umbridge harshly.

“Fine,” said Hermione, now sobbing into her hands

again, “fine … let them see it, I hope they use it on

you! In fact, I wish you’d invite loads and loads of

people to come and see! Th-that would serve you right

— oh, I’d love it if the wh-whole school knew where it

was, and how to u-use it, and then if you annoy any

of them they’ll be able to s-sort you out!”

These words had a powerful impact on Umbridge. She

glanced swiftly and suspiciously around at her

Inquisitorial Squad, her bulging eyes resting for a

moment on Malfoy, who was too slow to disguise the

look of eagerness and greed that had appeared on his

face.

Umbridge contemplated Hermione for another long

moment and then spoke in what she clearly thought

was a motherly voice. “All right, dear, let’s make it

just you and me … and we’ll take Potter too, shall we?

Get up, now —”

“Professor,” said Malfoy eagerly, “Professor Umbridge,

I think some of the squad should come with you to

look after —”

“I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Malfoy, do you

really think I cannot manage two wandless teenagers

alone?” asked Umbridge sharply. “In any case, it does

not sound as though this weapon is something that

schoolchildren should see. You will remain here until

I return and make sure none of these” — she gestured

around at Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna — “escape.”

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“All right,” said Malfoy, looking sulky and

disappointed.

“And you two can go ahead of me and show me the

way,” said Umbridge, pointing at Harry and Hermione

with her wand. “Lead on...”

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FIGHT AND FLIGHT

Harry had no idea what Hermione was planning, or

even whether she had a plan. He walked half a pace

behind her as they headed down the corridor outside

Umbridge’s office, knowing it would look very

suspicious if he appeared not to know where they

were going. He did not dare attempt to talk to her;

Umbridge was walking so closely behind them that he

could hear her ragged breathing.

Hermione led the way down the stairs into the

entrance hall. The din of loud voices and the clatter of

cutlery on plates echoed from out of the double doors

to the Great Hall. It seemed incredible to Harry that

twenty feet away were people who were enjoying

dinner, celebrating the end of exams, not a care in the

world...

Hermione walked straight out of the oak front doors

and down the stone steps into the balmy evening air.

The sun was falling toward the tops of the trees in the

Forbidden Forest now as Hermione marched

purposefully across the grass, Umbridge jogging to

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keep up. Their long dark shadows rippled over the

grass behind them like cloaks.

“It’s hidden in Hagrid’s hut, is it?” said Umbridge

eagerly in Harry’s ear.

“Of course not,” said Hermione scathingly. “Hagrid

might have set it off accidentally.”

“Yes,” said Umbridge, whose excitement seemed to be

mounting. “Yes, he would have done, of course, the

great half-breed oaf...”

She laughed. Harry felt a strong urge to swing around

and seize her by the throat, but resisted. His scar was

throbbing in the soft evening air but it had not yet

burned white-hot, as he knew it would if Voldemort

had moved in for the kill...

“Then … where is it?” asked Umbridge, with a hint of

uncertainty in her voice as Hermione continued to

stride toward the forest.

“In there, of course,” said Hermione, pointing into the

dark trees. “It had to be somewhere that students

weren’t going to find it accidentally, didn’t it?”

“Of course,” said Umbridge, though she sounded a

little apprehensive now. “Of course … very well, then

… you two stay ahead of me.”

“Can we have your wand, then, if we’re going first?”

Harry asked her.

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge

sweetly, poking him in the back with it. “The Ministry

places a rather higher value on my life than yours, I’m

afraid.”

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As they reached the cool shade of the first trees,

Harry tried to catch Hermione’s eye; walking into the

forest without wands seemed to him to be more

foolhardy than anything they had done so far this

evening. She, however, merely gave Umbridge a

contemptuous glance and plunged straight into the

trees, moving at such a pace that Umbridge, with her

shorter legs, had difficulty in keeping up.

“Is it very far in?” Umbridge asked, as her robe ripped

on a bramble.

“Oh yes,” said Hermione. “Yes, it’s well hidden.”

Harry’s misgivings increased. Hermione was not

taking the path they had followed to visit Grawp, but

the one he had followed three years ago to the lair of

the monster Aragog. Hermione had not been with him

on that occasion; he doubted she had any idea what

danger lay at the end of it.

“Er — are you sure this is the right way?” he asked

her pointedly.

“Oh yes,” she said in a steely voice, crashing through

the undergrowth with what he thought was a wholly

unnecessary amount of noise. Behind them,

Umbridge tripped over a fallen sapling. Neither of

them paused to help her up again; Hermione merely

strode on, calling loudly over her shoulder, “It’s a bit

further in!”

“Hermione, keep your voice down,” Harry muttered,

hurrying to catch up with her. “Anything could be

listening in here —”

“I want us heard,” she answered quietly, as Umbridge

jogged noisily after them. “You’ll see...”

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They walked on for what seemed a long time, until

they were once again so deep into the forest that the

dense tree canopy blocked out all light. Harry had the

feeling he had had before in the forest, one of being

watched by unseen eyes...

“How much further?” demanded Umbridge angrily

from behind him.

“Not far now!” shouted Hermione, as they emerged

into a dim, dank clearing. “Just a little bit —”

An arrow flew through the air and landed with a

menacing thud in the tree just over her head. The air

was suddenly full of the sound of hooves. Harry could

feel the forest floor trembling; Umbridge gave a little

scream and pushed him in front of her like a shield —

He wrenched himself free of her and turned. Around

fifty centaurs were emerging on every side, their bows

raised and loaded, pointing at Harry, Hermione, and

Umbridge, who backed slowly into the center of the

clearing, Umbridge uttering odd little whimpers of

terror. Harry looked sideways at Hermione. She was

wearing a triumphant smile.

“Who are you?” said a voice.

Harry looked left. The chestnut-bodied centaur called

Magorian was walking toward them out of the circle;

his bow, like the others’, was raised. On Harry’s right,

Umbridge was still whimpering, her wand trembling

violently as she pointed it at the advancing centaur.

“I asked you who are you, human,” said Magorian

roughly.

“I am Dolores Umbridge!” said Umbridge in a high-

pitched, terrified voice. “Senior Undersecretary to the

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Minister of Magic and Headmistress and High

Inquisitor of Hogwarts!”

“You are from the Ministry of Magic?” said Magorian,

as many of the centaurs in the surrounding circle

shifted restlessly.

“That’s right!” said Umbridge in an even higher voice.

“So be very careful! By the laws laid down by the

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical

Creatures, any attack by half-breeds such as

yourselves on a human —”

“What did you call us?” shouted a wild-looking black

centaur, whom Harry recognized as Bane. There was

a great deal of angry muttering and tightening of

bowstrings around them.

“Don’t call them that!” Hermione said furiously, but

Umbridge did not appear to have heard her. Still

pointing her shaking wand at Magorian, she

continued, “Law Fifteen B states clearly that ‘Any

attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have

near-human intelligence, and therefore considered

responsible for its actions —’ ”

“ ‘Near-human intelligence’?” repeated Magorian, as

Bane and several others roared with rage and pawed

the ground. “We consider that a great insult, human!

Our intelligence, thankfully, far outstrips your own —

”

“What are you doing in our forest?” bellowed the

hard-faced gray centaur whom Harry and Hermione

had seen on their last trip into the forest. “Why are

you here?”

“Your forest?” said Umbridge, shaking now not only

with fright but also, it seemed, with indignation. “I

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would remind you that you live here only because the

Ministry of Magic permits you certain areas of land —

”

An arrow flew so close to her head that it caught at

her mousy hair in passing. She let out an earsplitting

scream and threw her hands over her head while

some of the centaurs bellowed their approval and

others laughed raucously. The sound of their wild,

neighing laughter echoing around the dimly lit

clearing and the sight of their pawing hooves was

extremely unnerving.

“Whose forest is it now, human?” bellowed Bane.

“Filthy half-breeds!” she screamed, her hands still

tight over her head. “Beasts! Uncontrolled animals!”

“Be quiet!” shouted Hermione, but it was too late —

Umbridge pointed her wand at Magorian and

screamed, “Incarcerous!”

Ropes flew out of midair like thick snakes, wrapping

themselves tightly around the centaur’s torso and

trapping his arms. He gave a cry of rage and reared

onto his hind legs, attempting to free himself, while

the other centaurs charged.

Harry grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the

ground. Facedown on the forest floor he knew a

moment of terror as hooves thundered around him,

but the centaurs leapt over and around them,

bellowing and screaming with rage.

“Nooooo!” he heard Umbridge shriek. “Noooooo … I

am Senior Undersecretary … you cannot … unhand

me, you animals … nooooo!”

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He saw a flash of red light and knew that she had

attempted to Stun one of them — then she screamed

very loudly. Lifting his head a few inches, Harry saw

that Umbridge had been seized from behind by Bane

and lifted high into the air, wriggling and yelling with

fright. Her wand fell from her hand to the ground and

Harry’s heart leapt, if he could just reach it —

But as he stretched out a hand toward it, a centaur’s

hoof descended upon the wand and it broke cleanly in

half.

“Now!” roared a voice in Harry’s ear and a thick hairy

arm descended from thin air and dragged him

upright; Hermione too had been pulled to her feet.

Over the plunging, many-colored backs and heads of

the centaurs Harry saw Umbridge being borne away

through the trees by Bane, still screaming nonstop;

her voice grew fainter and fainter until they could no

longer hear it over the trampling of hooves

surrounding them.

“And these?” said the hard-faced, gray centaur

holding Hermione.

“They are young,” said a slow, doleful voice from

behind Harry. “We do not attack foals.”

“They brought her here, Ronan,” replied the centaur

who had such a firm grip on Harry. “And they are not

so young... He is nearing manhood, this one...”

He shook Harry by the neck of his robes.

“Please,” said Hermione breathlessly, “please, don’t

attack us, we don’t think like her, we aren’t Ministry

of Magic employees! We only came in here because we

hoped you’d drive her off for us —”

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Harry knew at once from the look on the face of the

gray centaur holding Hermione that she had made a

terrible mistake in saying this. The gray centaur

threw back his head, his back legs stamping

furiously, and bellowed, “You see, Ronan? They

already have the arrogance of their kind! So we were

to do your dirty work, were we, human girl? We were

to act as your servants, drive away your enemies like

obedient hounds?”

“No!” said Hermione in a horrorstruck squeak. “Please

— I didn’t mean that! I just hoped you’d be able to —

to help us —”

But she seemed to be going from bad to worse.

“We do not help humans!” snarled the centaur

holding Harry, tightening his grip and rearing a little

at the same time, so that Harry’s feet left the ground

momentarily. “We are a race apart and proud to be

so... We will not permit you to walk from here,

boasting that we did your bidding!”

“We’re not going to say anything like that!” Harry

shouted. “We know you didn’t do anything because

we wanted you to —”

But nobody seemed to be listening to him. A bearded

centaur toward the back of the crowd shouted, “They

came here unasked, they must pay the

consequences!”

A roar of approval met these words and a dun-colored

centaur shouted, “They can join the woman!”

“You said you didn’t hurt the innocent!” shouted

Hermione, real tears sliding down her face now. “We

haven’t done anything to hurt you, we haven’t used

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wands or threats, we just want to go back to school,

please let us go back —”

“We are not all like the traitor Firenze, human girl!”

shouted the gray centaur, to more neighing roars of

approval from his fellows. “Perhaps you thought us

pretty talking horses? We are an ancient people who

will not stand wizard invasions and insults! We do not

recognize your laws, we do not acknowledge your

superiority, we are —”

But they did not hear what else centaurs were, for at

that moment there came a crashing noise on the edge

of the clearing so loud that all of them — Harry,

Hermione, and the fifty or so centaurs filling the

clearing — looked around. Harry’s centaur let him fall

to the ground again as his hands flew to his bow and

quiver of arrows; Hermione had been dropped too,

and Harry hurried toward her as two thick tree

trunks parted ominously and the monstrous form of

Grawp the giant appeared in the gap.

The centaurs nearest him backed into those behind.

The clearing was now a forest of bows and arrows

waiting to be fired, all pointing upward at the

enormous grayish face now looming over them from

just beneath the thick canopy of branches. Grawp’s

lopsided mouth was gaping stupidly. They could see

his bricklike yellow teeth glimmering in the half-light,

his dull sludge-colored eyes narrowed as he squinted

down at the creatures at his feet. Broken ropes trailed

from both ankles.

He opened his mouth even wider.

“Hagger.”

Harry did not know what “hagger” meant, or what

language it was from, nor did he much care — he was

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watching Grawp’s feet, which were almost as long as

Harry’s whole body. Hermione gripped his arm tightly;

the centaurs were quite silent, staring up at the giant,

whose huge, round head moved from side to side as

he continued to peer amongst them as though looking

for something he had dropped.

“Hagger!” he said again, more insistently.

“Get away from here, giant!” called Magorian. “You

are not welcome among us!”

These words seemed to make no impression

whatsoever on Grawp. He stooped a little (the

centaurs’ arms tensed on their bows) and then

bellowed, “HAGGER!”

A few of the centaurs looked worried now. Hermione,

however, gave a gasp.

“Harry!” she whispered. “I think he’s trying to say

‘Hagrid’!”

At this precise moment Grawp caught sight of them,

the only two humans in a sea of centaurs. He lowered

his head another foot or so, staring intently at them.

Harry could feel Hermione shaking as Grawp opened

his mouth wide again and said, in a deep, rumbling

voice, “Hermy.”

“Goodness,” said Hermione, gripping Harry’s arm so

tightly it was growing numb and looking as though

she was about to faint, “he — he remembered!”

“HERMY!” roared Grawp. “WHERE HAGGER?”

“I don’t know!” squealed Hermione, terrified. “I’m

sorry, Grawp, I don’t know!”

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“GRAWP WANT HAGGER!”

One of the giant’s massive hands swooped down upon

them — Hermione let out a real scream, ran a few

steps backward and fell over. Wandless, Harry braced

himself to punch, kick, bite, or whatever else it took

as the hand flew toward him and knocked a snow-

white centaur off his legs.

It was what the centaurs had been waiting for —

Grawp’s outstretched fingers were a foot from Harry

when fifty arrows went soaring through the air at the

giant, peppering his enormous face, causing him to

howl with pain and rage and straighten up again,

rubbing his face with his enormous hands, breaking

off the arrow shafts but forcing the heads in still

deeper.

He yelled and stamped his enormous feet and the

centaurs scattered out of the way. Pebble-sized

droplets of Grawp’s blood showered Harry as he

pulled Hermione to her feet and the pair of them ran

as fast as they could for the shelter of the trees. Once

there they looked back — Grawp was snatching

blindly at the centaurs as blood ran all down his face;

they were retreating in disorder, galloping away

through the trees on the other side of the clearing. As

Harry and Hermione watched, Grawp gave another

roar of fury and plunged after them, smashing more

trees aside as he went.

“Oh no,” said Hermione, quaking so badly that her

knees gave way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he might

kill them all...”

“I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” said Harry

bitterly.

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The sounds of the galloping centaurs and the

blundering giant were growing fainter and fainter. As

Harry listened to them his scar gave another great

throb and a wave of terror swept over him.

They had wasted so much time — they were even

further from rescuing Sirius than they had been when

he had had the vision. Not only had Harry managed

to lose his wand but they were stuck in the middle of

the Forbidden Forest with no means of transport

whatsoever.

“Smart plan,” he spat at Hermione, keen to release

some of his fury. “Really smart plan. Where do we go

from here?”

“We need to get back up to the castle,” said Hermione

faintly.

“By the time we’ve done that, Sirius’ll probably be

dead!” said Harry, kicking a nearby tree in temper;

there was a high-pitched chattering overhead and he

looked up to see an angry bowtruckle flexing its long

twiglike fingers at him.

“Well, we can’t do anything without wands,” said

Hermione hopelessly, dragging herself up again.

“Anyway, Harry, how exactly were you planning to get

all the way to London?”

“Yeah, we were just wondering that,” said a familiar

voice from behind her.

Harry and Hermione moved instinctively together,

peering through the trees, as Ron came into sight,

with Ginny, Neville, and Luna hurrying along behind

him. All of them looked a little the worse for wear —

there were several long scratches running the length

of Ginny’s cheek, a large purple lump was swelling

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above Neville’s right eye, Ron’s lip was bleeding worse than ever — but all were looking rather pleased with

themselves.

“So,” said Ron, pushing aside a low-hanging branch

and holding out Harry’s wand, “had any ideas?”

“How did you get away?” asked Harry in amazement,

taking his wand from Ron.

“Couple of Stunners, a Disarming Charm, Neville

brought off a really nice little Impediment Jinx,” said

Ron airily, now handing back Hermione’s wand too.

“But Ginny was best, she got Malfoy — Bat-Bogey Hex

— it was superb, his whole face was covered in the

great flapping things. Anyway, we saw you heading

into the forest out of the window and followed.

What’ve you done with Umbridge?”

“She got carried away,” said Harry. “By a herd of

centaurs.”

“And they left you behind?” asked Ginny, looking

astonished.

“No, they got chased off by Grawp,” said Harry.

“Who’s Grawp?” Luna asked interestedly.

“Hagrid’s little brother,” said Ron promptly. “Anyway,

never mind that now. Harry, what did you find out in

the fire? Has You-Know-Who got Sirius or — ?”

“Yes,” said Harry, as his scar gave another painful

prickle, “and I’m sure Sirius is still alive, but I can’t

see how we’re going to get there to help him.”

They all fell silent, looking rather scared. The problem

facing them seemed insurmountable.

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“Well, we’ll have to fly, won’t we?” said Luna in the closest thing to a matter-of-fact voice Harry had ever

heard her use.

“Okay,” said Harry irritably, rounding on her, “first of

all, ‘we’ aren’t doing anything if you’re including

yourself in that, and second of all, Ron’s the only one

with a broomstick that isn’t being guarded by a

security troll, so —”

“I’ve got a broom!” said Ginny.

“Yeah, but you’re not coming,” said Ron angrily.

“Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as

much as you do!” said Ginny, her jaw set so that her

resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly

striking.

“You’re too —” Harry began.

“I’m three years older than you were when you fought

You-Know-Who over the Sorcerer’s Stone,” she said

fiercely, “and it’s because of me Malfoy’s stuck back

in Umbridge’s office with giant flying bogeys attacking

him —”

“Yeah, but —”

“We were all in the D.A. together,” said Neville quietly.

“It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-

Who, wasn’t it? And this is the first chance we’ve had

to do something real — or was that all just a game or

something?”

“No — of course it wasn’t —” said Harry impatiently.

“Then we should come too,” said Neville simply. “We

want to help.”

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“That’s right,” said Luna, smiling happily.

Harry’s eyes met Ron’s. He knew that Ron was

thinking exactly what he was: If he could have chosen

any members of the D.A. in addition to himself, Ron,

and Hermione to join him in the attempt to rescue

Sirius, he would not have picked Ginny, Neville, or

Luna.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” said Harry

frustratedly, “because we still don’t know how to get

there —”

“I thought we’d settled that?” said Luna maddeningly.

“We’re flying!”

“Look,” said Ron, barely containing his anger, “you

might be able to fly without a broomstick but the rest

of us can’t sprout wings whenever we —”

“There are other ways of flying than with

broomsticks,” said Luna serenely.

“I s’pose we’re going to ride on the back of the Kacky

Snorgle or whatever it is?” Ron demanded.

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can’t fly,” said Luna

in a dignified voice, “but they can, and Hagrid says

they’re very good at finding places their riders are

looking for.”

Harry whirled around. Standing between two trees,

their white eyes gleaming eerily, were two thestrals,

watching the whispered conversation as though they

understood every word.

“Yes!” he whispered, moving toward them. They

tossed their reptilian heads, throwing back long black

manes, and Harry stretched out his hand eagerly and

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patted the nearest one’s shining neck. How could he

ever have thought them ugly?

“Is it those mad horse things?” said Ron uncertainly,

staring at a point slightly to the left of the thestral

Harry was patting. “Those ones you can’t see unless

you’ve watched someone snuff it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“How many?”

“Just two.”

“Well, we need three,” said Hermione, who was still

looking a little shaken, but determined just the same.

“Four, Hermione,” said Ginny, scowling.

“I think there are six of us, actually,” said Luna

calmly, counting.

“Don’t be stupid, we can’t all go!” said Harry angrily.

“Look, you three” — he pointed at Neville, Ginny, and

Luna — “you’re not involved in this, you’re not —”

They burst into more protests. His scar gave another,

more painful, twinge. Every moment they delayed was

precious; he did not have time to argue.

“Okay, fine, it’s your choice,” he said curtly. “But

unless we can find more thestrals you’re not going to

be able —”

“Oh, more of them will come,” said Ginny confidently,

who like Ron was squinting in quite the wrong

direction, apparently under the impression that she

was looking at the horses.

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“What makes you think that?”

“Because in case you hadn’t noticed, you and

Hermione are both covered in blood,” she said coolly,

“and we know Hagrid lures thestrals with raw meat,

so that’s probably why these two turned up in the

first place...”

Harry felt a soft tug on his robes at that moment and

looked down to see the closest thestral licking his

sleeve, which was damp with Grawp’s blood.

“Okay, then,” he said, a bright idea occurring. “Ron

and I will take these two and go ahead, and Hermione

can stay here with you three and she’ll attract more

thestrals —”

“I’m not staying behind!” said Hermione furiously.

“There’s no need,” said Luna, smiling. “Look, here

come more now... You two must really smell...”

Harry turned. No fewer than six or seven thestrals

were picking their way through the trees now, their

great leathery wings folded tight to their bodies, their

eyes gleaming through the darkness. He had no

excuse now...

“All right,” he said angrily, “pick one and get on,

then.”

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THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES

Harry wound his hand tightly into the mane of the

nearest thestral, placed a foot on a stump nearby,

and scrambled clumsily onto the horse’s silken back.

It did not object, but twisted its head around, fangs

bared, and attempted to continue its eager licking of

his robes.

He found there was a way of lodging his knees behind

the wing joints that made him feel more secure and

looked around at the others. Neville had heaved

himself over the back of the next thestral and was

now attempting to swing one short leg over the

creature’s back. Luna was already in place, sitting

sidesaddle and adjusting her robes as though she did

this every day. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, however,

were still standing motionless on the spot,

openmouthed and staring.

“What?” he said.

“How’re we supposed to get on?” said Ron faintly.

“When we can’t see the things?”

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“Oh it’s easy,” said Luna, sliding obligingly from her thestral and marching over to him, Hermione, and

Ginny. “Come here...”

She pulled them over to the other thestrals standing

around and one by one managed to help them onto

the backs of their mounts. All three looked extremely

nervous as she wound their hands into the horses’

manes and told them to grip tightly before getting

back onto her own steed.

“This is mad,” Ron said faintly, moving his free hand

gingerly up and down his horse’s neck. “Mad … if I

could just see it —”

“You’d better hope it stays invisible,” said Harry

darkly. “We all ready, then?”

They all nodded and he saw five pairs of knees tighten

beneath their robes.

“Okay …”

He looked down at the back of his thestral’s glossy

black head and swallowed. “Ministry of Magic,

visitors’ entrance, London, then,” he said uncertainly.

“Er … if you know … where to go …”

For a moment his thestral did nothing at all. Then,

with a sweeping movement that nearly unseated him,

the wings on either side extended, the horse crouched

slowly and then rocketed upward so fast and so

steeply that Harry had to clench his arms and legs

tightly around the horse to avoid sliding backward

over its bony rump. He closed his eyes and put his

face down into the horse’s silky mane as they burst

through the topmost branches of the trees and soared

out into a bloodred sunset.

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Harry did not think he had ever moved so fast: The

thestral streaked over the castle, its wide wings

hardly beating. The cooling air was slapping Harry’s

face; eyes screwed up against the rushing wind, he

looked around and saw his five fellows soaring along

behind him, each of them bent as low as possible into

the neck of their thestral to protect themselves from

its slipstream.

They were over the Hogwarts grounds, they had

passed Hogsmeade. Harry could see mountains and

gullies below them. In the falling darkness Harry saw

small collections of lights as they passed over more

villages, then a winding road on which a single car

was beetling its way home through the hills...

“This is bizarre!” Harry heard Ron yell from

somewhere behind him, and he imagined how it must

feel to be speeding along at this height with no visible

means of support...

Twilight fell: The sky turned to a light, dusky purple

littered with tiny silver stars, and soon it was only the

lights of Muggle towns that gave them any clue of how

far from the ground they were or how very fast they

were traveling. Harry’s arms were wrapped tightly

around his horse’s neck as he willed it to go even

faster. How much time had elapsed since he had seen

Sirius lying on the Department of Mysteries floor?

How much longer would he be able to resist

Voldemort? All Harry knew for sure was that Sirius

had neither done as Voldemort wanted, nor died, for

he was convinced that either outcome would cause

him to feel Voldemort’s jubilation or fury course

through his own body, making his scar sear as

painfully as it had on the night Mr. Weasley was

attacked...

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On they flew through the gathering darkness; Harry’s

face felt stiff and cold, his legs numb from gripping

the thestral’s sides so tightly, but he did not dare

shift positions lest he slip... He was deaf from the

thundering in his ears and his mouth was dry and

frozen from the rush of cold night air. He had lost all

sense of how far they had come; all his faith was in

the beast below him, still streaking purposefully

through the night, barely flapping its wings as it sped

ever onward...

If they were too late …

He’s still alive, he’s still fighting, I can feel it...

If Voldemort decided Sirius was not going to crack …

I’d know...

Harry’s stomach gave a jolt. The thestral’s head was

suddenly pointing toward the ground and he had

actually slid forward a few inches along its neck. They

were descending at last... He heard one of the girls

shriek behind him and twisted around dangerously

but could see no sign of a falling body... Presumably

they had received a shock from the change of

position, just as he had...

And now bright orange lights were growing larger and

rounder on all sides. They could see the tops of

buildings, streams of headlights like luminous insect

eyes, squares of pale yellow that were windows. Quite

suddenly, it seemed, they were hurtling toward the

pavement. Harry gripped the thestral with every last

ounce of his strength, braced for a sudden impact,

but the horse touched the dark ground as lightly as a

shadow and Harry slid from his back, looking around

at the street where the overflowing dumpster still

stood a short way from the vandalized telephone box,

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both drained of color in the flat orange glare of the streetlights.

Ron landed a short way away and toppled

immediately off his thestral onto the pavement.

“Never again,” he said, struggling to his feet. He made

as though to stride away from his thestral, but,

unable to see it, collided with its hindquarters and

almost fell over again. “Never, ever again … that was

the worst —”

Hermione and Ginny touched down on either side of

him. Both slid off their mounts a little more gracefully

than Ron, though with similar expressions of relief at

being back on firm ground. Neville jumped down,

shaking, but Luna dismounted smoothly.

“Where do we go from here, then?” she asked Harry in

a politely interested voice, as though this was all a

rather interesting day-trip.

“Over here,” he said. He gave his thestral a quick,

grateful pat, then led the way quickly to the battered

telephone box and opened the door. “Come on!” he

urged the others as they hesitated.

Ron and Ginny marched in obediently; Hermione,

Neville, and Luna squashed themselves in after them;

Harry took one glance back at the thestrals, now

foraging for scraps of rotten food inside the dumpster,

then forced himself into the box after Luna.

“Whoever’s nearest the receiver, dial six two four four

two!” he said.

Ron did it, his arm bent bizarrely to reach the dial. As

it whirred back into place the cool female voice

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sounded inside the box, “Welcome to the Ministry of

Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger,”

Harry said very quickly, “Ginny Weasley, Neville

Longbottom, Luna Lovegood … We’re here to save

someone, unless your Ministry can do it first!”

“Thank you,” said the cool female voice. “Visitors,

please take the badges and attach them to the front of

your robes.”

Half a dozen badges slid out of the metal chute where

returned coins usually appeared. Hermione scooped

them up and handed them mutely to Harry over

Ginny’s head; he glanced at the topmost one.

HARRY POTTER

RESCUE MISSION

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to

a search and present your wand for registration at the

security desk, which is located at the far end of the

Atrium.”

“Fine!” Harry said loudly, as his scar gave another

throb. “Now can we move?”

The floor of the telephone box shuddered and the

pavement rose up past the glass windows of the

telephone box. The scavenging thestrals were sliding

out of sight, blackness closed over their heads, and

with a dull grinding noise they sank down into the

depths of the Ministry of Magic.

A chink of soft golden light hit their feet and,

widening, rose up their bodies. Harry bent his knees

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and held his wand as ready as he could in such

cramped conditions, peering through the glass to see

whether anybody was waiting for them in the Atrium,

but it seemed to be completely empty. The light was

dimmer than it had been by day. There were no fires

burning under the mantelpieces set into the walls,

but he saw as the lift slid smoothly to a halt that

golden symbols continued to twist sinuously in the

dark blue ceiling.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant

evening,” said the woman’s voice.

The door of the telephone box burst open; Harry

toppled out of it, followed by Neville and Luna. The

only sound in the Atrium was the steady rush of

water from the golden fountain, where jets from the

wands of the witch and wizard, the point of the

centaur’s arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and the

house-elf’s ears continued to gush into the

surrounding pool.

“Come on,” said Harry quietly and the six of them

sprinted off down the hall, Harry in the lead, past the

fountain, toward the desk where the security man

who had weighed Harry’s wand had sat and which

was now deserted.

Harry felt sure that there ought to be a security

person there, sure that their absence was an ominous

sign, and his feeling of foreboding increased as they

passed through the golden gates to the lifts. He

pressed the nearest down button and a lift clattered

into sight almost immediately, the golden grilles slid

apart with a great, echoing clanking, and they dashed

inside. Harry stabbed the number nine button, the

grilles closed with a bang, and the lift began to

descend, jangling and rattling. Harry had not realized

how noisy the lifts were on the day that he had come

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with Mr. Weasley — he was sure that the din would

raise every security person within the building, yet

when the lift halted, the cool female voice said,

“Department of Mysteries,” and the grilles slid open

again, they stepped out into the corridor where

nothing was moving but the nearest torches,

flickering in the rush of air from the lift.

Harry turned toward the plain black door. After

months and months of dreaming about it, he was

here at last...

“Let’s go,” he whispered, and he led the way down the

corridor, Luna right behind him, gazing around with

her mouth slightly open.

“Okay, listen,” said Harry, stopping again within six

feet of the door. “Maybe … maybe a couple of people

should stay here as a — as a lookout, and —”

“And how’re we going to let you know something’s

coming?” asked Ginny, her eyebrows raised. “You

could be miles away.”

“We’re coming with you, Harry,” said Neville.

“Let’s get on with it,” said Ron firmly.

Harry still did not want to take them all with him, but

it seemed he had no choice. He turned to face the

door and walked forward. Just as it had in his dream,

it swung open and he marched forward, leading the

others over the threshold.

They were standing in a large, circular room.

Everything in here was black including the floor and

ceiling — identical, unmarked, handle-less black

doors were set at intervals all around the black walls,

interspersed with branches of candles whose flames

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burned blue, their cool, shimmering light reflected in the shining marble floor so that it looked as though

there was dark water underfoot.

“Someone shut the door,” Harry muttered.

He regretted giving this order the moment Neville had

obeyed it. Without the long chink of light from the

torch-lit corridor behind them, the place became so

dark that for a moment the only things they could see

were the bunches of shivering blue flames on the

walls and their ghostly reflections in the floor below.

In his dream, Harry had always walked purposefully

across this room to the door immediately opposite the

entrance and walked on. But there were around a

dozen doors here. Just as he was gazing ahead at the

doors opposite him, trying to decide which was the

right one, there was a great rumbling noise and the

candles began to move sideways. The circular wall

was rotating.

Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm as though frightened

the floor might move too, but it did not. For a few

seconds the blue flames around them were blurred to

resemble neon lines as the wall sped around and

then, quite as suddenly as it had started, the

rumbling stopped and everything became stationary

once again.

Harry’s eyes had blue streaks burned into them; it

was all he could see.

“What was that about?” whispered Ron fearfully.

“I think it was to stop us knowing which door we

came in from,” said Ginny in a hushed voice.

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Harry realized at once that she was right: He could no sooner have picked the exit from the other doors than

located an ant upon the jet-black floor. Meanwhile,

the door through which they needed to proceed could

be any of the dozen surrounding them.

“How’re we going to get back out?” said Neville

uncomfortably.

“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” said Harry forcefully,

blinking to try and erase the blue lines from his

vision, and clutching his wand tighter than ever. “We

won’t need to get out till we’ve found Sirius —”

“Don’t go calling for him, though!” Hermione said

urgently, but Harry had never needed her advice less;

his instinct was to keep as quiet as possible for the

time being.

“Where do we go, then, Harry?” Ron asked.

“I don’t —” Harry began. He swallowed. “In the

dreams I went through the door at the end of the

corridor from the lifts into a dark room — that’s this

one — and then I went through another door into a

room that kind of … glitters. We should try a few

doors,” he said hastily. “I’ll know the right way when I

see it. C’mon.”

He marched straight at the door now facing him, the

others following close behind him, set his left hand

against its cool, shining surface, raised his wand,

ready to strike the moment it opened, and pushed. It

swung open easily.

After the darkness of the first room, the lamps

hanging low on golden chains from this ceiling gave

the impression that this long rectangular room was

much brighter, though there were no glittering,

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shimmering lights such as Harry had seen in his

dreams. The place was quite empty except for a few

desks and, in the very middle of the room, an

enormous glass tank of deep-green water, big enough

for all of them to swim in, which contained a number

of pearly white objects that were drifting around lazily

in the liquid.

“What’re those things?” whispered Ron.

“Dunno,” said Harry.

“Are they fish?” breathed Ginny.

“Aquavirius maggots!” said Luna excitedly. “Dad said

the Ministry were breeding —”

“No,” said Hermione. She sounded odd. She moved

forward to look through the side of the tank. “They’re

brains.”

“Brains?”

“Yes … I wonder what they’re doing with them?”

Harry joined her at the tank. Sure enough, there

could be no mistake now that he saw them at close

quarters. Glimmering eerily they drifted in and out of

sight in the depths of the green water, looking

something like slimy cauliflowers.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Harry. “This isn’t right, we

need to try another door —”

“There are doors here too,” said Ron, pointing around

the walls. Harry’s heart sank; how big was this place?

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“In my dream I went through that dark room into the

second one,” he said. “I think we should go back and

try from there.”

So they hurried back into the dark, circular room; the

ghostly shapes of the brains were now swimming

before Harry’s eyes instead of the blue candle flames.

“Wait!” said Hermione sharply, as Luna made to close

the door of the brain room behind them. “Flagrate!”

She drew with her wand in midair and a fiery X

appeared on the door. No sooner had the door clicked

shut behind them than there was a great rumbling,

and once again the wall began to revolve very fast, but

now there was a great red-gold blur in amongst the

faint blue, and when all became still again, the fiery

cross still burned, showing the door they had already

tried.

“Good thinking,” said Harry. “Okay, let’s try this one

—”

Again he strode directly at the door facing him and

pushed it open, his wand still raised, the others at his

heels.

This room was larger than the last, dimly lit and

rectangular, and the center of it was sunken, forming

a great stone pit some twenty feet below them. They

were standing on the topmost tier of what seemed to

be stone benches running all around the room and

descending in steep steps like an amphitheater, or the

courtroom in which Harry had been tried by the

Wizengamot. Instead of a chained chair, however,

there was a raised stone dais in the center of the

lowered floor, and upon this dais stood a stone

archway that looked so ancient, cracked, and

crumbling that Harry was amazed the thing was still

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standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the

archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or

veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold

surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though

it had just been touched.

“Who’s there?” said Harry, jumping down onto the

bench below. There was no answering voice, but the

veil continued to flutter and sway.

“Careful!” whispered Hermione.

Harry scrambled down the benches one by one until

he reached the stone bottom of the sunken pit. His

footsteps echoed loudly as he walked slowly toward

the dais. The pointed archway looked much taller

from where he stood now than when he had been

looking down on it from above. Still the veil swayed

gently, as though somebody had just passed through

it.

“Sirius?” Harry spoke again, but much more quietly

now that he was nearer.

He had the strangest feeling that there was someone

standing right behind the veil on the other side of the

archway. Gripping his wand very tightly, he edged

around the dais, but there was nobody there. All that

could be seen was the other side of the tattered black

veil.

“Let’s go,” called Hermione from halfway up the stone

steps. “This isn’t right, Harry, come on, let’s go...”

She sounded scared, much more scared than she had

in the room where the brains swam, yet Harry

thought the archway had a kind of beauty about it,

old though it was. The gently rippling veil intrigued

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him; he felt a very strong inclination to climb up on the dais and walk through it.

“Harry, let’s go, okay?” said Hermione more forcefully.

“Okay,” he said, but he did not move. He had just

heard something. There were faint whispering,

murmuring noises coming from the other side of the

veil.

“What are you saying?” he said very loudly, so that

the words echoed all around the surrounding stone

benches.

“Nobody’s talking, Harry!” said Hermione, now moving

over to him.

“Someone’s whispering behind there,” he said, moving

out of her reach and continuing to frown at the veil.

“Is that you, Ron?”

“I’m here, mate,” said Ron, appearing around the side

of the archway.

“Can’t anyone else hear it?” Harry demanded, for the

whispering and murmuring was becoming louder;

without really meaning to put it there, he found his

foot was on the dais.

“I can hear them too,” breathed Luna, joining them

around the side of the archway and gazing at the

swaying veil. “There are people in there!”

“What do you mean, ‘ in there’?” demanded Hermione,

jumping down from the bottom step and sounding

much angrier than the occasion warranted. “There

isn’t any ‘ in there, ’ it’s just an archway, there’s no

room for anybody to be there — Harry, stop it, come

away —”

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She grabbed his arm and pulled, but he resisted.

“Harry, we are supposed to be here for Sirius!” she

said in a high-pitched, strained voice.

“Sirius,” Harry repeated, still gazing, mesmerized, at

the continuously swaying veil. “Yeah …”

And then something slid back into place in his brain:

Sirius, captured, bound, and tortured, and he was

staring at this archway...

He took several paces back from the dais and

wrenched his eyes from the veil.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to — well, come on,

then!” said Hermione, and she led the way back

around the dais. On the other side, Ginny and Neville

were staring, apparently entranced, at the veil too.

Without speaking, Hermione took hold of Ginny’s

arm, Ron Neville’s, and they marched them firmly

back to the lowest stone bench and clambered all the

way back up to the door.

“What d’you reckon that arch was?” Harry asked

Hermione as they regained the dark circular room.

“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was dangerous,”

she said firmly, again inscribing a fiery cross upon

the door.

Once more the wall spun and became still again.

Harry approached a door at random and pushed. It

did not move.

“What’s wrong?” said Hermione.

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“It’s … locked …” said Harry, throwing his weight at

the door, but it did not budge.

“This is it, then, isn’t it?” said Ron excitedly, joining

Harry in the attempt to force the door open. “Bound

to be!”

“Get out of the way!” said Hermione sharply. She

pointed her wand at the place where a lock would

have been on an ordinary door and said, “Alohomora!”

Nothing happened.

“Sirius’s knife!” said Harry, and he pulled it out from

inside his robes and slid it into the crack between the

door and the wall. The others all watched eagerly as

he ran it from top to bottom, withdrew it, and then

flung his shoulder again at the door. It remained as

firmly shut as ever. What was more, when Harry

looked down at the knife, he saw that the blade had

melted.

“Right, we’re leaving that room,” said Hermione

decisively.

“But what if that’s the one?” said Ron, staring at it

with a mixture of apprehension and longing.

“It can’t be, Harry could get through all the doors in

his dream,” said Hermione, marking the door with

another fiery cross as Harry replaced the now-useless

handle of Sirius’s knife in his pocket.

“You know what could be in there?” said Luna

eagerly, as the wall started to spin yet again.

“Something blibbering, no doubt,” said Hermione

under her breath, and Neville gave a nervous little

laugh.

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The wall slid back to a halt and Harry, with a feeling of increasing desperation, pushed the next door open.

“This is it!”

He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing,

diamond-sparkling light. As Harry’s eyes became

more accustomed to the brilliant glare he saw clocks

gleaming from every surface, large and small,

grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between

the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the

length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking

filled the place like thousands of minuscule,

marching footsteps. The source of the dancing,

diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar

that stood at the far end of the room.

“This way!”

Harry’s heart was pumping frantically now that he

knew they were on the right track. He led the way

forward down the narrow space between the lines of

the desks, heading, as he had done in his dream, for

the source of the light, the crystal bell jar quite as tall

as he was that stood on a desk and appeared to be

full of a billowing, glittering wind.

“Oh look!” said Ginny, as they drew nearer, pointing

at the very heart of the bell jar.

Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a

tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar it cracked

open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried

to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draft, its

feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by

the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the

jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg.

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“Keep going!” said Harry sharply, because Ginny

showed signs of wanting to stop and watch the egg’s

progress back into a bird.

“You dawdled enough by that old arch!” she said

crossly, but followed him past the bell jar to the only

door behind it.

“This is it,” Harry said again, and his heart was now

pumping so hard and fast he felt it must interfere

with his speech. “It’s through here —”

He glanced around at them all. They had their wands

out and looked suddenly serious and anxious. He

looked back at the door and pushed. It swung open.

They were there, they had found the place: high as a

church and full of nothing but towering shelves

covered in small, dusty, glass orbs. They glimmered

dully in the light issuing from more candle brackets

set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the

circular room behind them, their flames were burning

blue. The room was very cold.

Harry edged forward and peered down one of the

shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He could

not hear anything nor see the slightest sign of

movement.

“You said it was row ninety-seven,” whispered

Hermione.

“Yeah,” breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the

closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing

candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure

53.

“We need to go right, I think,” whispered Hermione,

squinting to the next row. “Yes … that’s fifty-four...”

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“Keep your wands out,” Harry said softly.

They crept forward, staring behind them as they went

on down the long alleys of shelves, the farther ends of

which were in near total darkness. Tiny, yellowing

labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the

shelf. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others

were as dull and dark within as blown lightbulbs.

They passed row eighty-four … eighty-five … Harry

was listening hard for the slightest sound of

movement, but Sirius might be gagged now, or else

unconscious … or, said an unbidden voice inside his

head, he might already be dead...

I’d have felt it, he told himself, his heart now

hammering against his Adam’s apple. I’d already

know...

“Ninety-seven!” whispered Hermione.

They stood grouped around the end of the row, gazing

down the alley beside it. There was nobody there.

“He’s right down at the end,” said Harry, whose

mouth had become slightly dry. “You can’t see

properly from here...”

And he led them forward, between the towering rows

of glass balls, some of which glowed softly as they

passed...

“He should be near here,” whispered Harry, convinced

that every step was going to bring the ragged form of

Sirius into view upon the darkened floor. “Anywhere

here … really close …”

“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively, but he did not

want to respond. His mouth was very dry now.

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“Somewhere about … here …” he said.

They had reached the end of the row and emerged

into more dim candlelight. There was nobody there at

all. All was echoing, dusty silence.

“He might be …” Harry whispered hoarsely, peering

down the alley next door. “Or maybe …” He hurried to

look down the one beyond that.

“Harry?” said Hermione again.

“What?” he snarled.

“I … I don’t think Sirius is here.”

Nobody spoke. Harry did not want to look at any of

them. He felt sick. He did not understand why Sirius

was not here. He had to be here. This was where he,

Harry, had seen him...

He ran up the space at the end of the rows, staring

down them. Empty aisle after empty aisle flickered

past. He ran the other way, back past his staring

companions. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere,

nor any hint of a struggle.

“Harry?” Ron called.

“What?”

He did not want to hear what Ron had to say, did not

want to hear Ron tell him he had been stupid, or

suggest that they ought to go back to Hogwarts. But

the heat was rising in his face and he felt as though

he would like to skulk down here in the darkness for

a long while before facing the brightness of the Atrium

above and the others’ accusing stares...

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“Have you seen this?” said Ron.

“What?” said Harry, but eagerly this time — it had to

be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue — he

strode back to where they were all standing, a little

way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except

Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the

shelves.

“What?” Harry repeated glumly.

“It’s — it’s got your name on,” said Ron.

Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of

the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner

light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to

have been touched for many years.

“My name?” said Harry blankly.

He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to

crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to

the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery

writing was written a date of some sixteen years

previously, and below that:

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord

and (?) Harry Potter

Harry stared at it.

“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s

your name doing down here?”

He glanced along at the other labels on that stretch of

shelf.

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“I’m not here,” he said, sounding perplexed. “None of the rest of us are here...”

“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” said

Hermione sharply, as he stretched out his hand.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do with me,

isn’t it?”

“Don’t, Harry,” said Neville suddenly. Harry looked

around at him. Neville’s round face was shining

slightly with sweat. He looked as though he could not

take much more suspense.

“It’s got my name on,” said Harry.

And feeling slightly reckless, he closed his fingers

around the dusty ball’s surface. He had expected it to

feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as

though it had been lying in the sun for hours, as

though the glow of light within was warming it.

Expecting, even hoping, that something dramatic was

going to happen, something exciting that might make

their long and dangerous journey worthwhile after all,

he lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared

at it.

Nothing whatsoever happened. The others moved in

closer around Harry, gazing at the orb as he brushed

it free of the clogging dust.

And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice

said, “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and

slowly, and give that to me.”

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BEYOND THE VEIL

Black shapes were emerging out of thin air all around

them, blocking their way left and right; eyes glinted

through slits in hoods, a dozen lit wand tips were

pointing directly at their hearts. Ginny gave a gasp of

horror.

“To me, Potter,” repeated the drawling voice of Lucius

Malfoy as he held out his hand, palm up.

Harry’s insides plummeted sickeningly. They were

trapped and outnumbered two to one.

“To me,” said Malfoy yet again.

“Where’s Sirius?” Harry said.

Several of the Death Eaters laughed. A harsh female

voice from the midst of the shadowy figures to Harry’s

left said triumphantly, “The Dark Lord always

knows!”

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“Always,” echoed Malfoy softly. “Now, give me the

prophecy, Potter.”

“I want to know where Sirius is!”

“I want to know where Sirius is!” mimicked the woman

to his left.

She and her fellow Death Eaters had closed in so that

they were mere feet away from Harry and the others,

the light from their wands dazzling Harry’s eyes.

“You’ve got him,” said Harry, ignoring the rising panic

in his chest, the dread he had been fighting since

they had first entered the ninety-seventh row. “He’s

here. I know he is.”

“The little baby woke up fwightened and fort what it

dweamed was twoo, ” said the woman in a horrible,

mock-baby voice. Harry felt Ron stir beside him.

“Don’t do anything,” he muttered. “Not yet —”

The woman who had mimicked him let out a raucous

scream of laughter.

“You hear him? You hear him? Giving instructions to

the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!”

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix,” said

Malfoy softly. “He has a great weakness for heroics;

the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give

me the prophecy, Potter. ”

“I know Sirius is here,” said Harry, though panic was

causing his chest to constrict and he felt as though

he could not breathe properly. “I know you’ve got

him!”

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More of the Death Eaters laughed, though the woman

still laughed loudest of all.

“It’s time you learned the difference between life and

dreams, Potter,” said Malfoy. “Now give me the

prophecy, or we start using wands.”

“Go on, then,” said Harry, raising his own wand to

chest height. As he did so, the five wands of Ron,

Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna rose on either

side of him. The knot in Harry’s stomach tightened. If

Sirius really was not here, he had led his friends to

their deaths for no reason at all...

But the Death Eaters did not strike.

“Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt,”

said Malfoy coolly.

It was Harry’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, right!” he said. “I give you this — prophecy, is

it? And you’ll just let us skip off home, will you?”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the

female Death Eater shrieked, “Accio Proph —”

Harry was just ready for her. He shouted “Protego!”

before she had finished her spell, and though the

glass sphere slipped to the tips of his fingers he

managed to cling on to it.

“Oh, he knows how to play, little bitty baby Potter,”

she said, her mad eyes staring through the slits in

her hood. “Very well, then —”

“I TOLD YOU, NO!” Lucius Malfoy roared at the

woman. “If you smash it — !”

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Harry’s mind was racing. The Death Eaters wanted

this dusty spun-glass sphere. He had no interest in it.

He just wanted to get them all out of this alive, make

sure that none of his friends paid a terrible price for

his stupidity …

The woman stepped forward, away from her fellows,

and pulled off her hood. Azkaban had hollowed

Bellatrix Lestrange’s face, making it gaunt and skull-

like, but it was alive with a feverish, fanatical glow.

“You need more persuasion?” she said, her chest

rising and falling rapidly. “Very well — take the

smallest one,” she ordered the Death Eaters beside

her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll

do it.”

Harry felt the others close in around Ginny. He

stepped sideways so that he was right in front of her,

the prophecy held up to his chest.

“You’ll have to smash this if you want to attack any of

us,” he told Bellatrix. “I don’t think your boss will be

too pleased if you come back without it, will he?”

She did not move; she merely stared at him, the tip of

her tongue moistening her thin mouth.

“So,” said Harry, “what kind of prophecy are we

talking about anyway?”

He could not think what to do but to keep talking.

Neville’s arm was pressed against his, and he could

feel him shaking. He could feel one of the other’s

quickened breath on the back of his head. He was

hoping they were all thinking hard about ways to get

out of this, because his mind was blank.

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“What kind of prophecy?” repeated Bellatrix, the grin fading from her face. “You jest, Harry Potter.”

“Nope, not jesting,” said Harry, his eyes flicking from

Death Eater to Death Eater, looking for a weak link, a

space through which they could escape. “How come

Voldemort wants it?”

Several of the Death Eaters let out low hisses.

“You dare speak his name?” whispered Bellatrix.

“Yeah,” said Harry, maintaining his tight grip on the

glass ball, expecting another attempt to bewitch it

from him. “Yeah, I’ve got no problem saying Vol —”

“Shut your mouth!” Bellatrix shrieked. “You dare

speak his name with your unworthy lips, you dare

besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare —

”

“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” said Harry

recklessly. Hermione gave a little moan in his ear.

“Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch but his

dad was a Muggle — or has he been telling you lot

he’s pureblood?”

“STUPEF —”

“NO!”

A jet of red light had shot from the end of Bellatrix

Lestrange’s wand, but Malfoy had deflected it. His

spell caused hers to hit the shelf a foot to the left of

Harry and several of the glass orbs there shattered.

Two figures, pearly white as ghosts, fluid as smoke,

unfurled themselves from the fragments of broken

glass upon the floor and each began to speak. Their

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voices vied with each other, so that only fragments of what they were saying could be heard over Malfoy and

Bellatrix’s shouts.

“… at the Solstice will come a new …” said the figure

of an old, bearded man.

“DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!”

“He dared — he dares —” shrieked Bellatrix

incoherently. “— He stands there — filthy half-blood

—”

“WAIT UNTIL WE’VE GOT THE PROPHECY!” bawled

Malfoy.

“… and none will come after …” said the figure of a

young woman.

The two figures that had burst from the shattered

spheres had melted into thin air. Nothing remained of

them or their erstwhile homes but fragments of glass

upon the floor. They had, however, given Harry an

idea. The problem was going to be conveying it to the

others.

“You haven’t told me what’s so special about this

prophecy I’m supposed to be handing over,” he said,

playing for time. He moved his foot slowly sideways,

feeling around for someone else’s.

“Do not play games with us, Potter,” said Malfoy.

“I’m not playing games,” said Harry, half his mind on

the conversation, half on his wandering foot. And

then he found someone’s toes and pressed down upon

them. A sharp intake of breath behind him told him

they were Hermione’s.

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“What?” she whispered.

“Dumbledore never told you that the reason you bear

that scar was hidden in the bowels of the Department

of Mysteries?” said Malfoy sneeringly.

“I — what?” said Harry, and for a moment he quite

forgot his plan. “What about my scar?”

“What?” whispered Hermione more urgently behind

him.

“Can this be?” said Malfoy, sounding maliciously

delighted; some of the Death Eaters were laughing

again, and under cover of their laughter, Harry hissed

to Hermione, moving his lips as little as possible,

“Smash shelves —”

“Dumbledore never told you?” Malfoy repeated. “Well,

this explains why you didn’t come earlier, Potter, the

Dark Lord wondered why —”

“— when I say go —”

“— you didn’t come running when he showed you the

place where it was hidden in your dreams. He

thought natural curiosity would make you want to

hear the exact wording...”

“Did he?” said Harry. Behind him he felt rather than

heard Hermione passing his message to the others

and he sought to keep talking, to distract the Death

Eaters. “So he wanted me to come and get it, did he?

Why?”

“Why?” Malfoy sounded incredulously delighted.

“Because the only people who are permitted to

retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries,

Potter, are those about whom it was made, as the

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Dark Lord discovered when he attempted to use

others to steal it for him.”

“And why did he want to steal a prophecy about me?”

“About both of you, Potter, about both of you …

Haven’t you ever wondered why the Dark Lord tried to

kill you as a baby?”

Harry stared into the slitted eyeholes through which

Malfoy’s gray eyes were gleaming. Was this prophecy

the reason Harry’s parents had died, the reason he

carried his lightning-bolt scar? Was the answer to all

of this clutched in his hand?

“Someone made a prophecy about Voldemort and

me?” he said quietly, gazing at Lucius Malfoy, his

fingers tightening over the warm glass sphere in his

hand. It was hardly larger than a Snitch and still

gritty with dust. “And he’s made me come and get it

for him? Why couldn’t he come and get it himself?”

“Get it himself?” shrieked Bellatrix on a cackle of mad

laughter. “The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry of

Magic, when they are so sweetly ignoring his return?

The Dark Lord, reveal himself to the Aurors, when at

the moment they are wasting their time on my dear

cousin?”

“So he’s got you doing his dirty work for him, has

he?” said Harry. “Like he tried to get Sturgis to steal it

— and Bode?”

“Very good, Potter, very good …” said Malfoy slowly.

“But the Dark Lord knows you are not unintell —”

“NOW!” yelled Harry.

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Five different voices behind him bellowed “REDUCTO!”

Five curses flew in five different directions and the

shelves opposite them exploded as they hit. The

towering structure swayed as a hundred glass

spheres burst apart, pearly-white figures unfurled

into the air and floated there, their voices echoing

from who knew what long-dead past amid the torrent

of crashing glass and splintered wood now raining

down upon the floor —

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and as the shelves swayed

precariously and more glass spheres began to pour

from above, he seized a handful of Hermione’s robes

and dragged her forward, one arm over his head as

chunks of shelf and shards of glass thundered down

upon them. A Death Eater lunged forward through

the cloud of dust and Harry elbowed him hard in the

masked face. They were all yelling, there were cries of

pain, thunderous crashes as the shelves collapsed

upon themselves, weirdly echoing fragments of the

Seers unleashed from their spheres —

Harry found the way ahead clear and saw Ron,

Ginny, and Luna sprint past him, their arms over

their heads. Something heavy struck him on the side

of the face but he merely ducked his head and

sprinted onward; a hand caught him by the shoulder;

he heard Hermione shout “Stupefy!” and the hand

released him at once.

They were at the end of row ninety-seven; Harry

turned right and began to sprint in earnest. He could

hear footsteps right behind him and Hermione’s voice

urging Neville on. The door through which they had

come was ajar straight ahead, Harry could see the

glittering light of the bell jar, he pelted through it, the

prophecy still clutched tight and safe in his hand,

waited for the others to hurtle over the threshold

before slamming the door behind them —

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“Colloportus!” gasped Hermione and the door sealed itself with an odd squelching noise.

“Where — where are the others?” gasped Harry.

He had thought that Ron, Luna, and Ginny had been

ahead of them, that they would be waiting in this

room, but there was nobody there.

“They must have gone the wrong way!” whispered

Hermione, terror in her face.

“Listen!” whispered Neville.

Footsteps and shouts echoed from behind the door

they had just sealed. Harry put his ear close to the

door to listen and heard Lucius Malfoy roar: “Leave

Nott, leave him, I say, the Dark Lord will not care for

Nott’s injuries as much as losing that prophecy —

Jugson, come back here, we need to organize! We’ll

split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle

with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy, you can kill

the others if necessary — Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you

take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right — Jugson,

Dolohov, the door straight ahead — Macnair and

Avery, through here — Rookwood, over there —

Mulciber, come with me!”

“What do we do?” Hermione asked Harry, trembling

from head to foot.

“Well, we don’t stand here waiting for them to find us,

for a start,” said Harry. “Let’s get away from this

door...”

They ran, quietly as they could, past the shimmering

bell jar where the tiny egg was hatching and

unhatching, toward the exit into the circular hallway

at the far end of the room. They were almost there

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when Harry heard something large and heavy collide

with the door Hermione had charmed shut.

“Stand aside!” said a rough voice. “Alohomora!”

As the door flew open, Harry, Hermione, and Neville

dived under desks. They could see the bottom of the

two Death Eaters’ robes drawing nearer, their feet

moving rapidly.

“They might’ve run straight through to the hall,” said

the rough voice.

“Check under the desks,” said another.

Harry saw the knees of the Death Eaters bend. Poking

his wand out from under the desk he shouted,

“STUPEFY!”

A jet of red light hit the nearest Death Eater; he fell

backward into a grandfather clock and knocked it

over. The second Death Eater, however, had leapt

aside to avoid Harry’s spell and now pointed his own

wand at Hermione, who had crawled out from under

the desk to get a better aim.

“Avada —”

Harry launched himself across the floor and grabbed

the Death Eater around the knees, causing him to

topple and his aim to go awry. Neville overturned his

desk in his anxiety to help; pointing his wand wildly

at the struggling pair he cried, “EXPELLIARMUS!”

Both Harry’s and the Death Eater’s wands flew out of

their hands and soared back toward the entrance to

the Hall of Prophecy; both scrambled to their feet and

charged after them, the Death Eater in front and

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Harry hot on his heels, Neville bringing up the rear, plainly horrorstruck at what he had done.

“Get out of the way, Harry!” yelled Neville, clearly

determined to repair the damage.

Harry flung himself sideways as Neville took aim

again and shouted, “STUPEFY!”

The jet of red light flew right over the Death Eater’s

shoulder and hit a glass-fronted cabinet on the wall

full of variously shaped hourglasses. The cabinet fell

to the floor and burst apart, glass flying everywhere,

then sprang back up onto the wall, fully mended,

then fell down again, and shattered —

The Death Eater had snatched up his wand, which

lay on the floor beside the glittering bell jar. Harry

ducked down behind another desk as the man turned

— his mask had slipped so that he could not see, he

ripped it off with his free hand and shouted, “STUP —

”

“STUPEFY!” screamed Hermione, who had just caught

up with them. The jet of red light hit the Death Eater

in the middle of his chest; he froze, his arm still

raised, his wand fell to the floor with a clatter and he

collapsed backward toward the bell jar. Harry

expected to hear a clunk, for the man to hit solid glass

and slide off the jar onto the floor, but instead, his

head sank through the surface of the bell jar as

though it was nothing but a soap bubble and he came

to rest, sprawled on his back on the table, with his

head lying inside the jar full of glittering wind.

“Accio Wand!” cried Hermione. Harry’s wand flew from

a dark corner into her hand and she threw it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, “right, let’s get out of —”

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“Look out!” said Neville, horrified, staring at the Death Eater’s head in the bell jar.

All three of them raised their wands again, but none

of them struck. They were all gazing, openmouthed,

appalled, at what was happening to the man’s head.

It was shrinking very fast, growing balder and balder,

the black hair and stubble retracting into his skull,

his cheeks smooth, his skull round and covered with

a peachlike fuzz...

A baby’s head now sat grotesquely on top of the thick,

muscled neck of the Death Eater as he struggled to

get up again. But even as they watched, their mouths

open, the head began to swell to its previous

proportions again, thick black hair was sprouting

from the pate and chin...

“It’s time,” said Hermione in an awestruck voice.

“Time …”

The Death Eater shook his ugly head again, trying to

clear it, but before he could pull himself together

again, it began to shrink back to babyhood once

more...

There was a shout from a room nearby, then a crash

and a scream.

“RON?” Harry yelled, turning quickly from the

monstrous transformation taking place before them.

“GINNY? LUNA?”

“Harry!” Hermione screamed.

The Death Eater had pulled his head out of the bell

jar. His appearance was utterly bizarre, his tiny

baby’s head bawling loudly while his thick arms

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flailed dangerously in all directions, narrowly missing Harry, who ducked. Harry raised his wand but to his

amazement Hermione seized his arm.

“You can’t hurt a baby!”

There was no time to argue the point. Harry could

hear more footsteps growing louder from the Hall of

Prophecy they had just left and knew, too late, that

he ought not to have shouted and given away their

position.

“Come on!” he said again, and leaving the ugly baby-

headed Death Eater staggering behind them, they

took off for the door that stood ajar at the other end of

the room, leading back into the black hallway.

They had run halfway toward it when Harry saw

through the open door two more Death Eaters

running across the black room toward them. Veering

left he burst instead into a small, dark, cluttered

office and slammed the door behind them.

“Collo —” began Hermione, but before she could

complete the spell the door had burst open again and

the two Death Eaters had come hurtling inside. With

a cry of triumph, both yelled, “IMPEDIMENTA!”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville were all knocked

backward off their feet. Neville was thrown over the

desk and disappeared from view, Hermione smashed

into a bookcase and was promptly deluged in a

cascade of heavy books; the back of Harry’s head

slammed into the stone wall behind him, tiny lights

burst in front of his eyes, and for a moment he was

too dizzy and bewildered to react.

“WE’VE GOT HIM!” yelled the Death Eater nearest

Harry, “IN AN OFFICE OFF —”

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“Silencio!” cried Hermione, and the man’s voice was extinguished. He continued to mouth through the

hole in his mask, but no sound came out; he was

thrust aside by his fellow.

“Petrificus Totalus!” shouted Harry, as the second

Death Eater raised his wand. His arms and legs

snapped together and he fell forward, facedown onto

the rug at Harry’s feet, stiff as a board and unable to

move at all.

“Well done, Ha —”

But the Death Eater Hermione had just struck dumb

made a sudden slashing movement with his wand

from which flew a streak of what looked like purple

flame. It passed right across Hermione’s chest; she

gave a tiny “oh!” as though of surprise and then

crumpled onto the floor where she lay motionless.

“HERMIONE!”

Harry fell to his knees beside her as Neville crawled

rapidly toward her from under the desk, his wand

held up in front of him. The Death Eater kicked out

hard at Neville’s head as he emerged — his foot broke

Neville’s wand in two and connected with his face —

Neville gave a howl of pain and recoiled, clutching his

mouth and nose. Harry twisted around, his own wand

held high, and saw that the Death Eater had ripped

off his mask and was pointing his wand directly at

Harry, who recognized the long, pale, twisted face

from the Daily Prophet: Antonin Dolohov, the wizard

who had murdered the Prewetts.

Dolohov grinned. With his free hand, he pointed from

the prophecy still clutched in Harry’s hand, to

himself, then at Hermione. Though he could no longer

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speak his meaning could not have been clearer: Give me the prophecy, or you get the same as her...

“Like you won’t kill us all the moment I hand it over

anyway!” said Harry.

A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him

thinking properly. He had one hand on Hermione’s

shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look

at her properly. Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be

dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead...

“Whaddever you do, Harry,” said Neville fiercely from

under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly

broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and

chin, “don’d gib it to him!”

Then there was a crash outside the door, and Dolohov

looked over his shoulder — the baby-headed Death

Eater had appeared in the doorway, his head bawling,

his great fists still flailing uncontrollably at everything

around him.

Harry seized his chance: “PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”

The spell hit Dolohov before he could block it, and he

toppled forward across his comrade, both of them

rigid as boards and unable to move an inch.

“Hermione,” Harry said at once, shaking her as the

baby-headed Death Eater blundered out of sight

again. “Hermione, wake up...”

“Whaddid he do to her?” said Neville, crawling out

from under the desk again to kneel at her other side,

blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose. “I

dunno...”

Neville groped for Hermione’s wrist.

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“Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is...”

Such a powerful wave of relief swept through Harry

that for a moment he felt light-headed.

“She’s alive?”

“Yeah, I dink so...”

There was a pause in which Harry listened hard for

the sounds of more footsteps, but all he could hear

were the whimpers and blunderings of the baby

Death Eater in the next room.

“Neville, we’re not far from the exit,” Harry whispered.

“We’re right next to that circular room... If we can just

get you across it and find the right door before any

more Death Eaters come, I’ll bet you can get

Hermione up the corridor and into the lift... Then you

could find someone... Raise the alarm …”

“And whad are you going do do?” said Neville,

mopping his bleeding nose with his sleeve and

frowning at Harry.

“I’ve got to find the others,” said Harry.

“Well, I’b going do find dem wid you,” said Neville

firmly.

“But Hermione —”

“We’ll dake her wid us,” said Neville firmly. “I’ll carry

her — you’re bedder at fighding dem dan I ab —”

He stood up and seized one of Hermione’s arms,

glared at Harry, who hesitated, then grabbed the

other and helped hoist Hermione’s limp form over

Neville’s shoulders.

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“Wait,” said Harry, snatching up Hermione’s wand

from the floor and shoving it into Nevilles hand,

“you’d better take this...”

Neville kicked aside the broken fragments of his own

wand as they walked slowly toward the door.

“My gran’s going do kill be,” said Neville thickly, blood

spattering from his nose as he spoke, “dat was by

dad’s old wand...”

Harry stuck his head out of the door and looked

around cautiously. The baby-headed Death Eater was

screaming and banging into things, toppling

grandfather clocks and overturning desks, bawling

and confused, while the glass cabinet that Harry now

suspected had contained Time-Turners continued to

fall, shatter, and repair itself on the wall behind them.

“He’s never going to notice us,” he whispered. “C’mon

… keep close behind me...”

They crept out of the office and back toward the door

into the black hallway, which now seemed completely

deserted. They walked a few steps forward, Neville

tottering slightly due to Hermione’s weight. The door

of the Time Room swung shut behind them, and the

walls began to rotate once more. The recent blow on

the back of Harry’s head seemed to have unsteadied

him; he narrowed his eyes, swaying slightly, until the

walls stopped moving again. With a sinking heart

Harry saw that Hermione’s fiery crosses had faded

from the doors.

“So which way d’you reck — ?”

But before they could make a decision as to which

way to try, a door to their right sprang open and three

people fell out of it.

P a g e | 1014Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Ron!” croaked Harry, dashing toward them. “Ginny

— are you all — ?”

“Harry,” said Ron, giggling weakly, lurching forward,

seizing the front of Harry’s robes and gazing at him

with unfocused eyes. “There you are... Ha ha ha …

You look funny, Harry... You’re all messed up...

Ron’s face was very white and something dark was

trickling from the corner of his mouth. Next moment

his knees had given way, but he still clutched the

front of Harry’s robes, so that Harry was pulled into a

kind of bow.

“Ginny?” Harry said fearfully. “What happened?”

But Ginny shook her head and slid down the wall into

a sitting position, panting and holding her ankle.

“I think her ankle’s broken, I heard something crack,”

whispered Luna, who was bending over her and who

alone seemed to be unhurt. “Four of them chased us

into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd

place, some of the time we were just floating in the

dark —”

“Harry, we saw Uranus up close!” said Ron, still

giggling feebly. “Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus — ha

ha ha —”

A bubble of blood grew at the corner of Ron’s mouth

and burst.

“Anyway, one of them grabbed Ginny’s foot, I used the

Reductor Curse and blew up Pluto in his face, but …”

Luna gestured hopelessly at Ginny, who was

breathing in a very shallow way, her eyes still closed.

P a g e | 1015Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“And what about Ron?” said Harry fearfully, as Ron

continued to giggle, still hanging off the front of

Harry’s robes.

“I don’t know what they hit him with,” said Luna

sadly, “but he’s gone a bit funny, I could hardly get

him along at all...”

“Harry,” said Ron, pulling Harry’s ear down to his

mouth and still giggling weakly, “you know who this

girl is, Harry? She’s Loony … Loony Lovegood … ha

ha ha …”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Harry firmly.

“Luna, can you help Ginny?”

“Yes,” said Luna, sticking her wand behind her ear for

safekeeping, putting an arm around Ginny’s waist

and pulling her up.

“It’s only my ankle, I can do it myself!” said Ginny

impatiently, but next moment she had collapsed

sideways and grabbed Luna for support. Harry pulled

Ron’s arm over his shoulder just as, so many months

ago, he had pulled Dudley’s. He looked around: They

had a one-in-twelve chance of getting the exit right

the first time —

He heaved Ron toward a door; they were within a few

feet of it when another door across the hall burst

open and three Death Eaters sped into the hall, led by

Bellatrix Lestrange.

“There they are!” she shrieked.

Stunning Spells shot across the room: Harry smashed

his way through the door ahead, flung Ron

unceremoniously from him, and ducked back to help

Neville in with Hermione. They were all over the

P a g e | 1016Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

threshold just in time to slam the door against

Bellatrix.

“Colloportus!” shouted Harry, and he heard three

bodies slam into the door on the other side.

“It doesn’t matter!” said a man’s voice. “There are

other ways in — WE’VE GOT THEM, THEY’RE HERE!”

Harry spun around. They were back in the Brain

Room and, sure enough, there were doors all around

the walls. He could hear footsteps in the hall behind

them as more Death Eaters came running to join the

first.

“Luna — Neville — help me!”

The three of them tore around the room, sealing the

doors as they went: Harry crashed into a table and

rolled over the top of it in his haste to reach the next

door.

“Colloportus!”

There were footsteps running along behind the doors;

every now and then another heavy body would launch

itself against one, so it creaked and shuddered. Luna

and Neville were bewitching the doors along the

opposite wall — then, as Harry reached the very top of

the room, he heard Luna cry, “Collo — aaaaaaaaargh

…”

He turned in time to see her flying through the air.

Five Death Eaters were surging into the room through

the door she had not reached in time; Luna hit a

desk, slid over its surface and onto the floor on the

other side where she lay sprawled, as still as

Hermione.

P a g e | 1017Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Get Potter!” shrieked Bellatrix, and she ran at him.

He dodged her and sprinted back up the room; he

was safe as long as they thought they might hit the

prophecy —

“Hey!” said Ron, who had staggered to his feet and

was now tottering drunkenly toward Harry, giggling.

“Hey, Harry, there are brains in here, ha ha ha, isn’t

that weird, Harry?”

“Ron, get out of the way, get down —”

But Ron had already pointed his wand at the tank.

“Honest, Harry, they’re brains — look — Accio Brain!”

The scene seemed momentarily frozen. Harry, Ginny,

and Neville and each of the Death Eaters turned in

spite of themselves to watch the top of the tank as a

brain burst from the green liquid like a leaping fish.

For a moment it seemed suspended in midair, then it

soared toward Ron, spinning as it came, and what

looked like ribbons of moving images flew from it,

unraveling like rolls of film —

“Ha ha ha, Harry, look at it —” said Ron, watching it

disgorge its gaudy innards. “Harry, come and touch

it, bet it’s weird —”

“RON, NO!”

Harry did not know what would happen if Ron

touched the tentacles of thought now flying behind

the brain, but he was sure it would not be anything

good. He darted forward but Ron had already caught

the brain in his outstretched hands.

P a g e | 1018Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

The moment they made contact with his skin, the

tentacles began wrapping themselves around Ron’s

arms like ropes.

“Harry, look what’s happen — no — no, I don’t like it

— no, stop — stop —”

But the thin ribbons were spinning around Ron’s

chest now. He tugged and tore at them as the brain

was pulled tight against him like an octopus’s body.

“Diffindo!” yelled Harry, trying to sever the feelers

wrapping themselves tightly around Ron before his

eyes, but they would not break. Ron fell over, still

thrashing against his bonds.

“Harry, it’ll suffocate him!” screamed Ginny,

immobilized by her broken ankle on the floor — then

a jet of red light flew from one of the Death Eater’s

wands and hit her squarely in the face. She keeled

over sideways and lay there unconscious.

“STUBEFY!” shouted Neville, wheeling around and

waving Hermione’s wand at the oncoming Death

Eaters. “STUBEFY, STUBEFY!”

But nothing happened — one of the Death Eaters

shot their own Stunning Spell at Neville; it missed

him by inches. Harry and Neville were now the only

two left fighting the five Death Eaters, two of whom

sent streams of silver light like arrows past them that

left craters in the wall behind them. Harry ran for it

as Bellatrix Lestrange sprinted right at him. Holding

the prophecy high above his head he sprinted back

up the room; all he could think of doing was to draw

the Death Eaters away from the others.

It seemed to have worked. They streaked after him,

knocking chairs and tables flying but not daring to

P a g e | 1019Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

bewitch him in case they hurt the prophecy, and he

dashed through the only door still open, the one

through which the Death Eaters themselves had

come. Inwardly praying that Neville would stay with

Ron — find some way of releasing him — he ran a few

feet into the new room and felt the floor vanish —

He was falling down steep stone step after steep stone

step, bouncing on every tier until at last, with a crash

that knocked all the breath out of his body, he landed

flat on his back in the sunken pit where the stone

archway stood on its dais. The whole room was

ringing with the Death Eaters’ laughter. He looked up

and saw the five who had been in the Brain Room

descending toward him, while as many more emerged

through other doorways and began leaping from

bench to bench toward him. Harry got to his feet

though his legs were trembling so badly they barely

supported him. The prophecy was still miraculously

unbroken in his left hand, his wand clutched tightly

in his right. He backed away, looking around, trying

to keep all the Death Eaters within his sights. The

back of his legs hit something solid; he had reached

the dais where the archway stood. He climbed

backward onto it.

The Death Eaters all halted, gazing at him. Some were

panting as hard as he was. One was bleeding badly;

Dolohov, freed of the full Body-Bind, was leering, his

wand pointing straight at Harry’s face.

“Potter, your race is run,” drawled Lucius Malfoy,

pulling off his mask. “Now hand me the prophecy like

a good boy...”

“Let — let the others go, and I’ll give it to you!” said

Harry desperately.

A few of the Death Eaters laughed.

P a g e | 1020Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“You are not in a position to bargain, Potter,” said Lucius Malfoy, his pale face flushed with pleasure.

“You see, there are ten of us and only one of you … or

hasn’t Dumbledore ever taught you how to count?”

“He’s dot alone!” shouted a voice from above them.

“He’s still god be!”

Harry’s heart sank. Neville was scrambling down the

stone benches toward them, Hermione’s wand held

fast in his trembling hand.

“Neville — no — go back to Ron —”

“STUBEFY!” Neville shouted again, pointing his wand

at each Death Eater in turn, “STUBEFY! STUBE —”

One of the largest Death Eaters seized Neville from

behind, pinioning his arms to his sides. He struggled

and kicked; several of the Death Eaters laughed.

“It’s Longbottom, isn’t it?” sneered Lucius Malfoy.

“Well, your grandmother is used to losing family

members to our cause... Your death will not come as

a great shock...”

“Longbottom?” repeated Bellatrix, and a truly evil

smile lit her gaunt face. “Why, I have had the

pleasure of meeting your parents, boy...”

“I DOE YOU HAB!” roared Neville, and he fought so

hard against his captor’s encircling grip that the

Death Eater shouted, “Someone Stun him!”

“No, no, no,” said Bellatrix. She looked transported,

alive with excitement as she glanced at Harry, then

back at Neville. “No, let’s see how long Longbottom

lasts before he cracks like his parents... Unless Potter

wants to give us the prophecy —”

P a g e | 1021Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“DON’D GIB ID DO DEM!” roared Neville, who seemed

beside himself, kicking and writhing as Bellatrix drew

nearer to him and his captor, her wand raised.

“DON’D GIB ID DO DEM, HARRY!”

Bellatrix raised her wand. “Crucio!”

Neville screamed, his legs drawn up to his chest so

that the Death Eater holding him was momentarily

holding him off the ground. The Death Eater dropped

him and he fell to the floor, twitching and screaming

in agony.

“That was just a taster!” said Bellatrix, raising her

wand so that Neville’s screams stopped and he lay

sobbing at her feet. She turned and gazed up at

Harry. “Now, Potter, either give us the prophecy, or

watch your little friend die the hard way!”

Harry did not have to think; there was no choice. The

prophecy was hot with the heat from his clutching

hand as he held it out. Malfoy jumped forward to take

it.

Then, high above them, two more doors burst open

and five more people sprinted into the room: Sirius,

Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley.

Malfoy turned and raised his wand, but Tonks had

already sent a Stunning Spell right at him. Harry did

not wait to see whether it had made contact, but

dived off the dais out of the way. The Death Eaters

were completely distracted by the appearance of the

members of the Order, who were now raining spells

down upon them as they jumped from step to step

toward the sunken floor: Through the darting bodies,

the flashes of light, Harry could see Neville crawling

along. He dodged another jet of red light and flung

himself flat on the ground to reach Neville.

P a g e | 1022Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Are you okay?” he yelled, as another spell soared

inches over their heads.

“Yes,” said Neville, trying to pull himself up.

“And Ron?”

“I dink he’s all right — he was still fighding the brain

when I left —”

The stone floor between them exploded as a spell hit

it, leaving a crater right where Neville’s hand had

been seconds before. Both scrambled away from the

spot, then a thick arm came out of nowhere, seized

Harry around the neck and pulled him upright, so

that his toes were barely touching the floor.

“Give it to me,” growled a voice in his ear, “give me the

prophecy —”

The man was pressing so tightly on Harry’s windpipe

that he could not breathe — through watering eyes he

saw Sirius dueling with a Death Eater some ten feet

away. Kingsley was fighting two at once; Tonks, still

halfway up the tiered seats, was firing spells down at

Bellatrix — nobody seemed to realize that Harry was

dying... He turned his wand backward toward the

man’s side, but had no breath to utter an incantation,

and the man’s free hand was groping toward the hand

in which Harry was grasping the prophecy —

“AARGH!”

Neville had come lunging out of nowhere: Unable to

articulate a spell, he had jabbed Hermione’s wand

hard into the eyehole of the Death Eater’s mask. The

man relinquished Harry at once with a howl of pain

and Harry whirled around to face him and gasped,

“STUPEFY!”

P a g e | 1023Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

The Death Eater keeled over backward and his mask

slipped off. It was Macnair, Buckbeak’s would-be

killer, one of his eyes now swollen and bloodshot.

“Thanks!” Harry said to Neville, pulling him aside as

Sirius and his Death Eater lurched past, dueling so

fiercely that their wands were blurs. Then Harry’s foot

made contact with something round and hard and he

slipped — for a moment he thought he had dropped

the prophecy, then saw Moody’s magic eye spinning

away across the floor.

Its owner was lying on his side, bleeding from the

head, and his attacker was now bearing down upon

Harry and Neville: Dolohov, his long pale face twisted

with glee.

“Tarantallegra!” he shouted, his wand pointing at

Neville, whose legs went immediately into a kind of

frenzied tap dance, unbalancing him and causing him

to fall to the floor again. “Now, Potter —”

He made the same slashing movement with his wand

that he had used on Hermione just as Harry yelled,

“Protego!”

Harry felt something streak across his face like a

blunt knife but the force of it knocked him sideways,

and he fell over Neville’s jerking legs, but the Shield

Charm had stopped the worst of the spell.

Dolohov raised his wand again. “Accio Proph —”

Sirius hurtled out of nowhere, rammed Dolohov with

his shoulder, and sent him flying out of the way. The

prophecy had again flown to the tips of Harry’s fingers

but he had managed to cling to it. Now Sirius and

Dolohov were dueling, their wands flashing like

swords, sparks flying from their wand tips —

P a g e | 1024Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Dolohov drew back his wand to make the same

slashing movement he had used on Harry and

Hermione. Springing up, Harry yelled, “Petrificus

Totalus!” Once again, Dolohov’s arms and legs

snapped together and he keeled over backward,

landing with a crash on his back.

“Nice one!” shouted Sirius, forcing Harry’s head down

as a pair of Stunning Spells flew toward them. “Now I

want you to get out of —”

They both ducked again. A jet of green light had

narrowly missed Sirius; across the room Harry saw

Tonks fall from halfway up the stone steps, her limp

form toppling from stone seat to stone seat, and

Bellatrix, triumphant, running back toward the fray.

“Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!”

Sirius yelled, dashing to meet Bellatrix. Harry did not

see what happened next: Kingsley swayed across his

field of vision, battling with the pockmarked

Rookwood, now mask-less; another jet of green light

flew over Harry’s head as he launched himself toward

Neville —

“Can you stand?” he bellowed in Neville’s ear, as

Neville’s legs jerked and twitched uncontrollably. “Put

your arm round my neck —”

Neville did so — Harry heaved — Neville’s legs were

still flying in every direction, they would not support

him and then, out of nowhere, a man lunged at them.

Both fell backward, Neville’s legs waving wildly like an

overturned beetle’s, Harry with his left arm held up in

the air to try and save the small glass ball from being

smashed.

P a g e | 1025Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“The prophecy, give me the prophecy, Potter!” snarled Lucius Malfoy’s voice in his ear, and Harry felt the tip

of Malfoy’s wand pressing hard between his ribs.

“No — get — off — me … Neville — catch it!”

Harry flung the prophecy across the floor, Neville

spun himself around on his back and scooped the

ball to his chest. Malfoy pointed the wand instead at

Neville, but Harry jabbed his own wand back over his

shoulder and yelled, “Impedimenta!”

Malfoy was blasted off his back. As Harry scrambled

up again he looked around and saw Malfoy smash

into the dais on which Sirius and Bellatrix were now

dueling. Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry and Neville

again, but before he could draw breath to strike,

Lupin had jumped between them.

“Harry, round up the others and GO!”

Harry seized Neville by the shoulder of his robes and

lifted him bodily onto the first tier of stone steps.

Neville’s legs twitched and jerked and would not

support his weight. Harry heaved again with all the

strength he possessed and they climbed another step

—

A spell hit the stone bench at Harry’s heel. It

crumbled away and he fell back to the step below:

Neville sank to the ground, his legs still jerking and

thrashing, and thrust the prophecy into his pocket.

“Come on!” said Harry desperately, hauling at

Neville’s robes. “Just try and push with your legs —”

He gave another stupendous heave and Neville’s robes

tore all along the left seam — the small spun-glass

ball dropped from his pocket and before either of

P a g e | 1026Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

them could catch it, one of Neville’s floundering feet kicked it. It flew some ten feet to their right and

smashed on the step beneath them. As both of them

stared at the place where it had broken, appalled at

what had happened, a pearly-white figure with hugely

magnified eyes rose into the air, unnoticed by any but

them. Harry could see its mouth moving, but in all

the crashes and screams and yells surrounding them,

not one word of the prophecy could he hear. The

figure stopped speaking and dissolved into

nothingness.

“Harry, I’b sorry!” cried Neville, his face anguished as

his legs continued to flounder, “I’b so sorry, Harry, I

didn’d bean do —”

“It doesn’t matter!” Harry shouted. “Just try and

stand, let’s get out of —”

“Dubbledore!” said Neville, his sweaty face suddenly

transported, staring over Harry’s shoulder.

“What?”

“DUBBLEDORE!”

Harry turned to look where Neville was staring.

Directly above them, framed in the doorway from the

Brain Room, stood Albus Dumbledore, his wand aloft,

his face white and furious. Harry felt a kind of electric

charge surge through every particle of his body —

they were saved.

Dumbledore sped down the steps past Neville and

Harry, who had no more thought of leaving.

Dumbledore was already at the foot of the steps when

the Death Eaters nearest realized he was there. There

were yells; one of the Death Eaters ran for it,

scrabbling like a monkey up the stone steps opposite.

P a g e | 1027Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Dumbledore’s spell pulled him back as easily and

effortlessly as though he had hooked him with an

invisible line —

Only one couple were still battling, apparently

unaware of the new arrival. Harry saw Sirius duck

Bellatrix’s jet of red light: He was laughing at her.

“Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled, his

voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his

eyes widened in shock.

Harry released Neville, though he was unaware of

doing so. He was jumping down the steps again,

pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore turned to the

dais too.

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body

curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through

the ragged veil hanging from the arch...

And Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise

on his godfather’s wasted, once-handsome face as he

fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared

behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as

though in a high wind and then fell back into place.

Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange’s triumphant scream,

but knew it meant nothing — Sirius had only just

fallen through the archway, he would reappear from

the other side any second...

But Sirius did not reappear.

“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled, “SIRIUS!”

P a g e | 1028Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He had reached the floor, his breath coming in

searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain,

he, Harry, would pull him back out again...

But as he reached the ground and sprinted toward

the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest,

holding him back.

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry —”

“Get him, save him, he’s only just gone through!”

“It’s too late, Harry —”

“We can still reach him —”

Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would

not let go...

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry … nothing... He’s

gone.”

P a g e | 1029Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE ONLY ONE HE EVER FEARED

“He hasn’t gone!” Harry yelled.

He did not believe it, he would not believe it; still he

fought Lupin with every bit of strength he had: Lupin

did not understand, people hid behind that curtain,

he had heard them whispering the first time he had

entered the room — Sirius was hiding, simply lurking

out of sight —

“SIRIUS!” he bellowed, “SIRIUS!”

“He can’t come back, Harry,” said Lupin, his voice

breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. “He can’t

come back, because he’s d —”

“HE — IS — NOT — DEAD!” roared Harry. “SIRIUS!”

There was movement going on around them, pointless

bustling, the flashes of more spells. To Harry it was

meaningless noise, the deflected curses flying past

them did not matter, nothing mattered except that

Lupin stop pretending that Sirius, who was standing

P a g e | 1030Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

feet from them behind that old curtain, was not going to emerge at any moment, shaking back his dark hair

and eager to reenter the battle —

Lupin dragged Harry away from the dais, Harry still

staring at the archway, angry at Sirius now for

keeping him waiting —

But some part of him realized, even as he fought to

break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him

waiting before... Sirius had risked everything, always,

to see Harry, to help him... If Sirius was not

reappearing out of that archway when Harry was

yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the

only possible explanation was that he could not come

back... That he really was …

Dumbledore had most of the remaining Death Eaters

grouped in the middle of the room, seemingly

immobilized by invisible ropes. Mad-Eye Moody had

crawled across the room to where Tonks lay and was

attempting to revive her. Behind the dais there were

still flashes of light, grunts, and cries — Kingsley had

run forward to continue Sirius’s duel with Bellatrix.

“Harry?”

Neville had slid down the stone benches one by one to

the place where Harry stood. Harry was no longer

struggling against Lupin, who maintained a

precautionary grip on his arm nevertheless.

“Harry … I’b really sorry...” said Neville. His legs were

still dancing uncontrollably. “Was dat man — was

Sirius Black a — a friend of yours?”

Harry nodded.

P a g e | 1031Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Here,” said Lupin quietly, and pointing his wand at Neville’s legs he said, “Finite. ” The spell was lifted.

Neville’s legs fell back onto the floor and remained

still. Lupin’s face was pale. “Let’s — let’s find the

others. Where are they all, Neville?”

Lupin turned away from the archway as he spoke. It

sounded as though every word was causing him pain.

“Dey’re all back dere,” said Neville. “A brain addacked

Ron bud I dink he’s all righd — and Herbione’s

unconscious, bud we could feel a bulse —”

There was a loud bang and a yell from behind the

dais. Harry saw Kingsley, yelling in pain, hit the

ground. Bellatrix Lestrange turned tail and ran as

Dumbledore whipped around. He aimed a spell at her

but she deflected it. She was halfway up the steps

now —

“Harry — no!” cried Lupin, but Harry had already

ripped his arm from Lupin’s slackened grip.

“SHE KILLED SIRIUS!” bellowed Harry. “SHE KILLED

HIM — I’LL KILL HER!”

And he was off, scrambling up the stone benches.

People were shouting behind him but he did not care.

The hem of Bellatrix’s robes whipped out of sight

ahead and they were back in the room where the

brains were swimming...

She aimed a curse over her shoulder. The tank rose

into the air and tipped. Harry was deluged in the foul-

smelling potion within. The brains slipped and slid

over him and began spinning their long, colored

tentacles, but he shouted, “Wingardium Leviosa!” and

they flew into the air away from him. Slipping and

sliding he ran on toward the door. He leapt over Luna,

P a g e | 1032Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

who was groaning on the floor, past Ginny, who said,

“Harry — what — ?” past Ron, who giggled feebly, and

Hermione, who was still unconscious. He wrenched

open the door into the circular black hall and saw

Bellatrix disappearing through a door on the other

side of the room — beyond her was the corridor

leading back to the lifts.

He ran, but she had slammed the door behind her

and the walls had begun to rotate again. Once more

he was surrounded by streaks of blue light from the

whirling candelabra.

“Where’s the exit?” he shouted desperately, as the

wall rumbled to a halt again. “Where’s the way out?”

The room seemed to have been waiting for him to ask.

The door right behind him flew open, and the corridor

toward the lifts stretched ahead of him, torch-lit and

empty. He ran...

He could hear a lift clattering ahead of him. He

sprinted up the passageway, swung around the

corner, and slammed his fist onto the button to call a

second lift. It jangled and banged lower and lower; the

grilles slid open and Harry dashed inside, now

hammering the button marked Atrium. The doors slid

shut and he was rising...

He forced his way out of the lift before the grilles were

fully open and looked around. Bellatrix was almost at

the telephone lift at the other end of the hall, but she

looked back as he sprinted toward her, and aimed

another spell at him. He dodged behind the Fountain

of Magical Brethren; the spell zoomed past him and

hit the wrought gold gates at the other end of the

Atrium so that they rang like bells. There were no

more footsteps. She had stopped running. He

crouched behind the statues, listening.

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“Come out, come out, little Harry!” she called in her mock-baby voice, which echoed off the polished

wooden floors. “What did you come after me for, then?

I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!”

“I am!” shouted Harry, and a score of ghostly Harry’s

seemed to chorus I am! I am! I am! all around the room.

“Aaaaaah … did you love him, little baby Potter?”

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known

before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain

and bellowed “Crucio!”

Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her

feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as

Neville had — she was already on her feet again,

breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind

the golden fountain again — her counterspell hit the

head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off

and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches

into the wooden floor.

“Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you,

boy?” she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice

now. “You need to mean them, Potter! You need to

really want to cause pain — to enjoy it — righteous

anger won’t hurt me for long — I’ll show you how it is

done, shall I? I’ll give you a lesson —”

Harry had been edging around the fountain on the

other side. She screamed, “Crucio!” and he was forced

to duck down again as the centaur’s arm, holding its

bow, spun off and landed with a crash on the floor a

short distance from the golden wizard’s head.

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried. He

could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a

P a g e | 1034Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away

from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his

head level with the house-elf’s. “I was and am the

Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark

Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that

you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete —”

“Stupefy!” yelled Harry. He had edged right around to

where the goblin stood beaming up at the now

headless wizard and taken aim at her back as she

peered around the fountain for him. She reacted so

fast he barely had time to duck.

“Protego!”

The jet of red light, his own Stunning Spell, bounced

back at him. Harry scrambled back behind the

fountain, and one of the goblin’s ears went flying

across the room.

“Potter, I am going to give you one chance!” shouted

Bellatrix. “Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward

me now — and I may spare your life!”

“Well, you’re going to have to kill me, because it’s

gone!” Harry roared — and as he shouted it, pain

seared across his forehead. His scar was on fire

again, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite

unconnected with his own rage. “And he knows!” said

Harry with a mad laugh to match Bellatrix’s own.

“Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it’s gone! He’s

not going to be happy with you, is he?”

“What? What do you mean?” she cried, and for the

first time there was fear in her voice.

“The prophecy smashed when I was trying to get

Neville up the steps! What do you think Voldemort’ll

say about that, then?”

P a g e | 1035Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

His scar seared and burned... The pain of it was

making his eyes stream...

“LIAR!” she shrieked, but he could hear the terror

behind the anger now. “YOU’VE GOT IT, POTTER,

AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — Accio Prophecy!

ACCIO PROPHECY!”

Harry laughed again because he knew it would

incense her, the pain building in his head so badly he

thought his skull might burst. He waved his empty

hand from behind the one-eared goblin and withdrew

it quickly as she sent another jet of green light flying

at him.

“Nothing there!” he shouted. “Nothing to summon! It

smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your

boss that —”

“No!” she screamed. “It isn’t true, you’re lying —

MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME

—”

“Don’t waste your breath!” yelled Harry, his eyes

screwed up against the pain in his scar, now more

terrible than ever. “He can’t hear you from here!”

“Can’t I, Potter?” said a high, cold voice.

Harry opened his eyes.

Tall, thin, and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike

face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes

staring … Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle

of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stood

frozen, quite unable to move.

“So you smashed my prophecy?” said Voldemort

softly, staring at Harry with those pitiless red eyes.

P a g e | 1036Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“No, Bella, he is not lying... I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind... Months of

preparation, months of effort … and my Death Eaters

have let Harry Potter thwart me again...”

“Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the

Animagus Black!” sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself

down at Voldemort’s feet as he paced slowly nearer.

“Master, you should know —”

“Be quiet, Bella,” said Voldemort dangerously. “I shall

deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have

entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling

apologies?”

“But Master — he is here — he is below —”

Voldemort paid no attention.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Potter,” he said

quietly. “You have irked me too often, for too long.

AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Harry had not even opened his mouth to resist. His

mind was blank, his wand pointing uselessly at the

floor.

But the headless golden statue of the wizard in the

fountain had sprung alive, leaping from its plinth,

and landed on the floor with a crash between Harry

and Voldemort. The spell merely glanced off its chest

as the statue flung out its arms, protecting Harry.

“What — ?” said Voldemort, staring around. And then

he breathed, “Dumbledore!”

Harry looked behind him, his heart pounding.

Dumbledore was standing in front of the golden gates.

P a g e | 1037Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Voldemort raised his wand and sent another jet of

green light at Dumbledore, who turned and was gone

in a whirling of his cloak; next second he had

reappeared behind Voldemort and waved his wand

toward the remnants of the fountain; the other

statues sprang to life too. The statue of the witch ran

at Bellatrix, who screamed and sent spells streaming

uselessly off its chest, before it dived at her, pinning

her to the floor. Meanwhile, the goblin and the house-

elf scuttled toward the fireplaces set along the wall,

and the one-armed centaur galloped at Voldemort,

who vanished and reappeared beside the pool. The

headless statue thrust Harry backward, away from

the fight, as Dumbledore advanced on Voldemort and

the golden centaur cantered around them both.

“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” said

Dumbledore calmly. “The Aurors are on their way —”

“By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!” spat

Voldemort. He sent another Killing Curse at

Dumbledore but missed, instead hitting the security

guards desk, which burst into flame.

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the

spell that emanated from it was such that Harry,

though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair

stand on end as it passed, and this time Voldemort

was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of

thin air to deflect it. The spell, whatever it was,

caused no visible damage to the shield, though a

deep, gonglike note reverberated from it, an oddly

chilling sound...

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called

Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of

the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?”

P a g e | 1038Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“We both know that there are other ways of

destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly,

continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he

had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had

happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely

taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —”

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!”

snarled Voldemort.

“You are quite wrong,” said Dumbledore, still closing

in upon Voldemort and speaking as lightly as though

they were discussing the matter over drinks. Harry

felt scared to see him walking along, undefended,

shieldless. He wanted to cry out a warning, but his

headless guard kept shunting him backward toward

the wall, blocking his every attempt to get out from

behind it. “Indeed, your failure to understand that

there are things much worse than death has always

been your greatest weakness —”

Another jet of green light flew from behind the silver

shield. This time it was the one-armed centaur,

galloping in front of Dumbledore, that took the blast

and shattered into a hundred pieces, but before the

fragments had even hit the floor, Dumbledore had

drawn back his wand and waved it as though

brandishing a whip. A long thin flame flew from the

tip; it wrapped itself around Voldemort, shield and all.

For a moment, it seemed Dumbledore had won, but

then the fiery rope became a serpent, which

relinquished its hold upon Voldemort at once and

turned, hissing furiously, to face Dumbledore.

Voldemort vanished. The snake reared from the floor,

ready to strike —

There was a burst of flame in midair above

Dumbledore just as Voldemort reappeared, standing

P a g e | 1039Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

on the plinth in the middle of the pool where so

recently the five statues had stood.

“Look out!” Harry yelled.

But even as he shouted, one more jet of green light

had flown at Dumbledore from Voldemort’s wand and

the snake had struck —

Fawkes swooped down in front of Dumbledore,

opened his beak wide, and swallowed the jet of green

light whole. He burst into flame and fell to the floor,

small, wrinkled, and flightless. At the same moment,

Dumbledore brandished his wand in one, long, fluid

movement — the snake, which had been an instant

from sinking its fangs into him, flew high into the air

and vanished in a wisp of dark smoke; the water in

the pool rose up and covered Voldemort like a cocoon

of molten glass —

For a few seconds Voldemort was visible only as a

dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and

indistinct upon the plinth, clearly struggling to throw

off the suffocating mass —

Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash

back into its pool, slopping wildly over the sides,

drenching the polished floor.

“MASTER!” screamed Bellatrix.

Sure it was over, sure Voldemort had decided to flee,

Harry made to run out from behind his statue guard,

but Dumbledore bellowed, “Stay where you are,

Harry!”

For the first time, Dumbledore sounded frightened.

Harry could not see why. The hall was quite empty

but for themselves, the sobbing Bellatrix still trapped

P a g e | 1040Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

under her statue, and the tiny baby Fawkes croaking

feebly on the floor —

And then Harry’s scar burst open. He knew he was

dead: it was pain beyond imagining, pain past

endurance —

He was gone from the hall, he was locked in the coils

of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that

Harry did not know where his body ended and the

creature’s began. They were fused together, bound by

pain, and there was no escape —

And when the creature spoke, it used Harry’s mouth,

so that in his agony he felt his jaw move...

“Kill me now, Dumbledore... ”

Blinded and dying, every part of him screaming for

release, Harry felt the creature use him again...

“If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy... ”

Let the pain stop, thought Harry. Let him kill us... End

it, Dumbledore... Death is nothing compared to this...

And I’ll see Sirius again...

And as Harry’s heart filled with emotion, the

creature’s coils loosened, the pain was gone, Harry

was lying facedown on the floor, his glasses gone,

shivering as though he lay upon ice, not wood...

And there were voices echoing through the hall, more

voices than there should have been: Harry opened his

eyes, saw his glasses lying at the heel of the headless

statue that had been guarding him, but which now

lay flat on its back, cracked and immobile. He put

P a g e | 1041Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

them on and raised his head an inch to find

Dumbledore’s crooked nose inches from his own.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry, shaking so violently he could not

hold his head up properly. “Yeah, I’m — where’s

Voldemort, where — who are all these — what’s —”

The Atrium was full of people. The floor was reflecting

emerald-green flames that had burst into life in all

the fireplaces along one wall, and a stream of witches

and wizards was emerging from them. As Dumbledore

pulled him back to his feet, Harry saw the tiny gold

statues of the house-elf and the goblin leading a

stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge forward.

“He was there!” shouted a scarlet-robed man with a

ponytail, who was pointing at a pile of golden rubble

on the other side of the hall, where Bellatrix had lain

trapped moments before. “I saw him, Mr. Fudge, I

swear, it was You-Know-Who, he grabbed a woman

and Disapparated!”

“I know, Williamson, I know, I saw him too!” gibbered

Fudge, who was wearing pajamas under his

pinstriped cloak and was gasping as though he had

just run miles. “Merlin’s beard — here — here! — in

the Ministry of Magic! — great heavens above — it

doesn’t seem possible — my word — how can this

be?”

“If you proceed downstairs into the Department of

Mysteries, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, apparently

satisfied that Harry was all right, and walking forward

so that the newcomers realized he was there for the

first time (a few of them raised their wands, others

simply looked amazed; the statues of the elf and

goblin applauded and Fudge jumped so much that

P a g e | 1042Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

his slipper-clad feet left the floor), “you will find several escaped Death Eaters contained in the Death

Chamber, bound by an Anti-Disapparation Jinx and

awaiting your decision as to what to do with them.”

“Dumbledore!” gasped Fudge, apparently beside

himself with amazement. “You — here — I — I —”

He looked wildly around at the Aurors he had brought

with him, and it could not have been clearer that he

was in half a mind to cry, “Seize him!”

“Cornelius, I am ready to fight your men — and win

again!” said Dumbledore in a thunderous voice. “But

a few minutes ago you saw proof, with your own eyes,

that I have been telling you the truth for a year. Lord

Voldemort has returned, you have been chasing the

wrong men for twelve months, and it is time you

listened to sense!”

“I — don’t — well —” blustered Fudge, looking around

as though hoping somebody was going to tell him

what to do. When nobody did, he said, “Very well —

Dawlish! Williamson! Go down to the Department of

Mysteries and see … Dumbledore, you — you will

need to tell me exactly — the Fountain of Magical

Brethren — what happened?” he added in a kind of

whimper, staring around at the floor, where the

remains of the statues of the witch, wizard, and

centaur now lay scattered.

“We can discuss that after I have sent Harry back to

Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Harry — Harry Potter?”

Fudge spun around and stared at Harry, who was

still standing against the wall beside the fallen statue

P a g e | 1043Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

that had been guarding him during Dumbledore and

Voldemort’s duel.

“He-here?” said Fudge. “Why — what’s all this

about?”

“I shall explain everything,” repeated Dumbledore,

“when Harry is back at school.”

He walked away from the pool to the place where the

golden wizard’s head lay on the floor. He pointed his

wand at it and muttered, “Portus. ” The head glowed

blue and trembled noisily against the wooden floor for

a few seconds, then became still once more.

“Now see here, Dumbledore!” said Fudge, as

Dumbledore picked up the head and walked back to

Harry carrying it. “You haven’t got authorization for

that Portkey! You can’t do things like that right in

front of the Minister of Magic, you — you —”

His voice faltered as Dumbledore surveyed him

magisterially over his half-moon spectacles.

“You will give the order to remove Dolores Umbridge

from Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. “You will tell your

Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical

Creatures teacher so that he can return to work. I will

give you …” Dumbledore pulled a watch with twelve

hands from his pocket and glanced at it, “half an

hour of my time tonight, in which I think we shall be

more than able to cover the important points of what

has happened here. After that, I shall need to return

to my school. If you need more help from me you are,

of course, more than welcome to contact me at

Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the headmaster will

find me.”

P a g e | 1044Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Fudge goggled worse than ever. His mouth was open

and his round face grew pinker under his rumpled

gray hair.

“I — you —”

Dumbledore turned his back on him.

“Take this Portkey, Harry.”

He held out the golden head of the statue, and Harry

placed his hand upon it, past caring what he did next

or where he went.

“I shall see you in half an hour,” said Dumbledore

quietly. “One … two … three …”

Harry felt the familiar sensation of a hook being

jerked behind his navel. The polished wooden floor

was gone from beneath his feet; the Atrium, Fudge,

and Dumbledore had all disappeared, and he was

flying forward in a whirlwind of color and sound...

P a g e | 1045Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE LOST PROPHECY

Harry’s feet hit solid ground again; his knees buckled

a little and the golden wizard’s head fell with a

resounding clunk to the floor. He looked around and

saw that he had arrived in Dumbledore’s office.

Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the

headmaster’s absence. The delicate silver instruments

stood again upon the spindle-legged tables, puffing

and whirring serenely. The portraits of the

headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in

their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or

against the edge of their pictures. Harry looked

through the window. There was a cool line of pale

green along the horizon: Dawn was approaching.

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the

occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was

unbearable to him. If his surroundings could have

reflected the feelings inside him, the pictures would

have been screaming in pain. He walked around the

quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to

think. But he had to think... There was no escape...

P a g e | 1046Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for

Voldemort’s trick, if he had not been so convinced

that what he had seen in his dream was real, if he

had only opened his mind to the possibility that

Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on

Harry’s love of playing the hero …

It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he

could not stand it... There was a terrible hollow inside

him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole

where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished.

He did not want to have to be alone with that great,

silent space, he could not stand it —

A picture behind him gave a particularly loud

grunting snore, and a cool voice said, “Ah … Harry

Potter …”

Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his

arms as he watched Harry with shrewd, narrow eyes.

“And what brings you here in the early hours of the

morning?” said Phineas. “This office is supposed to be

barred to all but the rightful headmaster. Or has

Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don’t tell me …” He

gave another shuddering yawn. “Another message for

my worthless great-great-grandson?”

Harry could not speak. Phineas Nigellus did not know

that Sirius was dead, but Harry could not tell him. To

say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute,

irretrievable.

A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of

being interrogated made Harry stride across the room

and seize the doorknob.

It would not turn. He was shut in.

P a g e | 1047Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“I hope this means,” said the corpulent, red-nosed

wizard who hung on the wall behind Dumbledore’s

desk, “that Dumbledore will soon be back with us?”

Harry turned. The wizard was eyeing him with great

interest. Harry nodded. He tugged again on the

doorknob behind his back, but it remained

immovable.

“Oh good,” said the wizard. “It has been very dull

without him, very dull indeed.”

He settled himself on the thronelike chair on which he

had been painted and smiled benignly upon Harry.

“Dumbledore thinks very highly of you, as I am sure

you know,” he said comfortably. “Oh yes. Holds you

in great esteem.”

The guilt filling the whole of Harry’s chest like some

monstrous, weighty parasite now writhed and

squirmed. Harry could not stand this, he could not

stand being Harry anymore... He had never felt more

trapped inside his own head and body, never wished

so intensely that he could be somebody — anybody —

else...

The empty fireplace burst into emerald-green flame,

making Harry leap away from the door, staring at the

man spinning inside the grate. As Dumbledore’s tall

form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and

witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake. Many

of them gave cries of welcome.

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore softly.

He did not look at Harry at first, but walked over to

the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an

inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless

P a g e | 1048Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft

ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown

Fawkes usually stood.

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, finally turning away

from the baby bird, “you will be pleased to hear that

none of your fellow students are going to suffer

lasting damage from the night’s events.”

Harry tried to say “Good,” but no sound came out. It

seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him

of the amount of damage he had caused by his

actions tonight, and although Dumbledore was for

once looking at him directly, and though his

expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry

could not bear to meet his eyes.

“Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up now,” said

Dumbledore. “Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend

a little time in St. Mungo’s, but it seems that she will

make a full recovery.”

Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet,

which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew

paler. He was sure that all the portraits around the

room were listening eagerly to every word Dumbledore

spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had

been and why there had been injuries.

“I know how you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore

very quietly.

“No, you don’t,” said Harry, and his voice was

suddenly loud and strong. White-hot anger leapt

inside him. Dumbledore knew nothing about his

feelings.

“You see, Dumbledore?” said Phineas Nigellus slyly.

“Never try to understand the students. They hate it.

P a g e | 1049Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

They would much rather be tragically misunderstood,

wallow in self-pity, stew in their own —”

“That’s enough, Phineas,” said Dumbledore.

Harry turned his back on Dumbledore and stared

determinedly out of the opposite window. He could

see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Sirius had

appeared there once, disguised as the shaggy black

dog, so he could watch Harry play... He had probably

come to see whether Harry was as good as James had

been... Harry had never asked him...

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,”

said Dumbledore’s voice. “On the contrary … the fact

that you can feel pain like this is your greatest

strength.”

Harry felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing

in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to

hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty

words.

“My greatest strength, is it?” said Harry, his voice

shaking as he stared out at the Quidditch stadium,

no longer seeing it. “You haven’t got a clue... You

don’t know …”

“What don’t I know?” asked Dumbledore calmly.

It was too much. Harry turned around, shaking with

rage.

“I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?”

“Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man!

This pain is part of being human —”

P a g e | 1050Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“THEN — I — DON’T — WANT — TO — BE —

HUMAN!” Harry roared, and he seized one of the

delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged

table beside him and flung it across the room. It

shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall.

Several of the pictures let out yells of anger and

fright, and the portrait of Armando Dippet said,

“Really!”

“I DON’T CARE!” Harry yelled at them, snatching up a

lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. “I’VE

HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I

WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE —”

He seized the table on which the silver instrument

had stood and threw that too. It broke apart on the

floor and the legs rolled in different directions.

“You do care,” said Dumbledore. He had not flinched

or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his

office. His expression was calm, almost detached.

“You care so much you feel as though you will bleed

to death with the pain of it.”

“I — DON’T!” Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt

his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to

rush at Dumbledore and break him too; shatter that

calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel

some tiny part of the horror inside Harry.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Dumbledore, still more calmly.

“You have now lost your mother, your father, and the

closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of

course you care.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL!” Harry roared.

“YOU — STANDING THERE — YOU —”

P a g e | 1051Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

But words were no longer enough, smashing things

was no more help. He wanted to run, he wanted to

keep running and never look back, he wanted to be

somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes

staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He ran to

the door, seized the doorknob again, and wrenched at

it.

But the door would not open.

Harry turned back to Dumbledore.

“Let me out,” he said. He was shaking from head to

foot.

“No,” said Dumbledore simply.

For a few seconds they stared at each other.

“Let me out,” Harry said again.

“No,” Dumbledore repeated.

“If you don’t — if you keep me in here — if you don’t

let me —”

“By all means continue destroying my possessions,”

said Dumbledore serenely. “I daresay I have too

many.”

He walked around his desk and sat down behind it,

watching Harry.

“Let me out,” Harry said yet again, in a voice that was

cold and almost as calm as Dumbledore’s.

“Not until I have had my say,” said Dumbledore.

P a g e | 1052Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Do you — do you think I want to — do you think I

give a — I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO SAY!”

Harry roared. “I don’t want to hear anything you’ve

got to say!”

“You will,” said Dumbledore sadly. “Because you are

not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you

are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I

would like to have thoroughly earned it.”

“What are you talking — ?”

“It is my fault that Sirius died,” said Dumbledore

clearly. “Or I should say almost entirely my fault — I

will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for

the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic

man, and such men are not usually content to sit at

home in hiding while they believe others to be in

danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed

for an instant that there was any necessity for you to

go to the Department of Mysteries tonight. If I had

been open with you, Harry, as I should have been,

you would have known a long time ago that

Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department

of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked

into going there tonight. And Sirius would not have

had to come after you. That blame lies with me, and

with me alone.”

Harry was still standing with his hand on the

doorknob but he was unaware of it. He was gazing at

Dumbledore, hardly breathing, listening yet barely

understanding what he was hearing.

“Please sit down,” said Dumbledore. It was not an

order, it was a request.

P a g e | 1053Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry hesitated, then walked slowly across the room

now littered with silver cogs and fragments of wood

and took the seat facing Dumbledore’s desk.

“Am I to understand,” said Phineas Nigellus slowly

from Harry’s left, “that my great-great-grandson —

the last of the Blacks — is dead?”

“Yes, Phineas,” said Dumbledore.

“I don’t believe it,” said Phineas brusquely.

Harry turned his head in time to see Phineas

marching out of his portrait and knew that he had

gone to visit his other painting in Grimmauld Place.

He would walk, perhaps, from portrait to portrait,

calling for Sirius through the house...

“Harry, I owe you an explanation,” said Dumbledore.

“An explanation of an old man’s mistakes. For I see

now that what I have done, and not done, with regard

to you, bears all the hallmarks of the failings of age.

Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old

men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young

… and I seem to have forgotten lately...”

The sun was rising properly now. There was a rim of

dazzling orange visible over the mountains and the

sky above it was colorless and bright. The light fell

upon Dumbledore, upon the silver of his eyebrows

and beard, upon the lines gouged deeply into his face.

“I guessed, fifteen years ago,” said Dumbledore,

“when I saw the scar upon your forehead, what it

might mean. I guessed that it might be the sign of a

connection forged between you and Voldemort.”

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“You’ve told me this before, Professor,” said Harry

bluntly. He did not care about being rude. He did not

care about anything very much anymore.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore apologetically. “Yes, but you

see — it is necessary to start with your scar. For it

became apparent, shortly after you rejoined the

magical world, that I was correct, and that your scar

was giving you warnings when Voldemort was close to

you, or else feeling powerful emotion.”

“I know,” said Harry wearily.

“And this ability of yours — to detect Voldemort’s

presence, even when he is disguised, and to know

what he is feeling when his emotions are roused —

has become more and more pronounced since

Voldemort returned to his own body and his full

powers.”

Harry did not bother to nod. He knew all of this

already.

“More recently,” said Dumbledore, “I became

concerned that Voldemort might realize that this

connection between you exists. Sure enough, there

came a time when you entered so far into his mind

and thoughts that he sensed your presence. I am

speaking, of course, of the night when you witnessed

the attack on Mr. Weasley.”

“Yeah, Snape told me,” Harry muttered.

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore corrected him

quietly. “But did you not wonder why it was not I who

explained this to you? Why I did not teach you

Occlumency? Why I had not so much as looked at

you for months?”

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Harry looked up. He could see now that Dumbledore

looked sad and tired.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Yeah, I wondered.”

“You see,” continued Dumbledore heavily. “I believed

it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to

force his way into your mind, to manipulate and

misdirect your thoughts, and I was not eager to give

him more incentives to do so. I was sure that if he

realized that our relationship was — or had ever been

— closer than that of headmaster and pupil, he would

seize his chance to use you as a means to spy on me.

I feared the uses to which he would put you, the

possibility that he might try and possess you. Harry, I

believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have

made use of you in such a way. On those rare

occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw

a shadow of him stir behind your eyes... I was trying,

in distancing myself from you, to protect you. An old

man’s mistake …”

Harry remembered the feeling that a dormant snake

had risen in him, ready to strike, on those occasions

when he and Dumbledore made eye contact.

“Voldemort’s aim in possessing you, as he

demonstrated tonight, would not have been my

destruction. It would have been yours. He hoped,

when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that

I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him.”

He sighed deeply. Harry was letting the words wash

over him. He would have been so interested to know

all this a few months ago, and now it was

meaningless compared to the gaping chasm inside

him that was the loss of Sirius, none of it mattered …

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“Sirius told me that you felt Voldemort awake inside you the very night that you had the vision of Arthur

Weasley’s attack. I knew at once that my worst fears

were correct: Voldemort from that point had realized

he could use you. In an attempt to arm you against

Voldemort’s assaults on your mind, I arranged

Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape.”

He paused. Harry watched the sunlight, which was

sliding slowly across the polished surface of

Dumbledore’s desk, illuminate a silver ink pot and a

handsome scarlet quill. Harry could tell that the

portraits all around them were awake and listening

raptly to Dumbledore’s explanation. He could hear

the occasional rustle of robes, the slight clearing of a

throat. Phineas Nigellus had still not returned...

“Professor Snape discovered,” Dumbledore resumed,

“that you had been dreaming about the door to the

Department of Mysteries for months. Voldemort, of

course, had been obsessed with the possibility of

hearing the prophecy ever since he regained his body,

and as he dwelled on the door, so did you, though

you did not know what it meant.

“And then you saw Rookwood, who worked in the

Department of Mysteries before his arrest, telling

Voldemort what we had known all along — that the

prophecies held in the Ministry of Magic are heavily

protected. Only the people to whom they refer can lift

them from the shelves without suffering madness. In

this case, either Voldemort himself would have to

enter the Ministry of Magic and risk revealing himself

at last — or else you would have to take it for him. It

became a matter of even greater urgency that you

should master Occlumency.”

“But I didn’t,” muttered Harry. He said it aloud to try

and ease the dead weight of guilt inside him; a

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confession must surely relieve some of the terrible

pressure squeezing his heart. “I didn’t practice, I

didn’t bother, I could’ve stopped myself having those

dreams, Hermione kept telling me to do it, if I had

he’d never have been able to show me where to go,

and — Sirius wouldn’t — Sirius wouldn’t —”

Something was erupting inside Harry’s head: a need

to justify himself, to explain —

“I tried to check if he’d really taken Sirius, I went to

Umbridge’s office, I spoke to Kreacher in the fire, and

he said Sirius wasn’t there, he said he’d gone!”

“Kreacher lied,” said Dumbledore calmly. “You are not

his master, he could lie to you without even needing

to punish himself. Kreacher intended you to go to the

Ministry of Magic.”

“He — he sent me on purpose?”

“Oh yes. Kreacher, I am afraid, has been serving more

than one master for months.”

“How?” said Harry blankly. “He hasn’t been out of

Grimmauld Place for years.”

“Kreacher seized his opportunity shortly before

Christmas,” said Dumbledore, “when Sirius,

apparently, shouted at him to ‘get out.’ He took Sirius

at his word and interpreted this as an order to leave

the house. He went to the only Black family member

for whom he had any respect left... Black’s cousin

Narcissa, sister of Bellatrix and wife of Lucius

Malfoy.”

“How do you know all this?” Harry said. His heart was

beating very fast. He felt sick. He remembered

worrying about Kreacher’s odd absence over

P a g e | 1058Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Christmas, remembered him turning up again in the

attic...

“Kreacher told me last night,” said Dumbledore. “You

see, when you gave Professor Snape that cryptic

warning, he realized that you had had a vision of

Sirius trapped in the bowels of the Department of

Mysteries. He, like you, attempted to contact Sirius at

once. I should explain that members of the Order of

the Phoenix have more reliable methods of

communicating than the fire in Dolores Umbridge’s

office. Professor Snape found that Sirius was alive

and safe in Grimmauld Place.

“When, however, you did not return from your trip

into the forest with Dolores Umbridge, Professor

Snape grew worried that you still believed Sirius to be

a captive of Lord Voldemort’s. He alerted certain

Order members at once.”

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh and then said,

“Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley

Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin were at headquarters

when he made contact. All agreed to go to your aid at

once. Professor Snape requested that Sirius remain

behind, as he needed somebody to remain at

headquarters to tell me what had happened, for I was

due there at any moment. In the meantime he,

Professor Snape, intended to search the forest for

you.

“But Sirius did not wish to remain behind while the

others went to search for you. He delegated to

Kreacher the task of telling me what had happened.

And so it was that when I arrived in Grimmauld Place

shortly after they had all left for the Ministry, it was

the elf who told me — laughing fit to burst — where

Sirius had gone.”

P a g e | 1059Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“He was laughing?” said Harry in a hollow voice.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “You see, Kreacher was

not able to betray us totally. He is not Secret-Keeper

for the Order, he could not give the Malfoys our

whereabouts or tell them any of the Order’s

confidential plans that he had been forbidden to

reveal. He was bound by the enchantments of his

kind, which is to say that he could not disobey a

direct order from his master, Sirius. But he gave

Narcissa information of the sort that is very valuable

to Voldemort, yet must have seemed much too trivial

for Sirius to think of banning him from repeating it.”

“Like what?” said Harry.

“Like the fact that the person Sirius cared most about

in the world was you,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Like

the fact that you were coming to regard Sirius as a

mixture of father and brother. Voldemort knew

already, of course, that Sirius was in the Order, that

you knew where he was — but Kreacher’s information

made him realize that the one person whom you

would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius Black.”

Harry’s lips were cold and numb.

“So … when I asked Kreacher if Sirius was there last

night …”

“The Malfoys — undoubtedly on Voldemort’s

instructions — had told him he must find a way of

keeping Sirius out of the way once you had seen the

vision of Sirius being tortured. Then, if you decided to

check whether Sirius was at home or not, Kreacher

would be able to pretend he was not. Kreacher

injured Buckbeak the hippogriff yesterday, and at the

moment when you made your appearance in the fire,

Sirius was upstairs trying to tend to him.”

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There seemed to be very little air in Harry’s lungs, his breathing was quick and shallow.

“And Kreacher told you all this … and laughed?” he

croaked.

“He did not wish to tell me,” said Dumbledore. “But I

am a sufficiently accomplished Legilimens myself to

know when I am being lied to and I — persuaded him

— to tell me the full story, before I left for the

Department of Mysteries.”

“And,” whispered Harry, his hands curled in cold fists

on his knees, “and Hermione kept telling us to be nice

to him —”

“She was quite right, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I

warned Sirius when we adopted twelve Grimmauld

Place as our headquarters that Kreacher must be

treated with kindness and respect. I also told him

that Kreacher could be dangerous to us. I do not

think that Sirius took me very seriously, or that he

ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as

a humans —”

“Don’t you blame — don’t you — talk — about Sirius

like —” Harry’s breath was constricted, he could not

get the words out properly. But the rage that had

subsided so briefly had flared in him again; he would

not let Dumbledore criticize Sirius. “Kreacher’s a lying

— foul — he deserved —”

“Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards,

Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, he is to be pitied. His

existence has been as miserable as your friend

Dobby’s. He was forced to do Sirius’s bidding,

because Sirius was the last of the family to which he

was enslaved, but he felt no true loyalty to him. And

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whatever Kreacher’s faults, it must be admitted that Sirius did nothing to make Kreacher’s lot easier —”

“DON’T TALK ABOUT SIRIUS LIKE THAT!” Harry

yelled.

He was on his feet again, furious, ready to fly at

Dumbledore, who had plainly not understood Sirius

at all, how brave he was, how much he had suffered

…

“What about Snape?” Harry spat. “You’re not talking

about him, are you? When I told him Voldemort had

Sirius he just sneered at me as usual —”

“Harry, you know that Professor Snape had no choice

but to pretend not to take you seriously in front of

Dolores Umbridge,” said Dumbledore steadily, “but as

I have explained, he informed the Order as soon as

possible about what you had said. It was he who

deduced where you had gone when you did not return

from the forest. It was he too who gave Professor

Umbridge fake Veritaserum when she was attempting

to force you to tell of Sirius’s whereabouts...”

Harry disregarded this; he felt a savage pleasure in

blaming Snape, it seemed to be easing his own sense

of dreadful guilt, and he wanted to hear Dumbledore

agree with him.

“Snape — Snape g-goaded Sirius about staying in the

house — he made out Sirius was a coward —”

“Sirius was much too old and clever to have allowed

such feeble taunts to hurt him,” said Dumbledore.

“Snape stopped giving me Occlumency lessons!”

Harry snarled. “He threw me out of his office!”

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“I am aware of it,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I have already said that it was a mistake for me not to teach

you myself, though I was sure, at the time, that

nothing could have been more dangerous than to

open your mind even further to Voldemort while in

my presence —”

“Snape made it worse, my scar always hurt worse

after lessons with him —” Harry remembered Ron’s

thoughts on the subject and plunged on. “How do you

know he wasn’t trying to soften me up for Voldemort,

make it easier for him to get inside my —”

“I trust Severus Snape,” said Dumbledore simply.

“But I forgot — another old man’s mistake — that

some wounds run too deep for the healing. I thought

Professor Snape could overcome his feelings about

your father — I was wrong.”

“But that’s okay, is it?” yelled Harry, ignoring the

scandalized faces and disapproving mutterings of the

portraits covering the walls. “It’s okay for Snape to

hate my dad, but it’s not okay for Sirius to hate

Kreacher?”

“Sirius did not hate Kreacher,” said Dumbledore. “He

regarded him as a servant unworthy of much interest

or notice. Indifference and neglect often do much

more damage than outright dislike... The fountain we

destroyed tonight told a lie. We wizards have

mistreated and abused our fellows for too long, and

we are now reaping our reward.”

“SO SIRIUS DESERVED WHAT HE GOT, DID HE?”

Harry yelled.

“I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it,”

Dumbledore replied quietly. “Sirius was not a cruel

man, he was kind to house-elves in general. He had

P a g e | 1063Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

no love for Kreacher, because Kreacher was a living

reminder of the home Sirius had hated.”

“Yeah, he did hate it!” said Harry, his voice cracking,

turning his back on Dumbledore and walking away.

The sun was bright inside the room now, and the eyes

of all the portraits followed him as he walked, without

realizing what he was doing, without seeing the office

at all. “You made him stay shut up in that house and

he hated it, that’s why he wanted to get out last night

—”

“I was trying to keep Sirius alive,” said Dumbledore

quietly.

“People don’t like being locked up!” Harry said

furiously, rounding on him. “You did it to me all last

summer —”

Dumbledore closed his eyes and buried his face in his

long-fingered hands. Harry watched him, but this

uncharacteristic sign of exhaustion, or sadness, or

whatever it was from Dumbledore, did not soften him.

On the contrary, he felt even angrier that Dumbledore

was showing signs of weakness. He had no business

being weak when Harry wanted to rage and storm at

him.

Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry

through his half-moon glasses.

“It is time,” he said, “for me to tell you what I should

have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down. I

am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little

patience. You will have your chance to rage at me —

to do whatever you like — when I have finished. I will

not stop you.”

P a g e | 1064Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry glared at him for a moment, then flung himself back into the chair opposite Dumbledore and waited.

Dumbledore stared for a moment at the sunlit

grounds outside the window, then looked back at

Harry and said, “Five years ago you arrived at

Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned

and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had

suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your

aunt and uncle’s doorstep. I knew I was condemning

you to ten dark and difficult years.”

He paused. Harry said nothing.

“You might ask — and with good reason — why it had

to be so. Why could some Wizarding family not have

taken you in? Many would have done so more than

gladly, would have been honored and delighted to

raise you as a son.

“My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive.

You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but

myself realized. Voldemort had been vanquished

hours before, but his supporters — and many of them

are almost as terrible as he — were still at large,

angry, desperate, and violent. And I had to make my

decision too with regard to the years ahead. Did I

believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew

not whether it would be ten, twenty, or fifty years

before he returned, but I was sure he would do so,

and I was sure too, knowing him as I have done, that

he would not rest until he killed you.

“I knew that Voldemort’s knowledge of magic is

perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew

that even my most complex and powerful protective

spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he

ever returned to full power.

P a g e | 1065Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“But I knew too where Voldemort was weak. And so I

made my decision. You would be protected by an

ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises,

and which he has always, therefore, underestimated

— to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact

that your mother died to save you. She gave you a

lingering protection he never expected, a protection

that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust,

therefore, in your mother’s blood. I delivered you to

her sister, her only remaining relative.”

“She doesn’t love me,” said Harry at once. “She

doesn’t give a damn —”

“But she took you,” Dumbledore cut across him. “She

may have taken you grudgingly, furiously,

unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in

doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you.

Your mother’s sacrifice made the bond of blood the

strongest shield I could give you.”

“I still don’t —”

“While you can still call home the place where your

mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or

harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives

on in you and her sister. Her blood became your

refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as

long as you can still call it home, there he cannot

hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I

had done in the letter I left, with you, on her

doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom

may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen

years.”

“Wait,” said Harry. “Wait a moment.”

He sat up straighter in his chair, staring at

Dumbledore.

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“You sent that Howler. You told her to remember — it was your voice —”

“I thought,” said Dumbledore, inclining his head

slightly, “that she might need reminding of the pact

she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the

dementor attack might have awoken her to the

dangers of having you as a surrogate son.”

“It did,” said Harry quietly. “Well — my uncle more

than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the

Howler came she — she said I had to stay.” He stared

at the floor for a moment, then said, “But what’s this

got to do with …”

He could not say Sirius’s name.

“Five years ago, then,” continued Dumbledore, as

though he had not paused in his story, “you arrived

at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well nourished

as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy.

You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal

a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances.

Thus far, my plan was working well.

“And then … well, you will remember the events of

your first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do.

You rose magnificently to the challenge that faced

you, and sooner — much sooner — than I had

anticipated, you found yourself face-to-face with

Voldemort. You survived again. You did more. You

delayed his return to full power and strength. You

fought a man’s fight. I was … prouder of you than I

can say.

“Yet there was a flaw in this wonderful plan of mine,”

said Dumbledore. “An obvious flaw that I knew, even

then, might be the undoing of it all. And yet, knowing

how important it was that my plan should succeed, I

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told myself that I would not permit this flaw to ruin it.

I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong.

And here was my first test, as you lay in the hospital

wing, weak from your struggle with Voldemort.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Harry.

“Don’t you remember asking me, as you lay in the

hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you

when you were a baby?”

Harry nodded.

“Ought I to have told you then?”

Harry stared into the blue eyes and said nothing, but

his heart was racing again.

“You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No …

perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to

answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too

young to know. I had never intended to tell you when

you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at

such a young age.

“I should have recognized the danger signs then. I

should have asked myself why I did not feel more

disturbed that you had already asked me the question

to which I knew, one day, I must give a terrible

answer. I should have recognized that I was too happy

to think that I did not have to do it on that particular

day... You were too young, much too young.

“And so we entered your second year at Hogwarts.

And once again you met challenges even grown

wizards have never faced. Once again you acquitted

yourself beyond my wildest dreams. You did not ask

me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark

upon you. We discussed your scar, oh yes... We came

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very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you everything?

“Well, it seemed to me that twelve was, after all,

hardly better than eleven to receive such information.

I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained,

exhausted but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of

unease that I ought, perhaps, have told you then, it

was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see,

and I could not find it in me to spoil that night of

triumph...

“Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my

brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had

foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I

must avoid.”

“I don’t —”

“I cared about you too much,” said Dumbledore

simply. “I cared more for your happiness than your

knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than

my plan, more for your life than the lives that might

be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted

exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act.

“Is there a defense? I defy anyone who has watched

you as I have — and I have watched you more closely

than you can have imagined — not to want to save

you more pain than you had already suffered. What

did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people

and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if

in the here and now you were alive, and well, and

happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a

person on my hands.

“We entered your third year. I watched from afar as

you struggled to repel dementors, as you found

Sirius, learned what he was and rescued him. Was I

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to tell you then, at the moment when you had

triumphantly snatched your godfather from the jaws

of the Ministry? But now, at the age of thirteen, my

excuses were running out. Young you might be, but

you had proved you were exceptional. My conscience

was uneasy, Harry. I knew the time must come

soon...

“But you came out of the maze last year, having

watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so

narrowly yourself … and I did not tell you, though I

knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it

soon. And now, tonight, I know you have long been

ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so

long, because you have proved that I should have

placed the burden upon you before this. My only

defense is this: I have watched you struggling under

more burdens than any student who has ever passed

through this school, and I could not bring myself to

add another — the greatest one of all.”

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not speak.

“I still don’t understand.”

“Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child

because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth.

He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did

not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when

you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the

terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that

he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you

backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and

particularly since your extraordinary escape from him

last year, he has been determined to hear that

prophecy in its entirety. This is the weapon he has

been seeking so assiduously since his return: the

knowledge of how to destroy you.”

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The sun had risen fully now. Dumbledore’s office was bathed in it. The glass case in which the sword of

Godric Gryffindor resided gleamed white and opaque,

the fragments of the instruments Harry had thrown to

the floor glistened like raindrops, and behind him, the

baby Fawkes made soft chirruping noises in his nest

of ashes.

“The prophecy’s smashed,” Harry said blankly. “I was

pulling Neville up those benches in the — the room

where the archway was, and I ripped his robes and it

fell...”

“The thing that smashed was merely the record of the

prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But

the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person

has the means of recalling it perfectly.”

“Who heard it?” asked Harry, though he thought he

knew the answer already.

“I did,” said Dumbledore. “On a cold, wet night

sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the

Hog’s Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant

for the post of Divination teacher, though it was

against my inclination to allow the subject of

Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however,

was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous,

very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness

to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that

she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her,

courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be

suitable for the post. I turned to leave.”

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked past Harry to

the black cabinet that stood beside Fawkes’s perch.

He bent down, slid back a catch, and took from inside

it the shallow stone basin, carved with runes around

the edges, in which Harry had seen his father

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tormenting Snape. Dumbledore walked back to the

desk, placed the Pensieve upon it, and raised his

wand to his own temple. From it, he withdrew silvery,

gossamer-fine strands of thought clinging to the

wand, and deposited them in the basin. He sat back

down behind his desk and watched his thoughts swirl

and drift inside the Pensieve for a moment. Then,

with a sigh, he raised his wand and prodded the

silvery substance with its tip.

A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes

magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and

she revolved slowly, her feet in the basin. But when

Sibyll Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual

ethereal, mystic voice, but in the harsh, hoarse tones

Harry had heard her use once before.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord

approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied

him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark

Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have

power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the

other survives... The one with the power to vanquish

the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month

dies...”

The slowly revolving Professor Trelawney sank back

into the silver mass below and vanished.

The silence within the office was absolute. Neither

Dumbledore nor Harry nor any of the portraits made

a sound. Even Fawkes had fallen silent.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry said very quietly, for

Dumbledore, still staring at the Pensieve, seemed

completely lost in thought. “It … did that mean …

What did that mean?”

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“It meant,” said Dumbledore, “that the person who

has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for

good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years

ago. This boy would be born to parents who had

already defied Voldemort three times.”

Harry felt as though something was closing in upon

him. His breathing seemed difficult again.

“It means — me?”

Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment through his

glasses.

“The odd thing is, Harry,” he said softly, “that it may

not have meant you at all. Sibyll’s prophecy could

have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end

of July that year, both of whom had parents in the

Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having

narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of

course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.”

“But then … but then, why was it my name on the

prophecy and not Neville’s?”

“The official record was relabeled after Voldemort’s

attack on you as a child,” said Dumbledore. “It

seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy

that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you

because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll

was referring.”

“Then — it might not be me?” said Harry.

“I am afraid,” said Dumbledore slowly, looking as

though every word cost him a great effort, “that there

is no doubt that it is you.”

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“But you said — Neville was born at the end of July

too — and his mum and dad —”

“You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the

final identifying feature of the boy who could

vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would ‘mark

him as his equal.’ And so he did, Harry. He chose

you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved

both blessing and curse.”

“But he might have chosen wrong!” said Harry. “He

might have marked the wrong person!”

“He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a

danger to him,” said Dumbledore. “And notice this,

Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according

to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or

knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw

himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in

marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he

intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which

have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times

so far — something that neither your parents, nor

Neville’s parents, ever achieved.”

“Why did he do it, then?” said Harry, who felt numb

and cold. “Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He

should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked

more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill

whoever it was then —”

“That might, indeed, have been the more practical

course,” said Dumbledore, “except that Voldemort’s

information about the prophecy was incomplete. The

Hog’s Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness,

has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting

clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and

your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine

that night, it is a place where it is never safe to

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assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney,

that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My —

our — one stroke of good fortune was that the

eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the

prophecy and thrown from the building.”

“So he only heard … ?”

“He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the

birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied

Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his

master that to attack you would be to risk

transferring power to you — again marking you as his

equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be

danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait

or to learn more. He did not know that you would

have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ —”

“But I don’t!” said Harry in a strangled voice. “I

haven’t any powers he hasn’t got, I couldn’t fight the

way he did tonight, I can’t possess people or — or kill

them —”

“There is a room in the Department of Mysteries,”

interrupted Dumbledore, “that is kept locked at all

times. It contains a force that is at once more

wonderful and more terrible than death, than human

intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps,

the most mysterious of the many subjects for study

that reside there. It is the power held within that

room that you possess in such quantities and which

Voldemort has not at all. That power took you to save

Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from

possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear

to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In

the end, it mattered not that you could not close your

mind. It was your heart that saved you.”

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Harry closed his eyes. If he had not gone to save

Sirius, Sirius would not have died... More to stave off

the moment when he would have to think of Sirius

again, Harry asked, without caring much about the

answer, “The end of the prophecy … it was something

about … ‘ neither can live... ’ ”

“ ‘… while the other survives, ’ ” said Dumbledore.

“So,” said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt

like a deep well of despair inside him, “so does that

mean that … that one of us has got to kill the other

one … in the end?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Somewhere

far beyond the office walls, Harry could hear the

sound of voices, students heading down to the Great

Hall for an early breakfast, perhaps. It seemed

impossible that there could be people in the world

who still desired food, who laughed, who neither knew

nor cared that Sirius Black was gone forever. Sirius

seemed a million miles away already, even if a part of

Harry still believed that if he had only pulled back

that veil, he would have found Sirius looking back at

him, greeting him, perhaps, with his laugh like a

bark...

“I feel I owe you another explanation, Harry,” said

Dumbledore hesitantly. “You may, perhaps, have

wondered why I never chose you as a prefect? I must

confess … that I rather thought … you had enough

responsibility to be going on with.”

Harry looked up at him and saw a tear trickling down

Dumbledore’s face into his long silver beard.

P a g e | 1076Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

THE SECOND WAR BEGINS

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS

In a brief statement Friday night, Minister of Magic

Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be

Named has returned to this country and is active

once more.

“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the

wizard styling himself Lord — well, you know who I

mean — is alive and among us again,” said Fudge,

looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters.

“It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass

revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, who have shown

themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s

employ. We believe that the dementors are currently

taking direction from Lord — Thingy.

“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The

Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary

home and personal defense that will be delivered free

to all Wizarding homes within the coming month.”

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The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and

alarm from the Wizarding community, which as

recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry

assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in

these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is

operating amongst us once more.”

Details of the events that led to the Ministry

turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of

followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the

Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening.

Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,

reinstated member of the International Confederation

of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the

Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night.

He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was

not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but

recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to

seize power. Meanwhile the Boy Who Lived —

“There you are, Harry, I knew they’d drag you into it

somehow,” said Hermione, looking over the top of the

paper at him.

They were in the hospital wing. Harry was sitting on

the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to

Hermione read the front page of the Sunday Prophet.

Ginny, whose ankle had been mended in a trice by

Madam Pomfrey, was curled up at the foot of

Hermione’s bed; Neville, whose nose had likewise

been returned to its normal size and shape, was in a

chair between the two beds; and Luna, who had

dropped in to visit clutching the latest edition of The

Quibbler, was reading the magazine upside down and

apparently not taking in a word Hermione was saying.

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“He’s ‘the Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t

he?” said Ron darkly. “Not such a show-off maniac

anymore, eh?”

He helped himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs

from the immense pile on his bedside cabinet, threw a

few to Harry, Ginny, and Neville, and ripped off the

wrapper of his own with his teeth. There were still

deep welts on his forearms where the brain’s tentacles

had wrapped around him. According to Madam

Pomfrey, thoughts could leave deeper scarring than

almost anything else, though since she had started

applying copious amounts of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious

Unction, there seemed to be some improvement.

“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now,

Harry,” said Hermione, now scanning down the

article. “ ‘ A lone voice of truth … perceived as

unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story … forced to

bear ridicule and slander …’ Hmmm,” said Hermione,

frowning, “I notice they don’t mention the fact that it

was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering,

though...”

She winced slightly and put a hand to her ribs. The

curse Dolohov had used on her, though less effective

than it would have been had he been able to say the

incantation aloud, had nevertheless caused, in

Madam Pomfrey’s words, “quite enough damage to be

going on with.” Hermione was having to take ten

different types of potion every day and although she

was improving greatly, was already bored with the

hospital wing.

“ ‘ You-Know-Who’s Last Attempt to Take Over, pages

two to four, What the Ministry Should Have Told Us,

page five, Why Nobody Listened to Albus Dumbledore,

pages six to eight, Exclusive Interview with Harry

Potter, page nine …’ Well,” said Hermione, folding up

P a g e | 1079Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

the newspaper and throwing it aside, “it’s certainly given them lots to write about. And that interview

with Harry isn’t exclusive, it’s the one that was in The

Quibbler months ago...”

“Daddy sold it to them,” said Luna vaguely, turning a

page of The Quibbler. “He got a very good price for it

too, so we’re going to go on an expedition to Sweden

this summer and see if we can catch a Crumple-

Horned Snorkack.”

Hermione seemed to struggle with herself for a

moment, then said, “That sounds lovely.”

Ginny caught Harry’s eye and looked away quickly,

grinning.

“So anyway,” said Hermione, sitting up a little

straighter and wincing again, “what’s going on in

school?”

“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,”

said Ginny. “He did it in about three seconds. But he

left a tiny patch under the window and he’s roped it

off —”

“Why?” said Hermione, looking startled.

“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,”

said Ginny, shrugging.

“I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George,”

said Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. “They sent

me all these, you know,” he told Harry, pointing at

the small mountain of Frogs beside him. “Must be

doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?”

Hermione looked rather disapproving and asked, “So

has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore’s back?”

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“Yes,” said Neville, “everything’s settled right back down again.”

“I s’pose Filch is happy, is he?” asked Ron, propping a

Chocolate Frog card featuring Dumbledore against his

water jug.

“Not at all,” said Ginny. “He’s really, really miserable,

actually...” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He

keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever

happened to Hogwarts...”

All six of them looked around. Professor Umbridge

was lying in a bed opposite them, gazing up at the

ceiling. Dumbledore had strode alone into the forest

to rescue her from the centaurs. How he had done it

— how he had emerged from the trees supporting

Professor Umbridge without so much as a scratch on

him — nobody knew, and Umbridge was certainly not

telling. Since she had returned to the castle she had

not, as far as any of them knew, uttered a single

word. Nobody really knew what was wrong with her

either. Her usually neat mousy hair was very untidy

and there were bits of twig and leaf in it, but

otherwise she seemed to be quite unscathed.

“Madam Pomfrey says she’s just in shock,” whispered

Hermione.

“Sulking, more like,” said Ginny

“Yeah, she shows signs of life if you do this,” said

Ron, and with his tongue he made soft clip-clopping

noises. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking wildly

around.

“Anything wrong, Professor?” called Madam Pomfrey,

poking her head around her office door.

P a g e | 1081Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“No … no …” said Umbridge, sinking back into her

pillows, “no, I must have been dreaming...”

Hermione and Ginny muffled their laughter in the

bedclothes.

“Speaking of centaurs,” said Hermione, when she had

recovered a little, “who’s Divination teacher now? Is

Firenze staying?”

“He’s got to,” said Harry, “the other centaurs won’t

take him back, will they?”

“It looks like he and Trelawney are both going to

teach,” said Ginny.

“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of

Trelawney for good,” said Ron, now munching on his

fourteenth Frog. “Mind you, the whole subjects

useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better...”

“How can you say that?” Hermione demanded. “After

we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?”

Harry’s heart began to race. He had not told Ron,

Hermione, or anyone else what the prophecy had

contained. Neville had told them it had smashed while

Harry was pulling him up the steps in the Death

Room, and Harry had not yet corrected this

impression. He was not ready to see their expressions

when he told them that he must be either murderer

or victim, there was no other way...

“It is a pity it broke,” said Hermione quietly, shaking

her head.

“Yeah, it is,” said Ron. “Still, at least You-Know-Who

never found out what was in it either — where are

P a g e | 1082Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

you going?” he added, looking both surprised and

disappointed as Harry stood up.

“Er — Hagrid’s,” said Harry. “You know, he just got

back and I promised I’d go down and see him and tell

him how you two are...”

“Oh all right then,” said Ron grumpily, looking out of

the dormitory window at the patch of bright blue sky

beyond. “Wish we could come …”

“Say hello to him for us!” called Hermione, as Harry

proceeded down the ward. “And ask him what’s

happening about … about his little friend!”

Harry gave a wave of his hand to show he had heard

and understood as he left the dormitory.

The castle seemed very quiet even for a Sunday.

Everybody was clearly out in the sunny grounds,

enjoying the end of their exams and the prospect of a

last few days of term unhampered by studying or

homework. Harry walked slowly along the deserted

corridor, peering out of windows as he went. He could

see people messing around in the air over the

Quidditch pitch and a couple of students swimming

in the lake, accompanied by the giant squid.

He was finding it hard at the moment to decide

whether he wanted to be with people or not.

Whenever he was in company he wanted to get away,

and whenever he was alone he wanted company. He

thought he might really go and visit Hagrid, though;

he had not talked to him properly since he had

returned...

Harry had just descended the last marble step into

the entrance hall when Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle

emerged from a door on the right that Harry knew led

P a g e | 1083Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

down to the Slytherin common room. Harry stopped

dead; so did Malfoy and the others. For a few

moments, the only sounds were the shouts, laughter,

and splashes drifting into the hall from the grounds

through the open front doors.

Malfoy glanced around. Harry knew he was checking

for signs of teachers. Then he looked back at Harry

and said in a low voice, “You’re dead, Potter.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Funny,” he said, “you’d

think I’d have stopped walking around...”

Malfoy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him.

He felt a kind of detached satisfaction at the sight of

his pale, pointed face contorted with rage.

“You’re going to pay,” said Malfoy in a voice barely

louder than a whisper. “I’m going to make you pay for

what you’ve done to my father...”

“Well, I’m terrified now,” said Harry sarcastically. “I

s’pose Lord Voldemort’s just a warm-up act compared

to you three — what’s the matter?” he said, for

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had all looked stricken at

the sound of the name. “He’s your dad’s mate, isn’t

he? Not scared of him, are you?”

“You think you’re such a big man, Potter,” said

Malfoy, advancing now, Crabbe and Goyle flanking

him. “You wait. I’ll have you. You can’t land my father

in prison —”

“I thought I just had,” said Harry.

“The dementors have left Azkaban,” said Malfoy

quietly. “Dad and the others’ll be out in no time...”

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“Yeah, I expect they will,” said Harry. “Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now —”

Malfoy’s hand flew toward his wand, but Harry was

too quick for him. He had drawn his own wand before

Malfoy’s fingers had even entered the pocket of his

robes.

“Potter!”

The voice rang across the entrance hall; Snape had

emerged from the staircase leading down to his office,

and at the sight of him Harry felt a great rush of

hatred beyond anything he felt toward Malfoy...

Whatever Dumbledore said, he would never forgive

Snape … never …

“What are you doing, Potter?” said Snape coldly as

ever, as he strode over to the four of them.

“I’m trying to decide what curse to use on Malfoy, sir,”

said Harry fiercely.

Snape stared at him.

“Put that wand away at once,” he said curtly. “Ten

points from Gryff —”

Snape looked toward the giant hourglasses on the

walls and gave a sneering smile.

“Ah. I see there are no longer any points left in the

Gryffindor hourglass to take away. In that case,

Potter, we will simply have to —”

“Add some more?”

Professor McGonagall had just stumped up the stone

steps into the castle. She was carrying a tartan

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carpetbag in one hand and leaning heavily on a

walking stick with her other, but otherwise looked

quite well.

“Professor McGonagall!” said Snape, striding forward.

“Out of St. Mungo’s, I see!”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” said Professor McGonagall,

shrugging off her traveling cloak, “I’m quite as good as

new. You two — Crabbe — Goyle —”

She beckoned them forward imperiously and they

came, shuffling their large feet and looking awkward.

“Here,” said Professor McGonagall, thrusting her

carpetbag into Crabbe’s chest and her cloak into

Goyle’s, “take these up to my office for me.”

They turned and stumped away up the marble

staircase.

“Right then,” said Professor McGonagall, looking up

at the hourglasses on the wall, “well, I think Potter

and his friends ought to have fifty points apiece for

alerting the world to the return of You-Know-Who!

What say you, Professor Snape?”

“What?” snapped Snape, though Harry knew he had

heard perfectly well. “Oh — well — I suppose …”

“So that’s fifty each for Potter, the two Weasleys,

Longbottom, and Miss Granger,” said Professor

McGonagall, and a shower of rubies fell down into the

bottom bulb of Gryffindor’s hourglass as she spoke.

“Oh — and fifty for Miss Lovegood, I suppose,” she

added, and a number of sapphires fell into

Ravenclaw’s glass. “Now, you wanted to take ten from

Mr. Potter, I think, Professor Snape — so there we

are...”

P a g e | 1086Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

A few rubies retreated into the upper bulb, leaving a respectable amount below nevertheless.

“Well, Potter, Malfoy, I think you ought to be outside

on a glorious day like this,” Professor McGonagall

continued briskly.

Harry did not need telling twice. He thrust his wand

back inside his robes and headed straight for the

front doors without another glance at Snape and

Malfoy.

The hot sun hit him with a blast as he walked across

the lawns toward Hagrid’s cabin. Students lying

around on the grass sunbathing, talking, reading the

Sunday Prophet, and eating sweets looked up at him

as he passed. Some called out to him, or else waved,

clearly eager to show that they, like the Prophet, had

decided he was something of a hero. Harry said

nothing to any of them. He had no idea how much

they knew of what had happened three days ago, but

he had so far avoided being questioned and preferred

it that way.

He thought at first when he knocked on Hagrid’s

cabin door that he was out, but then Fang came

charging around the corner and almost bowled him

over with the enthusiasm of his welcome. Hagrid, it

transpired, was picking runner beans in his back

garden.

“All righ’, Harry!” he said, beaming, when Harry

approached the fence. “Come in, come in, we’ll have a

cup o’ dandelion juice...

“How’s things?” Hagrid asked him, as they settled

down at his wooden table with a glass apiece of iced

juice. “You — er — feelin’ all righ’, are yeh?”

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Harry knew from the look of concern on Hagrid’s face that he was not referring to Harry’s physical well-being.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, because he could not

bear to discuss the thing that he knew was in

Hagrid’s mind. “So, where’ve you been?”

“Bin hidin’ out in the mountains,” said Hagrid. “Up in

a cave, like Sirius did when he —”

Hagrid broke off, cleared his throat gruffly, looked at

Harry, and took a long draft of juice.

“Anyway, back now,” he said feebly.

“You — you look better,” said Harry, who was

determined to keep the conversation moving away

from Sirius.

“Wha?” said Hagrid, raising a massive hand and

feeling his face. “Oh — oh yeah. Well, Grawpy’s loads

better behaved now, loads. Seemed right pleased ter

see me when I got back, ter tell yeh the truth. He’s a

good lad, really... I’ve bin thinkin’ abou’ tryin’ ter find

him a lady friend, actually...”

Harry would normally have tried to persuade Hagrid

out of this idea at once. The prospect of a second

giant taking up residence in the forest, possibly even

wilder and more brutal than Grawp, was positively

alarming, but somehow Harry could not muster the

energy necessary to argue the point. He was starting

to wish he was alone again, and with the idea of

hastening his departure he took several large gulps of

his dandelion juice, half emptying his glass.

P a g e | 1088Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Ev’ryone knows you’ve bin tellin’ the truth now,

Harry,” said Hagrid softly and unexpectedly. “Tha’s

gotta be better, hasn’ it?”

Harry shrugged.

“Look …” Hagrid leaned toward him across the table,

“I knew Sirius longer ’n you did... He died in battle,

an’ tha’s the way he’d’ve wanted ter go —”

“He didn’t want to go at all!” said Harry angrily.

Hagrid bowed his great shaggy head.

“Nah, I don’ reckon he did,” he said quietly. “But still,

Harry … he was never one ter sit around at home an’

let other people do the fightin’. He couldn’ have lived

with himself if he hadn’ gone ter help —”

Harry leapt up again.

“I’ve got to go and visit Ron and Hermione in the

hospital wing,” he said mechanically.

“Oh,” said Hagrid, looking rather upset. “Oh … all

righ then, Harry … Take care of yerself then, an’ drop

back in if yeh’ve got a mo...”

“Yeah … right …”

Harry crossed to the door as fast as he could and

pulled it open. He was out in the sunshine again

before Hagrid had finished saying goodbye and

walked away across the lawn. Once again, people

called out to him as he passed. He closed his eyes for

a few moments, wishing they would all vanish, that

he could open his eyes and find himself alone in the

grounds...

P a g e | 1089Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

A few days ago, before his exams had finished and he had seen the vision Voldemort had planted in his

mind, he would have given almost anything for the

Wizarding world to know that he had been telling the

truth, for them to believe that Voldemort was back

and know that he was neither a liar nor mad. Now,

however …

He walked a short way around the lake, sat down on

its bank, sheltered from the gaze of passersby behind

a tangle of shrubs, and stared out over the gleaming

water, thinking...

Perhaps the reason he wanted to be alone was

because he had felt isolated from everybody since his

talk with Dumbledore. An invisible barrier separated

him from the rest of the world. He was — he had

always been — a marked man. It was just that he had

never really understood what that meant...

And yet sitting here on the edge of the lake, with the

terrible weight of grief dragging at him, with the loss

of Sirius so raw and fresh inside, he could not muster

any great sense of fear. It was sunny and the grounds

around him were full of laughing people, and even

though he felt as distant from them as though he

belonged to a different race, it was still very hard to

believe as he sat here that his life must include, or

end in, murder...

He sat there for a long time, gazing out at the water,

trying not to think about his godfather or to

remember that it was directly across from here, on

the opposite bank, that Sirius had collapsed trying to

fend off a hundred dementors...

The sun had fallen before he realized that he was

cold. He got up and returned to the castle, wiping his

face on his sleeve as he went.

P a g e | 1090Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Ron and Hermione left the hospital wing completely

cured three days before the end of term. Hermione

showed signs of wanting to talk about Sirius, but Ron

tended to make hushing noises every time she

mentioned his name. Harry was not sure whether or

not he wanted to talk about his godfather yet; his

wishes varied with his mood. He knew one thing,

though: Unhappy as he felt at the moment, he would

greatly miss Hogwarts in a few days’ time when he

was back at number four, Privet Drive. Even though

he now understood exactly why he had to return

there every summer, he did not feel any better about

it. Indeed, he had never dreaded his return more.

Professor Umbridge left Hogwarts the day before the

end of term. It seemed that she had crept out of the

hospital wing during dinnertime, evidently hoping to

depart undetected, but unfortunately for her, she met

Peeves on the way, who seized his last chance to do

as Fred had instructed and chased her gleefully from

the premises, whacking her alternately with a walking

stick and a sock full of chalk. Many students ran out

into the entrance hall to watch her running away

down the path, and the Heads of Houses tried only

halfheartedly to restrain their pupils. Indeed,

Professor McGonagall sank back into her chair at the

staff table after a few feeble remonstrances and was

clearly heard to express a regret that she could not

run cheering after Umbridge herself, because Peeves

had borrowed her walking stick.

Their last evening at school arrived; most people had

finished packing and were already heading down to

the end-of-term feast, but Harry had not even started.

“Just do it tomorrow!” said Ron, who was waiting by

the door of their dormitory. “Come on, I’m starving…”

“I won’t be long... Look, you go ahead…”

P a g e | 1091Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

But when the dormitory door closed behind Ron,

Harry made no effort to speed up his packing. The

very last thing he wanted to do was to attend the end-

of-term feast. He was worried that Dumbledore would

make some reference to him in his speech. He was

sure to mention Voldemort’s return; he had talked to

them about it last year, after all...

Harry pulled some crumpled robes out of the very

bottom of his trunk to make way for folded ones and,

as he did so, noticed a badly wrapped package lying

in a corner of it. He could not think what it was doing

there. He bent down, pulled it out from underneath

his trainers, and examined it.

He realized what it was within seconds. Sirius had

given it to him just inside the front door of twelve

Grimmauld Place. Use it if you need me, all right?

Harry sank down onto his bed and unwrapped the

package. Out fell a small, square mirror. It looked old;

it was certainly dirty. Harry held it up to his face and

saw his own reflection looking back at him.

He turned the mirror over. There on the reverse side

was a scribbled note from Sirius.

This is a two-way mirror. I’ve got the other. If you need

to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear

in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James

and I used to use them when we were in separate

detentions.

And Harry’s heart began to race. He remembered

seeing his dead parents in the Mirror of Erised four

years ago. He was going to be able to talk to Sirius

again, right now, he knew it —

P a g e | 1092Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

He looked around to make sure there was nobody else

there; the dormitory was quite empty. He looked back

at the mirror, raised it in front of his face with

trembling hands, and said, loudly and clearly,

“Sirius.”

His breath misted the surface of the glass. He held

the mirror even closer, excitement flooding through

him, but the eyes blinking back at him through the

fog were definitely his own.

He wiped the mirror clear again and said, so that

every syllable rang clearly through the room, “Sirius

Black!”

Nothing happened. The frustrated face looking back

out of the mirror was still, definitely, his own...

Sirius didn’t have his mirror on him when he went

through the archway, said a small voice in Harry’s

head. That’s why it’s not working...

Harry remained quite still for a moment, then hurled

the mirror back into the trunk where it shattered. He

had been convinced, for a whole, shining minute, that

he was going to see Sirius, talk to him again...

Disappointment was burning in his throat. He got up

and began throwing his things pell-mell into the

trunk on top of the broken mirror —

But then an idea struck him... A better idea than a

mirror … A much bigger, more important idea … How

had he never thought of it before — why had he never

asked?

He was sprinting out of the dormitory and down the

spiral staircase, hitting the walls as he ran and barely

noticing. He hurtled across the empty common room,

P a g e | 1093Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

through the portrait hole and off along the corridor, ignoring the Fat Lady, who called after him, “The feast

is about to start, you know, you’re cutting it very

fine!”

But Harry had no intention of going to the feast …

How could it be that the place was full of ghosts

whenever you didn’t need one, yet now …

He ran down staircases and along corridors and met

nobody either alive or dead. They were all, clearly, in

the Great Hall. Outside his Charms classroom he

came to a halt, panting and thinking disconsolately

that he would have to wait until later, until after the

end of the feast …

But just as he had given up hope he saw it — a

translucent somebody drifting across the end of the

corridor.

“Hey — hey Nick! NICK!”

The ghost stuck its head back out of the wall,

revealing the extravagantly plumed hat and

dangerously wobbling head of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-

Porpington.

“Good evening,” he said, withdrawing the rest of his

body from the solid stone and smiling at Harry. “I am

not the only one who is late, then? Though,” he

sighed, “in rather different senses, of course …”

“Nick, can I ask you something?”

A most peculiar expression stole over Nearly Headless

Nick’s face as he inserted a finger in the stiff ruff at

his neck and tugged it a little straighter, apparently to

give himself thinking time. He desisted only when his

P a g e | 1094Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

partially severed neck seemed about to give way

completely.

“Er — now, Harry?” said Nick, looking discomforted.

“Can’t it wait until after the feast?”

“No — Nick — please,” said Harry, “I really need to

talk to you. Can we go in here?”

Harry opened the door of the nearest classroom and

Nearly Headless Nick sighed.

“Oh very well,” he said, looking resigned. “I can’t

pretend I haven’t been expecting it.”

Harry was holding the door open for him, but he

drifted through the wall instead.

“Expecting what?” Harry asked, as he closed the door.

“You to come and find me,” said Nick, now gliding

over to the window and looking out at the darkening

grounds. “It happens, sometimes … when somebody

has suffered a … loss.”

“Well,” said Harry, refusing to be deflected. “You were

right, I’ve — I’ve come to find you.”

Nick said nothing.

“It’s —” said Harry, who was finding this more

awkward than he had anticipated, “it’s just — you’re

dead. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Nick sighed and continued to gaze out at the grounds.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Harry urged him. “You died,

but I’m talking to you... You can walk around

Hogwarts and everything, can’t you?”

P a g e | 1095Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Yes,” said Nearly Headless Nick quietly, “I walk and talk, yes.”

“So, you came back, didn’t you?” said Harry urgently.

“People can come back, right? As ghosts. They don’t

have to disappear completely. Well?” he added

impatiently, when Nick continued to say nothing.

Nearly Headless Nick hesitated, then said, “Not

everyone can come back as a ghost.”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly.

“Only … only wizards.”

“Oh,” said Harry, and he almost laughed with relief.

“Well, that’s okay then, the person I’m asking about is

a wizard. So he can come back, right?”

Nick turned away from the window and looked

mournfully at Harry. “He won’t come back.”

“Who?”

“Sirius Black,” said Nick.

“But you did!” said Harry angrily. “You came back —

you’re dead and you didn’t disappear —”

“Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the

earth, to walk palely where their living selves once

trod,” said Nick miserably. “But very few wizards

choose that path.”

“Why not?” said Harry. “Anyway — it doesn’t matter

— Sirius won’t care if it’s unusual, he’ll come back, I

know he will!”

P a g e | 1096Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

And so strong was his belief that Harry actually

turned his head to check the door, sure, for a split

second, that he was going to see Sirius, pearly white

and transparent but beaming, walking through it

toward him.

“He will not come back,” repeated Nick quietly. “He

will have … gone on.”

“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” said Harry quickly.

“Gone on where? Listen — what happens when you

die, anyway? Where do you go? Why doesn’t everyone

come back? Why isn’t this place full of ghosts? Why

— ?”

“I cannot answer,” said Nick.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” said Harry exasperatedly.

“Who can answer better than you?”

“I was afraid of death,” said Nick. “I chose to remain

behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughtn’t to

have … Well, that is neither here nor there... In fact, I

am neither here nor there...” He gave a small sad

chuckle. “I know nothing of the secrets of death,

Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. I

believe learned wizards study the matter in the

Department of Mysteries —”

“Don’t talk to me about that place!” said Harry

fiercely.

“I am sorry not to have been more help,” said Nick

gently. “Well … well, do excuse me … the feast, you

know …”

And he left the room, leaving Harry there alone,

gazing blankly at the wall through which Nick had

disappeared.

P a g e | 1097Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry felt almost as though he had lost his godfather all over again in losing the hope that he might be able

to see or speak to him once more. He walked slowly

and miserably back up through the empty castle,

wondering whether he would ever feel cheerful again.

He had turned the corner toward the Fat Lady’s

corridor when he saw somebody up ahead fastening a

note to a board on the wall. A second glance showed

him that it was Luna. There were no good hiding

places nearby, she was bound to have heard his

footsteps, and in any case, Harry could hardly muster

the energy to avoid anyone at the moment.

“Hello,” said Luna vaguely, glancing around at him as

she stepped back from the notice.

“How come you’re not at the feast?” Harry asked.

“Well, I’ve lost most of my possessions,” said Luna

serenely. “People take them and hide them, you know.

But as it’s the last night, I really do need them back,

so I’ve been putting up signs.”

She gestured toward the notice board, upon which,

sure enough, she had pinned a list of all her missing

books and clothes, with a plea for their return.

An odd feeling rose in Harry — an emotion quite

different from the anger and grief that had filled him

since Sirius’s death. It was a few moments before he

realized that he was feeling sorry for Luna.

“How come people hide your stuff?” he asked her,

frowning.

“Oh … well …” She shrugged. “I think they think I’m a

bit odd, you know. Some people call me ‘Loony’

Lovegood, actually.”

P a g e | 1098Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Harry looked at her and the new feeling of pity

intensified rather painfully.

“That’s no reason for them to take your things,” he

said flatly. “D’you want help finding them?”

“Oh no,” she said, smiling at him. “They’ll come back,

they always do in the end. It was just that I wanted to

pack tonight. Anyway … why aren’t you at the feast?”

Harry shrugged. “Just didn’t feel like it.”

“No,” said Luna, observing him with those oddly

misty, protuberant eyes. “I don’t suppose you do.

That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather,

wasn’t he? Ginny told me.”

Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason

he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had

just remembered that she too could see thestrals.

“Have you …” he began. “I mean, who … has anyone

you’ve known ever died?”

“Yes,” said Luna simply, “my mother. She was a quite

extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to

experiment and one of her spells went rather badly

wrong one day. I was nine.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.

“Yes, it was rather horrible,” said Luna

conversationally. “I still feel very sad about it

sometimes. But I’ve still got Dad. And anyway, it’s not

as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?”

“Er — isn’t it?” said Harry uncertainly.

P a g e | 1099Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, come on. You

heard them, just behind the veil, didn’t you?”

“You mean …”

“In that room with the archway. They were just

lurking out of sight, that’s all. You heard them.”

They looked at each other. Luna was smiling slightly.

Harry did not know what to say, or to think. Luna

believed so many extraordinary things … yet he had

been sure he had heard voices behind the veil too...

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you look for

your stuff?” he said.

“Oh no,” said Luna. “No, I think I’ll just go down and

have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up... It

always does in the end... Well, have a nice holiday,

Harry.”

“Yeah … yeah, you too.”

She walked away from him, and as he watched her

go, he found that the terrible weight in his stomach

seemed to have lessened slightly.

The journey home on the Hogwarts Express next day

was eventful in several ways. Firstly, Malfoy, Crabbe,

and Goyle, who had clearly been waiting all week for

the opportunity to strike without teacher witnesses,

attempted to ambush Harry halfway down the train

as he made his way back from the toilet. The attack

might have succeeded had it not been for the fact that

they unwittingly chose to stage the attack right

outside a compartment full of D.A. members, who saw

what was happening through the glass and rose as

one to rush to Harry’s aid. By the time Ernie

Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Justin

P a g e | 1100Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot

had finished using a wide variety of the hexes and

jinxes Harry had taught them, Malfoy, Crabbe, and

Goyle resembled nothing so much as three gigantic

slugs squeezed into Hogwarts uniforms as Harry,

Ernie, and Justin hoisted them into the luggage rack

and left them there to ooze.

“I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing Malfoy’s

mother’s face when he gets off the train,” said Ernie

with some satisfaction, as he watched Malfoy squirm

above him. Ernie had never quite got over the

indignity of Malfoy docking points from Hufflepuff

during his brief spell as a member of the Inquisitorial

Squad.

“Goyle’s mum’ll be really pleased, though,” said Ron,

who had come to investigate the source of the

commotion. “He’s loads betterlooking now... Anyway,

Harry, the food trolley’s just stopped if you want

anything...”

Harry thanked the others and accompanied Ron back

to their compartment, where he bought a large pile of

Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties. Hermione was

reading the Daily Prophet again, Ginny was doing a

quiz in The Quibbler, and Neville was stroking his

Mimbulus mimbletonia, which had grown a great deal

over the year and now made odd crooning noises

when touched.

Harry and Ron whiled away most of the journey

playing wizard chess while Hermione read out

snippets from the Prophet. It was now full of articles

about how to repel dementors, attempts by the

Ministry to track down Death Eaters, and hysterical

letters claiming that the writer had seen Lord

Voldemort walking past their house that very

morning...

P a g e | 1101Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“It hasn’t really started yet,” sighed Hermione

gloomily, folding up the newspaper again. “But it

won’t be long now...”

“Hey, Harry,” said Ron, nodding toward the glass

window onto the corridor.

Harry looked around. Cho was passing, accompanied

by Marietta Edgecombe, who was wearing a balaclava.

His and Cho’s eyes met for a moment. Cho blushed

and kept walking. Harry looked back down at the

chessboard just in time to see one of his pawns

chased off its square by Ron’s knight.

“What’s — er — going on with you and her anyway?”

Ron asked quietly.

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully.

“I — er — heard she’s going out with someone else

now,” said Hermione tentatively.

Harry was surprised to find that this information did

not hurt at all. Wanting to impress Cho seemed to

belong to a past that was no longer quite connected

with him. So much of what he had wanted before

Sirius’s death felt that way these days... The week

that had elapsed since he had last seen Sirius seemed

to have lasted much, much longer: It stretched across

two universes, the one with Sirius in it, and the one

without.

“You’re well out of it, mate,” said Ron forcefully. “I

mean, she’s quite good-looking and all that, but you

want someone a bit more cheerful.”

“She’s probably cheerful enough with someone else,”

said Harry, shrugging.

P a g e | 1102Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Who’s she with now anyway?” Ron asked Hermione,

but it was Ginny who answered.

“Michael Corner,” she said.

“Michael — but —” said Ron, craning around in his

seat to stare at her. “But you were going out with

him!”

“Not anymore,” said Ginny resolutely. “He didn’t like

Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw at Quidditch and got

really sulky, so I ditched him and he ran off to

comfort Cho instead.” She scratched her nose

absently with the end of her quill, turned The

Quibbler upside down, and began marking her

answers. Ron looked highly delighted.

“Well, I always thought he was a bit of an idiot,” he

said, prodding his queen forward toward Harry’s

quivering castle. “Good for you. Just choose someone

— better — next time.”

He cast Harry an oddly furtive look as he said it.

“Well, I’ve chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he’s

better?” asked Ginny vaguely.

“WHAT?” shouted Ron, upending the chessboard.

Crookshanks went plunging after the pieces and

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon twittered and hooted angrily

from overhead.

As the train slowed down in the approach to King’s

Cross, Harry thought he had never wanted to leave it

less. He even wondered fleetingly what would happen

if he simply refused to get off, but remained

stubbornly sitting there until the first of September,

when it would take him back to Hogwarts. When it

finally puffed to a standstill, however, he lifted down

P a g e | 1103Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Hedwig’s cage and prepared to drag his trunk from

the train as usual.

When the ticket inspector signaled to him, Ron, and

Hermione that it was safe to walk through the

magical barrier between platforms nine and ten,

however, he found a surprise awaiting him on the

other side: a group of people standing there to greet

him whom he had not expected at all.

There was Mad-Eye Moody, looking quite as sinister

with his bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye as

he would have done without it, his gnarled hands

clutching a long staff, his body wrapped in a

voluminous traveling cloak. Tonks stood just behind

him, her bright bubble-gum-pink hair gleaming in the

sunlight filtering through the dirty glass station

ceiling, wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright

purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD

SISTERS. Next to Tonks was Lupin, his face pale, his

hair graying, a long and threadbare overcoat covering

a shabby jumper and trousers. At the front of the

group stood Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, dressed in their

Muggle best, and Fred and George, who were both

wearing brand-new jackets in some lurid green, scaly

material.

“Ron, Ginny!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying forward

and hugging her children tightly. “Oh, and Harry dear

— how are you?”

“Fine,” lied Harry, as she pulled him into a tight

embrace. Over her shoulder he saw Ron goggling at

the twins’ new clothes.

“What are they supposed to be?” he asked, pointing at

the jackets.

P a g e | 1104Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Finest dragon skin, little bro,” said Fred, giving his zip a little tweak. “Business is booming and we

thought we’d treat ourselves.”

“Hello, Harry,” said Lupin, as Mrs. Weasley let go of

Harry and turned to greet Hermione.

“Hi,” said Harry. “I didn’t expect … what are you all

doing here?”

“Well,” said Lupin with a slight smile, “we thought we

might have a little chat with your aunt and uncle

before letting them take you home.”

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” said Harry at once.

“Oh, I think it is,” growled Moody, who had limped a

little closer. “That’ll be them, will it, Potter?”

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder; his

magical eye was evidently peering through the back of

his head and his bowler hat. Harry leaned an inch or

so to the left to see where Mad-Eye was pointing and

there, sure enough, were the three Dursleys, who

looked positively appalled to see Harry’s reception

committee.

“Ah, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley, turning from

Hermione’s parents, whom he had been greeting

enthusiastically, and who were taking it in turns to

hug Hermione. “Well — shall we do it, then?”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur,” said Moody.

He and Mr. Weasley took the lead across the station

toward the place where the Dursleys stood,

apparently rooted to the floor. Hermione disengaged

herself gently from her mother to join the group.

P a g e | 1105Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Weasley pleasantly to

Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt right in front of him.

“You might remember me, my name’s Arthur

Weasley.”

As Mr. Weasley had singlehandedly demolished most

of the Dursleys’ living room two years previously,

Harry would have been very surprised if Uncle Vernon

had forgotten him. Sure enough, Uncle Vernon turned

a deeper shade of puce and glared at Mr. Weasley,

but chose not to say anything, partly, perhaps,

because the Dursleys were outnumbered two to one.

Aunt Petunia looked both frightened and

embarrassed. She kept glancing around, as though

terrified somebody she knew would see her in such

company. Dudley, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to

look small and insignificant, a feat at which he was

failing extravagantly.

“We thought we’d just have a few words with you

about Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, still smiling.

“Yeah,” growled Moody. “About how he’s treated when

he’s at your place.”

Uncle Vernon’s mustache seemed to bristle with

indignation. Possibly because the bowler hat gave him

the entirely mistaken impression that he was dealing

with a kindred spirit, he addressed himself to Moody.

“I am not aware that it is any of your business what

goes on in my house —”

“I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several

books, Dursley,” growled Moody.

“Anyway, that’s not the point,” interjected Tonks,

whose pink hair seemed to offend Aunt Petunia more

than all the rest put together, for she closed her eyes

P a g e | 1106Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

rather than look at her. “The point is, if we find out you’ve been horrible to Harry —”

“— and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” added

Lupin pleasantly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley, “even if you won’t let Harry

use the fellytone —”

“Telephone, ” whispered Hermione.

“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated

in any way, you’ll have us to answer to,” said Moody.

Uncle Vernon swelled ominously. His sense of outrage

seemed to outweigh even his fear of this bunch of

oddballs.

“Are you threatening me, sir?” he said, so loudly that

passersby actually turned to stare.

“Yes, I am,” said Mad-Eye, who seemed rather pleased

that Uncle Vernon had grasped this fact so quickly.

“And do I look like the kind of man who can be

intimidated?” barked Uncle Vernon.

“Well …” said Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to

reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. Uncle

Vernon leapt backward in horror and collided

painfully with a luggage trolley. “Yes, I’d have to say

you do, Dursley.”

He turned from Uncle Vernon to Harry. “So, Potter …

give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from

you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone

along...”

P a g e | 1107Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Aunt Petunia whimpered piteously. It could not have

been plainer that she was thinking of what the

neighbors would say if they caught sight of these

people marching up the garden path.

“ ’Bye, then, Potter,” said Moody, grasping Harry’s

shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand.

“Take care, Harry,” said Lupin quietly. “Keep in

touch.”

“Harry, we’ll have you away from there as soon as we

can,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, hugging him again.

“We’ll see you soon, mate,” said Ron anxiously,

shaking Harry’s hand.

“Really soon, Harry,” said Hermione earnestly. “We

promise.”

Harry nodded. He somehow could not find words to

tell them what it meant to him, to see them all ranged

there, on his side. Instead he smiled, raised a hand in

farewell, turned around, and led the way out of the

station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon,

Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake.

P a g e | 1108Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – J.K. Rowling

Document Outline

- DUDLEY DEMENTED

- A PECK OF OWLS

- THE ADVANCED GUARD

- NUMBER TWELVE, GRIMMAULD PLACE

- THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

- THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK

- THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

- THE HEARING

- THE WOES OF MRS. WEASLEY

- LUNA LOVEGOOD

- THE SORTING HAT’S NEW SONG

- PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE

- DETENTION WITH DOLORES

- PERCY AND PADFOOT

- THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR

- IN THE HOG’S HEAD

- EDUCATIONAL DECREE NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR

- DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY

- THE LION AND THE SERPENT

- HAGRID’S TALE

- THE EYE OF THE SNAKE

- ST. MUNGO’S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES

- CHRISTMAS ON THE CLOSED WARD

- OCCLUMENCY

- THE BEETLE AT BAY

- SEEN AND UNFORESEEN

- THE CENTAUR AND THE SNEAK

- SNAPE’S WORST MEMORY

- CAREER ADVICE

- GRAWP

- O.W.L.S

- OUT OF THE FIRE

- FIGHT AND FLIGHT

- THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES

- BEYOND THE VEIL

- THE ONLY ONE HE EVER FEARED

- THE LOST PROPHECY

- THE SECOND WAR BEGINS

THE OTHER MINISTER

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was

sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that

was slipping through his brain without leaving the

slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for

a call from the President of a far distant country, and

between wondering when the wretched man would

telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant

memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and

difficult week, there was not much space in his head

for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on

the print on the page before him, the more clearly the

Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of

his political opponents. This particular opponent had

appeared on the news that very day, not only to

enumerate all the terrible things that had happened

in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding)

but also to explain why each and every one of them

was the government’s fault.

The Prime Minister’s pulse quickened at the very

thought of these accusations, for they were neither

fair nor true. How on earth was his government

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supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It

was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were

not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was

fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at

a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two,

sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the

river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was

lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very

nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the

government should have somehow foreseen the freak

hurricane in the West Country that had caused so

much damage to both people and property? And was

it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert

Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly

that he was now going to be spending a lot more time

with his family?

“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent

had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.

And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime

Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more

miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal;

all this chilly mist in the middle of July. … It wasn’t

right, it wasn’t normal. …

He turned over the second page of the memo, saw

how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad

job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked

around his office mournfully. It was a handsome

room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash

windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable

chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up

and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin

mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was

then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he

heard a soft cough behind him.

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He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking

reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He

had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the

empty room.

“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible

hope that nobody would answer him. However, a

voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that

sounded as though it were reading a prepared

statement. It was coming — as the Prime Minister

had known at the first cough — from the froglike little

man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a

small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet.

Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”

The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the

Prime Minister.

“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen. … It’s not a very

good time for me. … I’m waiting for a telephone call,

you see … from the President of —”

“That can be rearranged,” said the portrait at once.

The Prime Minister’s heart sank. He had been afraid

of that.

“But I really was rather hoping to speak —”

“We shall arrange for the President to forget to call.

He will telephone tomorrow night instead,” said the

little man. “Kindly respond immediately to Mr.

Fudge.”

“I … oh … very well,” said the Prime Minister weakly.

“Yes, I’ll see Fudge.”

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He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and

arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed

and unfazed expression, when bright green flames

burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble

mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker

of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within

the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later,

he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug,

brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped

cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

“Ah … Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding

forward with his hand outstretched. “Good to see you

again.”

The Prime Minister could not honestly return this

compliment, so said nothing at all. He was not

remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional

appearances, apart from being downright alarming in

themselves, generally meant that he was about to

hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was

looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder,

and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look. The

Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in

politicians before, and it never boded well.

“How can I help you?” he said, shaking Fudge’s hand

very briefly and gesturing toward the hardest of the

chairs in front of the desk.

“Difficult to know where to begin,” muttered Fudge,

pulling up the chair, sitting down, and placing his

green bowler upon his knees. “What a week, what a

week …”

“Had a bad one too, have you?” asked the Prime

Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had

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quite enough on his plate already without any extra

helpings from Fudge.

“Yes, of course,” said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily

and looking morosely at the Prime Minister. “I’ve been

having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The

Brockdale Bridge … the Bones and Vance murders …

not to mention the ruckus in the West Country …”

“You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your

people were — were involved in those — those things,

were they?”

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern

look. “Of course they were,” he said. “Surely you’ve

realized what’s going on?”

“I …” hesitated the Prime Minister.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him

dislike Fudge’s visits so much. He was, after all, the

Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to

feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had

been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge

on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He

remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew

it would haunt him until his dying day.

He had been standing alone in this very office,

savoring the triumph that was his after so many

years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard

a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to

find that ugly little portrait talking to him,

announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to

arrive and introduce himself.

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and

the strain of the election had caused him to go mad.

He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking

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to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt

when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the

fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained

speechless throughout Fudge’s kindly explanation

that there were witches and wizards still living in

secret all over the world and his reassurances that he

was not to bother his head about them as the

Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole

Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical

population from getting wind of them. It was, said

Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything

from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to

keeping the dragon population under control (the

Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for

support at this point). Fudge had then patted the

shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a

fatherly sort of way.

“Not to worry,” he had said, “it’s odds-on you’ll never

see me again. I’ll only bother you if there’s something

really serious going on our end, something that’s

likely to affect the Muggles — the non-magical

population, I should say. Otherwise, it’s live and let

live. And I must say, you’re taking it a lot better than

your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the

window, thought I was a hoax planned by the

opposition.”

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last.

“You’re — you’re not a hoax, then?”

It had been his last, desperate hope.

“No,” said Fudge gently. “No, I’m afraid I’m not. Look.”

And he had turned the Prime Minister’s teacup into a

gerbil.

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“But,” said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech,

“but why — why has nobody told me — ?”

“The Minister of Magic only reveals him- or herself to

the Muggle Prime Minister of the day,” said Fudge,

poking his wand back inside his jacket. “We find it

the best way to maintain secrecy.”

“But then,” bleated the Prime Minister, “why hasn’t a

former Prime Minister warned me — ?”

At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

“My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell

anybody?”

Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into

the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and

vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime

Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and

realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare

mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the

wide world would believe him?

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a

time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had

indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of

sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain

attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this

uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to

his delighted niece and instructed his private

secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little

man who had announced Fudge’s arrival. To the

Prime Minister’s dismay, however, the portrait had

proved impossible to remove. When several

carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the

Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried

unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall, the Prime

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply

resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless

and silent for the rest of his term in office.

Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the

corner of his eye the occupant of the painting

yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or

twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving

nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind.

However, he had trained himself not to look at the

picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly

that his eyes were playing tricks on him when

anything like this happened.

Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the

Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the

portrait had once again announced the imminent

arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace,

sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic.

Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was

dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started

ranting about a prison the Prime Minister had never

heard of, a man named “Serious” Black, something

that sounded like “Hogwarts,” and a boy called Harry

Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the

Prime Minister.

“… I’ve just come from Azkaban,” Fudge had panted,

tipping a large amount of water out of the rim of his

bowler hat into his pocket. “Middle of the North Sea,

you know, nasty flight … the dementors are in

uproar” — he shuddered — “they’ve never had a

breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime

Minister. Black’s a known Muggle killer and may be

planning to rejoin You-Know-Who. … But of course,

you don’t even know who You-Know-Who is!” He had

gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment,

then said, “Well, sit down, sit down, I’d better fill you

in. … Have a whiskey …”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own

whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out

his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber

liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the

Prime Minister’s hand, and drew up a chair.

Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one

point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and

wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he

had thrust into the Prime Minister’s whiskey-free

hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the

Prime Minister had stood up too.

“So you think that …” He had squinted down at the

name in his left hand. “Lord Vol —”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” snarled Fudge.

“I’m sorry. … You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named is still alive, then?”

“Well, Dumbledore says he is,” said Fudge, as he had

fastened his pin-striped cloak under his chin, “but

we’ve never found him. If you ask me, he’s not

dangerous unless he’s got support, so it’s Black we

ought to be worrying about. You’ll put out that

warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don’t see

each other again, Prime Minister! Good night.”

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year

later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of

thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime

Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the

Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like)

World Cup and that several Muggles had been

“involved,” but that the Prime Minister was not to

worry, the fact that You-Know-Who’s Mark had been

seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Fudge had added. “We’re

importing three foreign dragons and a sphinx for the

Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical

Creatures tells me that it’s down in the rule book that

we have to notify you if we’re bringing highly

dangerous creatures into the country.”

“I — what — dragons?” spluttered the Prime Minister.

“Yes, three,” said Fudge. “And a sphinx. Well, good

day to you.”

The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that

dragons and sphinxes would be the worst of it, but

no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out

of the fire yet again, this time with the news that

there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

“A mass breakout?” repeated the Prime Minister

hoarsely.

“No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge,

already with one foot in the flames. “We’ll have them

rounded up in no time — just thought you ought to

know!”

And before the Prime Minister could shout, “Now, wait

just one moment!” Fudge had vanished in a shower of

green sparks.

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the

Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not

escaped his notice that, despite Fudge’s assurances

at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a

lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more

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flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always

called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the

Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next

time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news

still. The sight, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the

fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and

sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not

know exactly why he was there, was about the worst

thing that had happened in the course of this

extremely gloomy week.

“How should I know what’s going on in the — er —

Wizarding community?” snapped the Prime Minister

now. “I have a country to run and quite enough

concerns at the moment without —”

“We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted.

“The Brockdale Bridge didn’t wear out. That wasn’t

really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work

of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley’s family would be

safer without him. We are currently making

arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo’s

Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move

should be effected tonight.”

“What do you … I’m afraid I … What?” blustered the

Prime Minister.

Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, “Prime

Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he’s

back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.”

“Back? When you say ‘back’ … he’s alive? I mean —”

The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the

details of that horrible conversation of three years

previously, when Fudge had told him about the

wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

who had committed a thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier.

“Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is — I don’t know — is

a man alive if he can’t be killed? I don’t really

understand it, and Dumbledore won’t explain

properly — but anyway, he’s certainly got a body and

is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for

the purposes of our discussion, yes, he’s alive.”

The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this,

but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-

informed on any subject that came up made him cast

around for any details he could remember of their

previous conversations.

“Is Serious Black with — er — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named?”

“Black? Black?” said Fudge distractedly, turning his

bowler rapidly in his fingers. “Sirius Black, you

mean? Merlin’s beard, no. Black’s dead. Turns out we

were — er — mistaken about Black. He was innocent

after all. And he wasn’t in league with He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named either. I mean,” he added defensively,

spinning the bowler hat still faster, “all the evidence

pointed — we had more than fifty eyewitnesses — but

anyway, as I say, he’s dead. Murdered, as a matter of

fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There’s going to

be an inquiry, actually. …”

To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting

stab of pity for Fudge at this point. It was, however,

eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness at

the thought that, deficient though he himself might

be in the area of materializing out of fireplaces, there

had never been a murder in any of the government

departments under his charge. … Not yet, anyway …

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While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge continued, “But Black’s by-the-by now. The point is, we’re at war, Prime Minister,

and steps must be taken.”

“At war?” repeated the Prime Minister nervously.

“Surely that’s a little bit of an overstatement?”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by

those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban in

January,” said Fudge, speaking more and more

rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a

lime-green blur. “Since they have moved into the

open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale

Bridge — he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a

mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him and

—”

“Good grief, so it’s your fault those people were killed

and I’m having to answer questions about rusted

rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don’t

know what else!” said the Prime Minister furiously.

“My fault!” said Fudge, coloring up. “Are you saying

you would have caved in to blackmail like that?”

“Maybe not,” said the Prime Minister, standing up

and striding about the room, “but I would have put all

my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he

committed any such atrocity!”

“Do you really think I wasn’t already making every

effort?” demanded Fudge heatedly. “Every Auror in

the Ministry was — and is — trying to find him and

round up his followers, but we happen to be talking

about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a

wizard who has eluded capture for almost three

decades!”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“So I suppose you’re going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country too?” said the Prime

Minister, his temper rising with every pace he took. It

was infuriating to discover the reason for all these

terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public,

almost worse than it being the government’s fault

after all.

“That was no hurricane,” said Fudge miserably.

“Excuse me!” barked the Prime Minister, now

positively stamping up and down. “Trees uprooted,

roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries —”

“It was the Death Eaters,” said Fudge. “He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named’s followers. And … and we suspect

giant involvement.”

The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though

he had hit an invisible wall. “What involvement?”

Fudge grimaced. “He used giants last time, when he

wanted to go for the grand effect,” he said. “The Office

of Misinformation has been working around the clock,

we’ve had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify

the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really

happened, we’ve got most of the Department for the

Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running

around Somerset, but we can’t find the giant — it’s

been a disaster.”

“You don’t say!” said the Prime Minister furiously.

“I won’t deny that morale is pretty low at the

Ministry,” said Fudge. “What with all that, and then

losing Amelia Bones.”

“Losing who?”

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“Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical

Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named may have murdered her in person, because

she was a very gifted witch and — and all the

evidence was that she put up a real fight.”

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it

seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.

“But that murder was in the newspapers,” said the

Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger.

“Our newspapers. Amelia Bones … it just said she

was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a —

a nasty killing, wasn’t it? It’s had rather a lot of

publicity. The police are baffled, you see.”

Fudge sighed. “Well, of course they are,” he said.

“Killed in a room that was locked from the inside,

wasn’t she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who

did it, not that that gets us any further toward

catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance,

maybe you didn’t hear about that one —”

“Oh yes I did!” said the Prime Minister. “It happened

just around the corner from here, as a matter of fact.

The papers had a field day with it, ‘breakdown of law

and order in the Prime Minister’s backyard —’ ”

“And as if all that wasn’t enough,” said Fudge, barely

listening to the Prime Minister, “we’ve got dementors

swarming all over the place, attacking people left,

right, and center. …”

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have

been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was

wiser now.

“I thought dementors guard the prisoners in

Azkaban,” he said cautiously.

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“They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore.

They’ve deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named. I won’t pretend that wasn’t a blow.”

“But,” said the Prime Minister, with a sense of

dawning horror, “didn’t you tell me they’re the

creatures that drain hope and happiness out of

people?”

“That’s right. And they’re breeding. That’s what’s

causing all this mist.”

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the

nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping

through the towns and countryside, spreading

despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel

quite faint.

“Now see here, Fudge — you’ve got to do something!

It’s your responsibility as Minister of Magic!”

“My dear Prime Minister, you can’t honestly think I’m

still Minister of Magic after all this? I was sacked

three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has

been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I’ve

never known them so united in my whole term of

office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words.

Despite his indignation at the position into which he

had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-

looking man sitting opposite him.

“I’m very sorry,” he said finally. “If there’s anything I

can do?”

“It’s very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is

nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to

date on recent events and to introduce you to my

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successor. I rather thought he’d be here by now, but of course, he’s very busy at the moment, with so

much going on.”

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little

man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was

digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching

Fudge’s eye, the portrait said, “He’ll be here in a

moment, he’s just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.”

“I wish him luck,” said Fudge, sounding bitter for the

first time. “I’ve been writing to Dumbledore twice a

day for the past fortnight, but he won’t budge. If he’d

just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still

be … Well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more

success.”

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved

silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the

portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official

voice.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a

meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus

Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly,

and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate

turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a

second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him

moments later onto the antique rug.

Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment’s hesitation,

the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new

arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes,

and look around.

The Prime Minister’s first, foolish thought was that

Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion.

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There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes

behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain

rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a

slight limp. There was an immediate impression of

shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister

thought he understood why the Wizarding community

preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these

dangerous times.

“How do you do?” said the Prime Minister politely,

holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the

room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes.

“Fudge told you everything?” he asked, striding over

to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand.

The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

“Er — yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don’t

mind, I’d rather that door remained unlocked.”

“I’d rather not be interrupted,” said Scrimgeour

shortly, “or watched,” he added, pointing his wand at

the windows, so that the curtains swept across them.

“Right, well, I’m a busy man, so let’s get down to

business. First of all, we need to discuss your

security.”

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest

height and replied, “I am perfectly happy with the

security I’ve already got, thank you very —”

“Well, we’re not,” Scrimgeour cut in. “It’ll be a poor

lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets

put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in

your outer office —”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“I’m not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that’s what you’re suggesting!” said the Prime Minister

hotly. “He’s highly efficient, gets through twice the

work the rest of them —”

“That’s because he’s a wizard,” said Scrimgeour,

without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror,

who has been assigned to you for your protection.”

“Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister.

“You can’t just put your people into my office, I decide

who works for me —”

“I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said

Scrimgeour coldly.

“I am — that’s to say, I was —”

“Then there’s no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour.

“I … well, as long as Shacklebolt’s work continues to

be … er … excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely,

but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

“Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,”

he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the

public by impersonating a duck.”

“What about him?” asked the Prime Minister.

“He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed

Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It’s addled his

brains, but he could still be dangerous.”

“He’s only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly.

“Surely a bit of a rest … Maybe go easy on the drink

…”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“A team of Healers from St. Mungo’s Hospital for

Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as

we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of

them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we

remove him from Muggle society for a while.”

“I … well … He’ll be all right, won’t he?” said the

Prime Minister anxiously.

Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back

toward the fireplace.

“Well, that’s really all I had to say. I will keep you

posted of developments, Prime Minister — or, at least,

I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in

which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented

to stay on in an advisory capacity.”

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he

merely looked as though he had a toothache.

Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for

the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The

Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them

for a moment, then the words he had fought to

suppress all evening burst from him at last.

“But for heaven’s sake — you’re wizards! You can do

magic! Surely you can sort out — well — anything!”

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged

an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did

manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The

trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime

Minister.”

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the

other into the bright green fire and vanished.

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SPINNER’S END

Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed

against the Prime Minister’s windows drifted over a

dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-

strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a

disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There

was no sound apart from the whisper of the black

water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that

had slunk down the bank to nose hopefully at some

old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall grass.

But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure

appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The

fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new

phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings

for a few moments, then set off with light, quick

strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.

With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure

materialized.

“Wait!”

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The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place

and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a

yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.

The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.

“Just a fox,” said a woman’s voice dismissively from

under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror —

Cissy, wait!”

But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at

the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank

the fox had just fallen down.

“Cissy — Narcissa — listen to me —”

The second woman caught the first and seized her

arm, but the other wrenched it away.

“Go back, Bella!”

“You must listen to me!”

“I’ve listened already. I’ve made my decision. Leave me

alone!”

The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the

bank, where a line of old railings separated the river

from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman,

Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood

looking across the road at the rows and rows of

dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and

blind in the darkness.

“He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt.

“Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first

of our kind ever to set foot —”

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But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped

through a gap in the rusty railings and was already

hurrying across the road.

“Cissy, wait!”

Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw

Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses

into a second, almost identical street. Some of the

streetlamps were broken; the two women were

running between patches of light and deep darkness.

The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she

turned another corner, this time succeeding in

catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so

that they faced each other.

“Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him —”

“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?”

“The Dark Lord is … I believe … mistaken,” Bella

panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her

hood as she looked around to check that they were

indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak

of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark

Lord’s —”

“Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a

wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly

in the other’s face. Bella merely laughed.

“Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t —”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do anymore!” Narcissa

breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she

brought down the wand like a knife, there was

another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister’s arm

as though burned.

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“Narcissa!”

But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand,

her pursuer followed again, keeping her distance now,

as they moved deeper into the deserted labyrinth of

brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street

named Spinner’s End, over which the towering mill

chimney seemed to hover like a giant admonitory

finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she

passed boarded and broken windows, until she

reached the very last house, where a dim light

glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs

room.

She had knocked on the door before Bella, cursing

under her breath, had caught up. Together they stood

waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the smell of the

dirty river that was carried to them on the night

breeze. After a few seconds, they heard movement

behind the door and it opened a crack. A sliver of a

man could be seen looking out at them, a man with

long black hair parted in curtains around a sallow

face and black eyes.

Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that

she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde

hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a

drowned person.

“Narcissa!” said the man, opening the door a little

wider, so that the light fell upon her and her sister

too. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Severus,” she said in a strained whisper. “May I

speak to you? It’s urgent.”

“But of course.”

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He stood back to allow her to pass him into the

house. Her still-hooded sister followed without

invitation.

“Snape,” she said curtly as she passed him.

“Bellatrix,” he replied, his thin mouth curling into a

slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a

snap behind them.

They had stepped directly into a tiny sitting room,

which had the feeling of a dark, padded cell. The walls

were completely covered in books, most of them

bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare

sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table stood

grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a

candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place

had an air of neglect, as though it was not usually

inhabited.

Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off

her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her

white and trembling hands clasped in her lap.

Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her

sister was fair, with heavily lidded eyes and a strong

jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape as she

moved to stand behind Narcissa.

“So, what can I do for you?” Snape asked, settling

himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters.

“We … we are alone, aren’t we?” Narcissa asked

quietly.

“Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail’s here, but we’re not

counting vermin, are we?”

He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him

and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

narrow staircase upon which a small man stood

frozen.

“As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have

guests,” said Snape lazily.

The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps

and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes,

a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His

left hand was caressing his right, which looked as

though it was encased in a bright silver glove.

“Narcissa!” he said, in a squeaky voice. “And Bellatrix!

How charming —”

“Wormtail will get us drinks, if you’d like them,” said

Snape. “And then he will return to his bedroom.”

Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown

something at him.

“I am not your servant!” he squeaked, avoiding

Snape’s eye.

“Really? I was under the impression that the Dark

Lord placed you here to assist me.”

“To assist, yes — but not to make you drinks and —

and clean your house!”

“I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more

dangerous assignments,” said Snape silkily. “This can

be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord —”

“I can speak to him myself if I want to!”

“Of course you can,” said Snape, sneering. “But in the

meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine

will do.”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though

he might argue, but then turned and headed through

a second hidden door. They heard banging and a

clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back,

bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray.

He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried

from their presence, slamming the book-covered door

behind him.

Snape poured out three glasses of bloodred wine and

handed two of them to the sisters. Narcissa

murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said

nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did

not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he

looked rather amused.

“The Dark Lord,” he said, raising his glass and

draining it.

The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses.

As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush,

“Severus, I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had to

see you. I think you are the only one who can help me

—”

Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his

wand again at the concealed staircase door. There

was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound

of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs.

“My apologies,” said Snape. “He has lately taken to

listening at doors, I don’t know what he means by it.

… You were saying, Narcissa?”

She took a great, shuddering breath and started

again.

“Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been

told to say nothing to anyone, but —”

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“Then you ought to hold your tongue!” snarled

Bellatrix. “Particularly in present company!”

“ ‘Present company’?” repeated Snape sardonically.

“And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?”

“That I don’t trust you, Snape, as you very well

know!”

Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry

sob and covered her face with her hands. Snape set

his glass down upon the table and sat back again, his

hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into

Bellatrix’s glowering face.

“Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is

bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions.

Well, continue, Bellatrix,” said Snape. “Why is it that

you do not trust me?”

“A hundred reasons!” she said loudly, striding out

from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table.

“Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord

fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him

when he vanished? What have you been doing all

these years that you’ve lived in Dumbledore’s pocket?

Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the

Sorcerer’s Stone? Why did you not return at once

when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a

few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the

prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is

Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at

your mercy for five years?”

She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the

color high in her cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat

motionless, her face still hidden in her hands.

Snape smiled.

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“Before I answer you — oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can carry my words back to the others

who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of

my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I

say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think

that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every

one of those questions? And do you really think that,

had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I

would be sitting here talking to you?”

She hesitated.

“I know he believes you, but …”

“You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow

hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest

wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world

has ever seen?”

Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a

little discomfited. Snape did not press the point. He

picked up his drink again, sipped it, and continued,

“You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was

where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he wished me to

spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume,

that it was on the Dark Lord’s orders that I took up

the post?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened

her mouth, but Snape forestalled her.

“You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he

vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the

Carrows, Greyback, Lucius” — he inclined his head

slightly to Narcissa — “and many others did not

attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not

proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is. … If he had

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left.”

“He’d have me!” said Bellatrix passionately. “I, who

spent many years in Azkaban for him!”

“Yes, indeed, most admirable,” said Snape in a bored

voice. “Of course, you weren’t a lot of use to him in

prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine —”

“Gesture!” she shrieked; in her fury she looked

slightly mad. “While I endured the dementors, you

remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing

Dumbledore’s pet!”

“Not quite,” said Snape calmly. “He wouldn’t give me

the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, you know.

Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse …

tempt me into my old ways.”

“This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to

teach your favorite subject?” she jeered. “Why did you

stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on

Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?”

“Hardly,” said Snape, “although the Dark Lord is

pleased that I never deserted my post: I had sixteen

years of information on Dumbledore to give him when

he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back

present than endless reminiscences of how

unpleasant Azkaban is. …”

“But you stayed —”

“Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed,” said Snape, betraying a hint

of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable

job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were

rounding up the Death Eaters, you know.

Dumbledore’s protection kept me out of jail; it was

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

most convenient and I used it. I repeat: The Dark

Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see

why you do.

“I think you next wanted to know,” he pressed on, a

little more loudly, for Bellatrix showed every sign of

interrupting, “why I stood between the Dark Lord and

the Sorcerer’s Stone. That is easily answered. He did

not know whether he could trust me. He thought, like

you, that I had turned from faithful Death Eater to

Dumbledore’s stooge. He was in a pitiable condition,

very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He

did not dare reveal himself to a former ally if that ally

might turn him over to Dumbledore or the Ministry. I

deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have

returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw

only greedy and unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal

the stone and, I admit, I did all I could to thwart him.”

Bellatrix’s mouth twisted as though she had taken an

unpleasant dose of medicine.

“But you didn’t return when he came back, you didn’t

fly back to him at once when you felt the Dark Mark

burn —”

“Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on

Dumbledore’s orders.”

“On Dumbledore’s — ?” she began, in tones of

outrage.

“Think!” said Snape, impatient again. “Think! By

waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I

could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing

Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the

Dark Lord’s side because I was ordered to, I have

been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the

Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix:

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for

months. I knew he must be about to return, all the

Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think

about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to

escape like Karkaroff, didn’t I?

“The Dark Lord’s initial displeasure at my lateness

vanished entirely, I assure you, when I explained that

I remained faithful, although Dumbledore thought I

was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had

left him forever, but he was wrong.”

“But what use have you been?” sneered Bellatrix.

“What useful information have we had from you?”

“My information has been conveyed directly to the

Dark Lord,” said Snape. “If he chooses not to share it

with you —”

“He shares everything with me!” said Bellatrix, firing

up at once. “He calls me his most loyal, his most

faithful —”

“Does he?” said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to

suggest his disbelief. “Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?”

“That was not my fault!” said Bellatrix, flushing. “The

Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his

most precious — if Lucius hadn’t —”

“Don’t you dare — don’t you dare blame my

husband!” said Narcissa, in a low and deadly voice,

looking up at her sister.

“There is no point apportioning blame,” said Snape

smoothly. “What is done, is done.”

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“But not by you!” said Bellatrix furiously. “No, you were once again absent while the rest of us ran

dangers, were you not, Snape?”

“My orders were to remain behind,” said Snape.

“Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps

you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if

I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the

Order of the Phoenix? And — forgive me — you speak

of dangers … you were facing six teenagers, were you

not?”

“They were joined, as you very well know, by half of

the Order before long!” snarled Bellatrix. “And, while

we are on the subject of the Order, you still claim you

cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters,

don’t you?”

“I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name

of the place. You understand how the enchantment

works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied with the

information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as

perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and

murder of Emmeline Vance, and it certainly helped

dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit

for finishing him off.”

He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression

did not soften.

“You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry

Potter. You could have killed him at any point in the

past five years. You have not done it. Why?”

“Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?”

asked Snape.

“He … lately, we … I am asking you, Snape!”

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“If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his blood to regenerate, making him

invincible —”

“You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!” she

jeered.

“I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have

already confessed that I thought the Dark Lord dead.

I am merely trying to explain why the Dark Lord is

not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year

ago. …”

“But why did you keep him alive?”

“Have you not understood me? It was only

Dumbledore’s protection that was keeping me out of

Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his favorite

student might have turned him against me? But there

was more to it than that. I should remind you that

when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts there were still

many stories circulating about him, rumors that he

himself was a great Dark wizard, which was how he

had survived the Dark Lord’s attack. Indeed, many of

the Dark Lord’s old followers thought Potter might be

a standard around which we could all rally once

more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined

to murder him the moment he set foot in the castle.

“Of course, it became apparent to me very quickly

that he had no extraordinary talent at all. He has

fought his way out of a number of tight corners by a

simple combination of sheer luck and more talented

friends. He is mediocre to the last degree, though as

obnoxious and self-satisfied as was his father before

him. I have done my utmost to have him thrown out

of Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs, but

kill him, or allow him to be killed in front of me? I

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore

close at hand.”

“And through all this we are supposed to believe

Dumbledore has never suspected you?” asked

Bellatrix. “He has no idea of your true allegiance, he

trusts you implicitly still?”

“I have played my part well,” said Snape. “And you

overlook Dumbledore’s greatest weakness: He has to

believe the best of people. I spun him a tale of deepest

remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death

Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms —

though, as I say, never allowing me nearer the Dark

Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been a

great wizard — oh yes, he has,” (for Bellatrix had

made a scathing noise), “the Dark Lord acknowledges

it. I am pleased to say, however, that Dumbledore is

growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month

shook him. He has since sustained a serious injury

because his reactions are slower than they once were.

But through all these years, he has never stopped

trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great

value to the Dark Lord.”

Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared

unsure how best to attack Snape next. Taking

advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her sister.

“Now … you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?”

Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with

despair.

“Yes, Severus. I — I think you are the only one who

can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in

jail and …”

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She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids.

“The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it,”

Narcissa continued, her eyes still closed. “He wishes

none to know of the plan. It is … very secret. But —”

“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak,” said

Snape at once. “The Dark Lord’s word is law.”

Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with

cold water. Bellatrix looked satisfied for the first time

since she had entered the house.

“There!” she said triumphantly to her sister. “Even

Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your

silence!”

But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the

small window, peered through the curtains at the

deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk.

He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning.

“It so happens that I know of the plan,” he said in a

low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told.

Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret,

Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great

treachery to the Dark Lord.”

“I thought you must know about it!” said Narcissa,

breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus. …”

“You know about the plan?” said Bellatrix, her fleeting

expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of

outrage. “You know?”

“Certainly,” said Snape. “But what help do you

require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade

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the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”

“Severus,” she whispered, tears sliding down her pale

cheeks. “My son … my only son …”

“Draco should be proud,” said Bellatrix indifferently.

“The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And I

will say this for Draco: He isn’t shrinking away from

his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself,

excited at the prospect —”

Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly

all the while at Snape.

“That’s because he is sixteen and has no idea what

lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too

dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius’s mistake, I

know it!”

Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of

her tears as though they were indecent, but he could

not pretend not to hear her.

“That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” she

persisted. “To punish Lucius?”

“If Draco succeeds,” said Snape, still looking away

from her, “he will be honored above all others.”

“But he won’t succeed!” sobbed Narcissa. “How can

he, when the Dark Lord himself — ?”

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve.

“I only meant … that nobody has yet succeeded. …

Severus … please … You are, you have always been,

Draco’s favorite teacher. … You are Lucius’s old

friend. … I beg you. … You are the Dark Lord’s

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favorite, his most trusted advisor. … Will you speak to him, persuade him — ?”

“The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not

stupid enough to attempt it,” said Snape flatly. “I

cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with

Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got

himself captured, along with how many others, and

failed to retrieve the prophecy into the bargain. Yes,

the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed.”

“Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!”

choked Narcissa. “He does not mean him to succeed,

he wants him to be killed trying!”

When Snape said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose

what little self-restraint she still possessed. Standing

up, she staggered to Snape and seized the front of his

robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his

chest, she gasped, “You could do it. You could do it

instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of

course you would, and he would reward you beyond

all of us —”

Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her

clutching hands. Looking down into her tearstained

face, he said slowly, “He intends me to do it in the

end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should

try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco

succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little

longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy.”

“In other words, it doesn’t matter to him if Draco is

killed!”

“The Dark Lord is very angry,” repeated Snape

quietly. “He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as

well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.”

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She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and

moaning on the floor.

“My only son … my only son …”

“You should be proud!” said Bellatrix ruthlessly. “If I

had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the

service of the Dark Lord!”

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched

at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by

the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the

sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced the

glass into her hand.

“Narcissa, that’s enough. Drink this. Listen to me.”

She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she

took a shaky sip.

“It might be possible … for me to help Draco.”

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge.

“Severus — oh, Severus — you would help him?

Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?”

“I can try.”

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table

as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at

Snape’s feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and

pressed her lips to it.

“If you are there to protect him … Severus, will you

swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?”

“The Unbreakable Vow?”

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Snape’s expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter.

“Aren’t you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he’ll try, I’m sure.

… The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of

action … oh, on the Dark Lord’s orders, of course!”

Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were

fixed upon Narcissa’s tear-filled blue ones as she

continued to clutch his hand.

“Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable

Vow,” he said quietly. “Perhaps your sister will

consent to be our Bonder.”

Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so

that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath

Bellatrix’s astonished gaze, they grasped right hands.

“You will need your wand, Bellatrix,” said Snape

coldly.

She drew it, still looking astonished.

“And you will need to move a little closer,” he said.

She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and

placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands.

Narcissa spoke.

“Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he

attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

“I will,” said Snape.

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand

and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot

wire.

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“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?”

“I will,” said Snape.

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and

interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing

chain.

“And, should it prove necessary … if it seems Draco

will fail …” whispered Narcissa (Snape’s hand

twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will

you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has

ordered Draco to perform?”

There was a moment’s silence. Bellatrix watched, her

wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide.

“I will,” said Snape.

Bellatrix’s astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a

third tongue of flame, which shot from the wand,

twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly

around their clasped hands, like a rope, like a fiery

snake.

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WILL AND WON’T

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting

in a chair beside his bedroom window for the best

part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street,

and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face

pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses

askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fug his

breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange

glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light

drained his face of all color, so that he looked ghostly

beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a

good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores,

and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a number of

spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled

robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a

puddle of light on his desk. The headline of one

blared:

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

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Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent

disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more.

“We’re not allowed to talk about it, don’t ask me

anything,” said one agitated Obliviator, who refused

to give his name as he left the Ministry last night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the

Ministry have confirmed that the disturbance

centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused

even to confirm the existence of such a place, a

growing number of the Wizarding community believe

that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in

Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were

attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that

prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife

that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever

known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is

also known to have been at the Ministry on the night

in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter

“the Chosen One,” believing that the prophecy names

him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists,

are unknown, although (ctd. page 2, column 5)

A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore

the headline:

SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE

Most of this front page was taken up with a large

black-and-white picture of a man with a lionlike mane

of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture

was moving — the man was waving at the ceiling.

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Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has

succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The

appointment has largely been greeted with

enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though

rumors of a rift between the new Minister and Albus

Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the

Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour

taking office.

Scrimgeour’s representatives admitted that he had met

with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the

top job, but refused to comment on the topics under

discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page

3, column 2)

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been

folded so that a story bearing the title MINISTRY

GUARANTEES STUDENTS’ SAFETY was visible.

Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus

Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures

taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students

returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry this autumn.

“For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going

into detail about its stringent new security plans,”

said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that

measures include defensive spells and charms, a

complex array of countercurses, and a small task

force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of

Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister’s tough

stand on student safety. Said Mrs. Augusta

Longbottom, “My grandson, Neville — a good friend of

Harry Potter’s, incidentally, who fought the Death

Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and —

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But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage standing on top of it. Inside it was a

magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed the

room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to

gaze at her snoring master. Once or twice she clicked

her beak impatiently, but Harry was too deeply asleep

to hear her.

A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its

lid was open; it looked expectant; yet it was almost

empty but for a residue of old underwear, sweets,

empty ink bottles, and broken quills that coated the

very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet

emblazoned with the words:

— ISSUED ON BEHALF OF —

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY

AGAINST DARK FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat

from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters.

Observing the following simple security guidelines will

help protect you, your family, and your home from

attack.

1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2. Particular care should be taken during the

hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to

complete journeys before night has fallen.

3. Review the security arrangements around your

house, making sure that all family members are

aware of emergency measures such as Shield and

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Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.

4. Agree on security questions with close friends

and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading

as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).

5. Should you feel that a family member,

colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange

manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad

at once. They may have been put under the Imperius

Curse (see page 4).

6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling

place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact

the Auror office immediately.

7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death

Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any

sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same,

should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the

window an inch or so, making his glasses still more

lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock,

repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on

the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held

in place by Harry’s relaxed hand, was a piece of

parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry

had read this letter so often since its arrival three

days ago that although it had been delivered in a

tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four,

Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort

you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to

spend the remainder of your school holidays.

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If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the

way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when

I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping

to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been

stealing glances at this missive every few minutes

since seven o’clock that evening, when he had first

taken up his position beside his bedroom window,

which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet

Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading

Dumbledore’s words; Harry had sent back his “yes”

with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could

do now was wait: Either Dumbledore was going to

come, or he was not.

But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to

be true that he was going to be rescued from the

Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He

could not shrug off the feeling that something was

going to go wrong — his reply to Dumbledore’s letter

might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be

prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn

out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or

joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing

and then being let down and having to unpack again.

The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a

journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in

her cage.

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The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the

number twelve and, at that precise moment, the

streetlamp outside the window went out.

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an

alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and

unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his

nose against the window instead and squinted down

at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing

cloak was walking up the garden path.

Harry jumped up as though he had received an

electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started

snatching anything and everything within reach from

the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Even as he

lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of

crisps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs

in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, “Who

the blazes is calling at this time of night?”

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a

pair of trainers in the other. He had completely

forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore

might be coming. Feeling both panicky and close to

laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched

open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice

say, “Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I

daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for

him?”

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an

abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long

experience had taught him to remain out of arm’s

reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the

doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length

silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were

perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a

long black traveling cloak and a pointed hat. Vernon

Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

Dumbledore’s, though black, and who was wearing a

puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as

though he could not believe his tiny eyes.

“Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did

not warn you that I was coming,” said Dumbledore

pleasantly. “However, let us assume that you have

invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to

linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.”

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the

front door behind him.

“It is a long time since my last visit,” said

Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle

Vernon. “I must say, your agapanthus are

flourishing.”

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not

doubt that speech would return to him, and soon —

the vein pulsing in his uncle’s temple was reaching

danger point — but something about Dumbledore

seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It

might have been the blatant wizardishness of his

appearance, but it might, too, have been that even

Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom

it would be very difficult to bully.

“Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking

up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most

satisfied expression. “Excellent, excellent.”

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was

clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who

could look at Harry and say “excellent” was a man

with whom he could never see eye to eye.

“I don’t mean to be rude —” he began, in a tone that

threatened rudeness in every syllable.

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“— yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,” Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely.

“Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this

must be Petunia.”

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry’s

aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her

nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-

bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her

rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.

“Albus Dumbledore,” said Dumbledore, when Uncle

Vernon failed to effect an introduction. “We have

corresponded, of course.” Harry thought this an odd

way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent

her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not

challenge the term. “And this must be your son,

Dudley?”

Dudley had that moment peered round the living

room door. His large, blond head rising out of the

stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied,

his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear.

Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to

see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say

anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.

“Shall we assume that you have invited me into your

sitting room?

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore

passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and

trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed

Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair

nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings

with an expression of benign interest. He looked quite

extraordinarily out of place.

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“Aren’t — aren’t we leaving, sir?” Harry asked

anxiously.

“Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we

need to discuss first,” said Dumbledore. “And I would

prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass

upon your aunt and uncle’s hospitality only a little

longer.”

“You will, will you?”

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his

shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply, “I shall.”

He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it;

with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and

knocked the knees out from under all three of the

Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap.

Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back

to its original position.

“We may as well be comfortable,” said Dumbledore

pleasantly.

As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that

his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as

though his flesh had been burned away.

“Sir — what happened to your — ?”

“Later, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Please sit down.”

Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to

look at the Dursleys, who seemed stunned into

silence.

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

“I would assume that you were going to offer me

refreshment,” Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, “but

the evidence so far suggests that that would be

optimistic to the point of foolishness.”

A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five

glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and

poured a generous measure of honey-colored liquid

into each of the glasses, which then floated to each

person in the room.

“Madam Rosmerta’s finest oak-matured mead,” said

Dumbledore, raising his glass to Harry, who caught

hold of his own and sipped. He had never tasted

anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The

Dursleys, after quick, scared looks at one another,

tried to ignore their glasses completely, a difficult feat,

as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their

heads. Harry could not suppress a suspicion that

Dumbledore was rather enjoying himself.

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, turning toward him,

“a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able

to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the

Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius’s

will was discovered a week ago and that he left you

everything he owned.”

Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernon’s head turned, but

Harry did not look at him, nor could he think of

anything to say except, “Oh. Right.”

“This is, in the main, fairly straightforward,”

Dumbledore went on. “You add a reasonable amount

of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit

all of Sirius’s personal possessions. The slightly

problematic part of the legacy —”

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“His godfather’s dead?” said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa. Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look

at him. The glass of mead was now knocking quite

insistently on the side of Vernon’s head; he attempted

to beat it away. “He’s dead? His godfather?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. He did not ask Harry why he

had not confided in the Dursleys. “Our problem,” he

continued to Harry, as if there had been no

interruption, “is that Sirius also left you number

twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

“He’s been left a house?” said Uncle Vernon greedily,

his small eyes narrowing, but nobody answered him.

“You can keep using it as headquarters,” said Harry.

“I don’t care. You can have it, I don’t really want it.”

Harry never wanted to set foot in number twelve,

Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought

he would be haunted forever by the memory of Sirius

prowling its dark musty rooms alone, imprisoned

within the place he had wanted so desperately to

leave.

“That is generous,” said Dumbledore. “We have,

however, vacated the building temporarily.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of

Uncle Vernon, who was now being rapped smartly

over the head by the persistent glass of mead, “Black

family tradition decreed that the house was handed

down the direct line, to the next male with the name

of ‘Black.’ Sirius was the very last of the line as his

younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both

were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain

that he wants you to have the house, it is

nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood.”

A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of

Sirius’s mother that hung in the hall of number

twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry’s mind. “I

bet there has,” he said.

“Quite,” said Dumbledore. “And if such an

enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house

is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius’s living

relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix

Lestrange.”

Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to

his feet; the telescope and trainers in his lap rolled

across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius’s killer,

inherit his house?

“No,” he said.

“Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn’t get it

either,” said Dumbledore calmly. “The situation is

fraught with complications. We do not know whether

the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it,

for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that

ownership has passed from Sirius’s hands. It might

be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any

moment. Naturally we had to move out until such

time as we have clarified the position.”

“But how are you going to find out if I’m allowed to

own it?”

“Fortunately,” said Dumbledore, “there is a simple

test.”

He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his

chair, but before he could do anything else, Uncle

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Vernon shouted, “Will you get these ruddy things off us?”

Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were

cowering with their arms over their heads as their

glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, their

contents flying everywhere.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Dumbledore politely, and he

raised his wand again. All three glasses vanished.

“But it would have been better manners to drink it,

you know.”

It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with

any number of unpleasant retorts, but he merely

shrank back into the cushions with Aunt Petunia and

Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes

on Dumbledore’s wand.

“You see,” Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry

and again speaking as though Uncle Vernon had not

uttered, “if you have indeed inherited the house, you

have also inherited —”

He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud

crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a

nose, giant bat’s ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes,

crouching on the Dursleys’ shag carpet and covered

in grimy rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising

shriek; nothing this filthy had entered her house in

living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet

off the floor and sat with them raised almost above

his head, as though he thought the creature might

run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon

bellowed, “What the hell is that?”

“Kreacher,” finished Dumbledore.

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“Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!”

croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle

Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling

his ears. “Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes,

Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his

new mistress, Kreacher won’t go to the Potter brat,

Kreacher won’t, won’t, won’t —”

“As you can see, Harry,” said Dumbledore loudly, over

Kreacher’s continued croaks of “won’t, won’t, won’t,”

“Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into

your ownership.”

“I don’t care,” said Harry again, looking with disgust

at the writhing, stamping house-elf. “I don’t want

him.”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t —”

“You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of

Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived

at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for

the past year?”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t —”

Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher

could not be permitted to go and live with Bellatrix

Lestrange, but the idea of owning him, of having

responsibility for the creature that had betrayed

Sirius, was repugnant.

“Give him an order,” said Dumbledore. “If he has

passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If

not, then we shall have to think of some other means

of keeping him from his rightful mistress.”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, WON’T!”

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Kreacher’s voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to say, except, “Kreacher, shut up!”

It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going

to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still

working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few

seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face

forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered)

and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving

himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

“Well, that simplifies matters,” said Dumbledore

cheerfully. “It seems that Sirius knew what he was

doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve,

Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher.”

“Do I — do I have to keep him with me?” Harry asked,

aghast, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.

“Not if you don’t want to,” said Dumbledore. “If I

might make a suggestion, you could send him to

Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way,

the other house-elves could keep an eye on him.”

“Yeah,” said Harry in relief, “yeah, I’ll do that. Er —

Kreacher — I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in

the kitchens there with the other house-elves.”

Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his

arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down

look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack,

vanished.

“Good,” said Dumbledore. “There is also the matter of

the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking

after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours

now, so if you would prefer to make different

arrangements —”

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“No,” said Harry at once, “he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that.”

“Hagrid will be delighted,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally,

we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak’s

safety, to rechristen him ‘Witherwings’ for the time

being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever

guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to

death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?”

“Erm …”

“Doubtful that I would turn up?” Dumbledore

suggested shrewdly.

“I’ll just go and — er — finish off,” said Harry hastily,

hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down

everything he needed; at last he had managed to

extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed,

screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink,

and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron.

Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding

Hedwig’s cage in the other, he made his way back

downstairs.

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was

not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to

return to the living room.

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming

quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the

atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry

did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said,

“Professor — I’m ready now.”

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“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Just one last thing, then.”

And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more.

“As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in

a year’s time —”

“No,” said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time

since Dumbledore’s arrival.

“I’m sorry?” said Dumbledore politely.

“No, he doesn’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley,

and Dudders doesn’t turn eighteen until the year after

next.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but in the

Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.”

Uncle Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but

Dumbledore ignored him.

“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord

Voldemort has returned to this country. The

Wizarding community is currently in a state of open

warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already

attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even

greater danger now than the day when I left him upon

your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter

explaining about his parents’ murder and expressing

the hope that you would care for him as though he

were your own.”

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained

light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger,

Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and

noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer

together.

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“You did not do as I asked. You have never treated

Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect

and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be

said is that he has at least escaped the appalling

damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy

sitting between you.”

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around

instinctively, as though expecting to see someone

other than Dudley squeezed between them.

“Us — mistreat Dudders? What d’you — ?” began

Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his

finger for silence, a silence which fell as though he

had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.

“The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that

Harry has powerful protection while he can still call

this house ‘home.’ However miserable he has been

here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you

have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom.

This magic will cease to operate the moment that

Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment

he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow

Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his

seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the

protection continues until that time.”

None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was

frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to

work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle

Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in

his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.

“Well, Harry … time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore

at last, standing up and straightening his long black

cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said to the Dursleys,

who looked as though that moment could wait forever

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as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.

“Bye,” said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed

Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry’s trunk, upon

which Hedwig’s cage was perched.

“We do not want to be encumbered by these just

now,” he said, pulling out his wand again. “I shall

send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I

would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak … just

in case.”

Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some

difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess

within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket

of his jacket, Dumbledore waved his wand and the

trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then

waved his wand again, and the front door opened

onto cool, misty darkness.

“And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and

pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”

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HORACE SLUGHORN

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking

moment of the past few days hoping desperately that

Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him, Harry

felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet

Drive together. He had never had a proper

conversation with the headmaster outside of

Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between

them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter

kept intruding too, and it rather heightened Harry’s

sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that

occasion, not to mention done his best to smash

several of Dumbledore’s most prized possessions.

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.

“Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,” he said

brightly.

“But I thought I’m not allowed to use magic outside

school, sir?”

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“If there is an attack,” said Dumbledore, “I give you permission to use any counterjinx or curse that might

occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry

about being attacked tonight.”

“Why not, sir?”

“You are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will

do, Harry.”

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

“You have not, of course, passed your Apparition

Test,” he said.

“No,” said Harry. “I thought you had to be seventeen?”

“You do,” said Dumbledore. “So you will need to hold

on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind —

as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at

the moment.”

Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm.

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Well, here we go.”

Harry felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from him and

redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything

went black; he was being pressed very hard from all

directions; he could not breathe, there were iron

bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were

being forced back into his head; his eardrums were

being pushed deeper into his skull and then —

He gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened

his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just

been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a

few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had

vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in

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what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few

benches. His comprehension catching up with his

senses, Harry realized that he had just Apparated for

the first time in his life.

“Are you all right?” asked Dumbledore, looking down

at him solicitously. “The sensation does take some

getting used to.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as

though they had left Privet Drive rather reluctantly.

“But I think I might prefer brooms. …”

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little

more tightly around his neck, and said, “This way.”

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a

few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church,

it was almost midnight.

“So tell me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Your scar …

has it been hurting at all?”

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead

and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.

“No,” he said, “and I’ve been wondering about that. I

thought it would be burning all the time now

Voldemort’s getting so powerful again.”

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was

wearing a satisfied expression.

“I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,” said

Dumbledore. “Lord Voldemort has finally realized the

dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you

have been enjoying. It appears that he is now

employing Occlumency against you.”

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“Well, I’m not complaining,” said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling

flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a

bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore

again. “Professor?”

“Harry?”

“Er — where exactly are we?”

“This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh

Babberton.”

“And what are we doing here?”

“Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” said

Dumbledore. “Well, I have lost count of the number of

times I have said this in recent years, but we are,

once again, one member of staff short. We are here to

persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of

retirement and return to Hogwarts.”

“How can I help with that, sir?”

“Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,” said Dumbledore

vaguely. “Left here, Harry.”

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with

houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that

had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here

too. Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his

shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his

pocket.

“Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into

your old colleague’s house?”

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“Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down

the front door,” said Dumbledore. “Courtesy dictates

that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying

us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are

magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At

Hogwarts, for instance —”

“— you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings

or grounds,” said Harry quickly. “Hermione Granger

told me.”

“And she is quite right. We turn left again.”

The church clock chimed midnight behind them.

Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it

rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that

conversation had been established, he had more

pressing questions to ask.

“Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been

sacked. …”

“Correct,” said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep

side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you

also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head

of the Auror office.”

“Is he … Do you think he’s good?” asked Harry.

“An interesting question,” said Dumbledore. “He is

able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful

personality than Cornelius.”

“Yes, but I meant —”

“I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action

and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his

working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.”

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Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything

about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the

Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the

nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it. “And …

sir … I saw about Madam Bones.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore quietly. “A terrible loss. She

was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch.”

He had pointed with his injured hand.

“Professor, what happened to your — ?”

“I have no time to explain now,” said Dumbledore. “It

is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.”

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not

being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep

asking questions.

“Sir — I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about

security measures we should all take against the

Death Eaters. …”

“Yes, I received one myself,” said Dumbledore, still

smiling. “Did you find it useful?”

“Not really.”

“No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for

instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check

that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an

impostor.”

“I didn’t …” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he

was being reprimanded or not.

“For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry …

although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would

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have been sure to research my own jam preferences

before impersonating myself.”

“Er … right,” said Harry. “Well, on that leaflet, it said

something about Inferi. What exactly are they? The

leaflet wasn’t very clear.”

“They are corpses,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Dead

bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark

wizard’s bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long

time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful.

… He killed enough people to make an army of them,

of course. This is the place, Harry, just here. …”

They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its

own garden. Harry was too busy digesting the horrible

idea of Inferi to have much attention left for anything

else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore

stopped dead and Harry walked into him.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.”

Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front

path and felt his heart sink. The front door was

hanging off its hinges.

Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It

seemed quite deserted.

“Wand out and follow me, Harry,” he said quietly.

He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up

the garden path, Harry at his heels, then pushed the

front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the

ready.

“Lumos. ”

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Dumbledore’s wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open.

Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore

walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind

him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A

grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face

cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a

dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys

strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen

chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated,

feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments

of glass and china lay like powder over everything.

Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its

light was thrown upon the walls, where something

darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the

wallpaper. Harry’s small intake of breath made

Dumbledore look around.

“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something

horrible has happened here.”

Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the

room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry

followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might

see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the

overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.

“Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him

off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine

how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave

those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering

behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.

“You mean he’s — ?”

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“Still here somewhere? Yes.”

And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging

the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed

armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”

“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore,

straightening up again.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Where a split second before

there had been an armchair, there now crouched an

enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his

lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an

aggrieved and watery eye.

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,”

he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.”

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his

prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike

mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the

maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of

lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached

Dumbledore’s chin.

“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to

his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed

remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been

discovered pretending to be an armchair.

“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused,

“if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark

Mark would have been set over the house.”

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast

forehead.

“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was

something … ah well. Wouldn’t have had time

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anyway, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.”

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his

mustache flutter.

“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked

Dumbledore politely.

“Please,” said the other.

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the

short round one, and waved their wands in one

identical sweeping motion.

The furniture flew back to its original places;

ornaments reformed in midair, feathers zoomed into

their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as

they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared

onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of

splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across

the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon

a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere,

and the walls wiped themselves clean.

“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked

Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly

unsmashed grandfather clock.

“On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called

Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling,

the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.

There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.

“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally.

“My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the

moment. Still, it might be reusable.”

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He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light,

examining the thick liquid within.

“Hmm. Bit dusty.”

He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It

was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.

“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry’s

forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!”

“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the

introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old

friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression

shrewd. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade

me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.”

He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely

away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked

Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?”

Slughorn hesitated.

“All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward

a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so

recently impersonated, which stood right beside the

newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp.

Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that

Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as

visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had

been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face

the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.

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“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though

frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here —” He gave a

drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without

invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank

into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a

disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did

not touch the floor.

“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?”

Dumbledore asked.

“Not so well,” said Slughorn at once. “Weak chest.

Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to.

Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”

“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to

prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,”

said Dumbledore. “You can’t have had more than

three minutes’ warning?”

Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two.

Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a

bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself

back together again, “the fact remains that I’m an old

man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to

a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”

He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking

around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet

nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were

soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of

chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not

known who lived there, he would have guessed at a

rich, fussy old lady.

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said

Dumbledore.

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“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement

yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry

eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand.

“Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely,

shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those

burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made

the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am

undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other

hand …”

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to

say that age had its compensations, and Harry

noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had

never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large,

rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and

was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked

down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a

moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown

momentarily crease his wide forehead.

“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace

… are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?”

asked Dumbledore.

“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor

broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded

Slughorn.

“I imagine that they would want you to turn your

considerable talents to coercion, torture, and

murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me

that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment,

then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve

been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place

more than a week. Move from Muggle house to

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Muggle house — the owners of this place are on

holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very

pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you

know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these

absurd burglar alarms they use instead of

Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don’t

spot you bringing in the piano.”

“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather

tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in

search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to

Hogwarts —”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more

peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your

breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some

funny rumors have reached me since Dolores

Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these

days —”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,”

said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have

known better than to stride into the forest and call a

horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’ ”

“That’s what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic

woman. Never liked her.”

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn

looked round at him.

“Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It’s just — I didn’t like

her either.”

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking

hopeful.

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“No, I was wondering whether I might use your

bathroom,” said Dumbledore.

“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on

the left down the hall.”

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had

closed behind him, there was silence. After a few

moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed

uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive

look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his

back on it, warming his wide behind.

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he

said abruptly.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn’s watery

eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest

of his face.

“You look very like your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got —”

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often

he found it a bit wearing.

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a

teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your

mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harry’s

questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I

ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I

used to tell her she ought to have been in my House.

Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?”

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“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,”

he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s

face and wagging a stubby finger at him, “don’t go

holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her,

I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not

always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must

have done — been in the papers for the last couple of

years — died a few weeks ago —”

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted

Harry’s intestines and held them tight.

“Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father’s at

school. The whole Black family had been in my

House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame —

he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus,

when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had

been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories,

he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot

to ensure an even heat on his backside.

“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t

believe it when I found out. Thought she must have

been pure-blood, she was so good.”

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry,

“and she’s the best in our year.”

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said

Slughorn.

“Not really,” said Harry coldly.

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. “You

mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no!

Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time

favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in

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the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin

Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a

very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside

information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-

satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering

photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with

tiny moving occupants.

“All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Barnabas

Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always

interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And

Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every

birthday, and all because I was able to give him an

introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his

first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just

crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of

course captains the Holyhead Harpies. … People are

always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms

with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want

them!”

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

“And all these people know where to find you, to send

you stuff?” asked Harry, who could not help

wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked

down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch

tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions

could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the

blood from his walls.

“Of course not,” he said, looking down at Harry. “I

have been out of touch with everybody for a year.”

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Harry had the impression that the words shocked

Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a

moment. Then he shrugged.

“Still … the prudent wizard keeps his head down in

such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but

taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be

tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the

Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very

admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t

personally fancy the mortality rate —”

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at

Hogwarts,” said Harry, who could not quite keep a

note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to

sympathize with Slughorn’s cosseted existence when

he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living

on rats. “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of

them has ever been killed — well, unless you count

Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he

was working with Voldemort.”

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those

wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name

spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn

gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry

ignored.

“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while

Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the

only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Harry went

on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He

seemed to be thinking over Harry’s words.

“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he

muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue

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that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-

Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend …

in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to

Albus. … I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death

did not shake me. … If she, with all her Ministry

contacts and protection …”

Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn

jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the

house.

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a

very long time. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,”

said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well,

Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality

quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet.

Slughorn seemed taken aback.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see

one.”

“Lost… ?”

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat

thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore

fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” said

Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell

salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you

back again. Our greatly increased security

notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit,

should you wish to.”

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“Yes … well … very gracious … as I say …”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Bye,” said Harry.

They were at the front door when there was a shout

from behind them.

“All right, all right, I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing

breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.

“You will come out of retirement?”

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad,

but yes.”

“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then,

Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn.

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice

floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut

behind them, and they set off back down the hill

through the dark and the swirling mist.

“Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Harry in surprise.

“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how

much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did

you like him?”

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“Er …”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not.

He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he

had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the

contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born

should make a good witch.

“Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the

responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He

also likes the company of the famous, the successful,

and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he

influences these people. He has never wanted to

occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat —

more room to spread out, you see. He used to

handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their

ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm

or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for

choosing those who would go on to become

outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a

kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center,

making introductions, forging useful contacts

between members, and always reaping some kind of

benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite

crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the

next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.”

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great

swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a

thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies

a little closer.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to

turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call

him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your

guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry.

You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who

Lived’ … or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen

One.’ ”

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At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded

of words he had heard a few weeks ago, words that

had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither

can live while the other survives …

Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the

church they had passed earlier.

“This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.”

Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition,

but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure

disappeared and he found himself able to breathe

again, he was standing in a country lane beside

Dumbledore and looking ahead to the crooked

silhouette of his second favorite building in the world:

the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had

just swept through him, his spirits could not help but

lift at the sight of it. Ron was in there … and so was

Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he

knew. …

“If you don’t mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, as they

passed through the gate, “I’d like a few words with

you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?”

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone

outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks.

A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through

the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the

average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of

his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled

down at Harry.

“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry,

but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you

seem to be coping after everything that happened at

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the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius

would have been proud of you.”

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted

him. He did not think he could stand to discuss

Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle

Vernon say “His godfather’s dead?” and even worse to

hear Sirius’s name thrown out casually by Slughorn.

“It was cruel,” said Dumbledore softly, “that you and

Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal

ending to what should have been a long and happy

relationship.”

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider

now climbing Dumbledore’s hat. He could tell that

Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect

that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all

his time at the Dursleys’ lying on his bed, refusing

meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the

chill emptiness that he had come to associate with

dementors.

“It’s just hard,” Harry said finally, in a low voice, “to

realize he won’t write to me again.”

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt

stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had

someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened

to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best

things about discovering his godfather … and now the

post owls would never bring him that comfort again.

…

“Sirius represented much to you that you had never

known before,” said Dumbledore gently. “Naturally,

the loss is devastating. …”

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“But while I was at the Dursleys’ …” interrupted

Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I can’t

shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius wouldn’t

have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life’s too

short. … Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline

Vance. … It could be me next, couldn’t it? But if it is,”

he said fiercely, now looking straight into

Dumbledore’s blue eyes gleaming in the wandlight,

“I’ll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me

as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”

“Spoken both like your mother and father’s son and

Sirius’s true godson!” said Dumbledore, with an

approving pat on Harry’s back. “I take my hat off to

you — or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you

in spiders.

“And now, Harry, on a closely related subject … I

gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet

over the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.

“Then you will have seen that there have been not so

much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in

the Hall of Prophecy?”

“Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows

that I’m the one —”

“No, they do not,” interrupted Dumbledore. “There are

only two people in the whole world who know the full

contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord

Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly,

spidery broom shed. It is true, however, that many

have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his

Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the

prophecy concerned you.

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“Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that you know what the prophecy said?”

“No,” said Harry.

“A wise decision, on the whole,” said Dumbledore.

“Although I think you ought to relax it in favor of your

friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione

Granger. Yes,” he continued, when Harry looked

startled, “I think they ought to know. You do them a

disservice by not confiding something this important

to them.”

“I didn’t want —”

“— to worry or frighten them?” said Dumbledore,

surveying Harry over the top of his half-moon

spectacles. “Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself

are worried and frightened? You need your friends,

Harry. As you so rightly said, Sirius would not have

wanted you to shut yourself away.”

Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to

require an answer. He continued, “On a different,

though related, subject, it is my wish that you take

private lessons with me this year.”

“Private — with you?” said Harry, surprised out of his

preoccupied silence.

“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in

your education.”

“What will you be teaching me, sir?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore

airily.

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Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not

elaborate, so he asked something else that had been

bothering him slightly.

“If I’m having lessons with you, I won’t have to do

Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?”

“Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not.”

“Good,” said Harry in relief, “because they were a —”

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.

“I think the word ‘fiasco’ would be a good one here,”

said Dumbledore, nodding.

Harry laughed.

“Well, that means I won’t see much of Professor

Snape from now on,” he said, “because he won’t let

me carry on Potions unless I get ‘Outstanding’ in my

O.W.L., which I know I haven’t.”

“Don’t count your owls before they are delivered,” said

Dumbledore gravely. “Which, now I think of it, ought

to be some time later today. Now, two more things,

Harry, before we part.

“Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with

you at all times from this moment onward. Even

within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand

me?”

Harry nodded.

“And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been

given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can

provide. These measures have caused a certain

amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all

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their post, for instance, is being searched at the

Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in

the slightest, for their only concern is your safety.

However, it would be poor repayment if you risked

your neck while staying with them.”

“I understand,” said Harry quickly.

“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, pushing open the

broom shed door and stepping out into the yard. “I

see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly

any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are.”

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AN EXCESS OF PHLEGM

Harry and Dumbledore approached the back door of

the Burrow, which was surrounded by the familiar

litter of old Wellington boots and rusty cauldrons;

Harry could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens

coming from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked

three times and Harry saw sudden movement behind

the kitchen window.

“Who’s there?” said a nervous voice he recognized as

Mrs. Weasley’s. “Declare yourself!”

“It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry.”

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley,

short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing

gown.

“Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright,

you said not to expect you before morning!”

“We were lucky,” said Dumbledore, ushering Harry

over the threshold. “Slughorn proved much more

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persuadable than I had expected. Harry’s doing, of

course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!”

Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was

not alone, despite the lateness of the hour. A young

witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and mousy

brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large

mug between her hands.

“Hello, Professor,” she said. “Wotcher, Harry.”

“Hi, Tonks.”

Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there

was something forced in her smile. Certainly her

appearance was less colorful than usual without her

customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.

“I’d better be off,” she said quickly, standing up and

pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “Thanks for

the tea and sympathy, Molly.”

“Please don’t leave on my account,” said Dumbledore

courteously, “I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to

discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.”

“No, no, I need to get going,” said Tonks, not meeting

Dumbledore’s eyes. “ ’Night —”

“Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend,

Remus and Mad-Eye are coming — ?”

“No, really, Molly … thanks anyway … Good night,

everyone.”

Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the

yard; a few paces beyond the doorstep, she turned on

the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed

that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled.

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“Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry,” said

Dumbledore. “Take care of yourself. Molly, your

servant.”

He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks,

vanishing at precisely the same spot. Mrs. Weasley

closed the door on the empty yard and then steered

Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the

lantern on the table to examine his appearance.

“You’re like Ron,” she sighed, looking him up and

down. “Both of you look as though you’ve had

Stretching Jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown

four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are

you hungry, Harry?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, suddenly realizing just how

hungry he was.

“Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.”

As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed

face jumped onto his knees and settled there,

purring.

“So Hermione’s here?” he asked happily as he tickled

Crookshanks behind the ears.

“Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” said

Mrs. Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand.

It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began

to bubble at once. “Everyone’s in bed, of course, we

didn’t expect you for hours. Here you are —”

She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew

toward Harry, and tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a

bowl neatly beneath it just in time to catch the

stream of thick, steaming onion soup.

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“Bread, dear?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of

bread and a knife soared gracefully onto the table; as

the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back

onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.

“So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?”

Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he

could not speak.

“He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He

was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same

time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?”

His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and

gave a noncommittal jerk of the head.

“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding

wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants

to be, but Arthur’s never liked him much. The

Ministry’s littered with Slughorn’s old favorites, he

was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had

much time for Arthur — didn’t seem to think he was

enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even

Slughorn makes mistakes. I don’t know whether

Ron’s told you in any of his letters — it’s only just

happened — but Arthur’s been promoted!”

It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had

been bursting to say this.

Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and

thought he could feel his throat blistering. “That’s

great!” he gasped.

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“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly

taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news.

“Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices

in response to the present situation, and Arthur’s

heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation

of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects.

It’s a big job, he’s got ten people reporting to him

now!”

“What exactly — ?”

“Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who,

odd things have been cropping up for sale

everywhere, things that are supposed to guard

against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You

can imagine the kind of thing — so-called protective

potions that are really gravy with a bit of bubotuber

pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that

actually make your ears fall off. … Well, in the main

the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus

Fletcher, who’ve never done an honest day’s work in

their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened

everybody is, but every now and then something

really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur

confiscated a box of cursed Sneakoscopes that were

almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you

see, it’s a very important job, and I tell him it’s just

silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters

and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley

ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been

Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark

plugs.

“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.

“Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he’s a tiny bit late. …

He said he’d be back around midnight. …”

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She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing

basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at

once: It had nine hands, each inscribed with the

name of a family member, and usually hung on the

Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current

position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to

carrying it around the house with her. Every single

one of its nine hands was now pointing at “mortal

peril.”

“It’s been like that for a while now,” said Mrs.

Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever

since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I

suppose everybody’s in mortal danger now. … I don’t

think it can be just our family … but I don’t know

anyone else who’s got a clock like this, so I can’t

check. Oh!”

With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock’s

face. Mr. Weasley’s hand had switched to “traveling.”

“He’s coming!”

And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock

on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and

hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her

face pressed against the wood she called softly,

“Arthur, is that you?”

“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley’s weary voice. “But I would

say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the

question!”

“Oh, honestly …”

“Molly!”

“All right, all right … What is your dearest ambition?”

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“To find out how airplanes stay up.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but

apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the

other side, because the door remained firmly shut.

“Molly! I’ve got to ask you your question first!”

“Arthur, really, this is just silly. …”

“What do you like me to call you when we’re alone

together?”

Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell

that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself

felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and

hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as

he could against the bowl.

“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley

into the crack at the edge of the door.

“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”

Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband,

a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-

rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling

cloak.

“I still don’t see why we have to go through that every

time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in

the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak.

“I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer

out of you before impersonating you!”

“I know, dear, but it’s Ministry procedure, and I have

to set an example. Something smells good — onion

soup?”

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Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.

“Harry! We didn’t expect you until morning!”

They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the

chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup

in front of him too.

“Thanks, Molly. It’s been a tough night. Some idiot’s

started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them

around your neck and you’ll be able to change your

appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all

for ten Galleons!”

“And what really happens when you put them on?”

“Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color,

but a couple of people have also sprouted tentaclelike

warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo’s didn’t

have enough to do already!”

“It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George

would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are

you sure — ?”

“Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys

wouldn’t do anything like that now, not when people

are desperate for protection!”

“So is that why you’re late, Metamorph-Medals?”

“No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in

Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law

Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we

got there. …”

Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.

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“Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I’ve got Fred and George’s room all ready for you, you’ll

have it to yourself.”

“Why, where are they?”

“Oh, they’re in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat

over their joke shop as they’re so busy,” said Mrs.

Weasley. “I must say, I didn’t approve at first, but

they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business!

Come on, dear, your trunk’s already up there.”

“ ’Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his

chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and

slunk out of the room.

“G’night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the

washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands

were once again at “mortal peril.”

Fred and George’s bedroom was on the second floor.

Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the

bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room

in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of

flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the

small window, their perfume could not disguise the

lingering smell of what Harry thought was

gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was

devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed

cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry’s school

trunk. The room looked as though it was being used

as a temporary warehouse.

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top

of a large wardrobe, then took off through the

window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him

before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good

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night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds.

There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He

groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-

orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking

Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was

instantly asleep.

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was

awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the

door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the

rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling

sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes.

Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly

for his glasses with the other.

“Wuzzgoinon?”

“We didn’t know you were here already!” said a loud

and excited voice, and he received a sharp blow to the

top of the head.

“Ron, don’t hit him!” said a girl’s voice reproachfully.

Harry’s hand found his glasses and he shoved them

on, though the light was so bright he could hardly see

anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of

him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came

into focus, grinning down at him.

“All right?”

“Never been better,” said Harry, rubbing the top of his

head and slumping back onto his pillows. “You?”

“Not bad,” said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and

sitting on it. “When did you get here? Mum’s only just

told us!”

“About one o’clock this morning.”

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“Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?”

“Same as usual,” said Harry, as Hermione perched

herself on the edge of his bed, “they didn’t talk to me

much, but I like it better that way. How’re you,

Hermione?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Hermione, who was scrutinizing

Harry as though he was sickening for something. He

thought he knew what was behind this, and as he

had no wish to discuss Sirius’s death or any other

miserable subject at the moment, he said, “What’s the

time? Have I missed breakfast?”

“Don’t worry about that, Mum’s bringing you up a

tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron,

rolling his eyes. “So, what’s been going on?”

“Nothing much, I’ve just been stuck at my aunt and

uncle’s, haven’t I?”

“Come off it!” said Ron. “You’ve been off with

Dumbledore!”

“It wasn’t that exciting. He just wanted me to help

him persuade this old teacher to come out of

retirement. His name’s Horace Slughorn.”

“Oh,” said Ron, looking disappointed. “We thought —”

Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron

changed tack at top speed.

“— we thought it’d be something like that.”

“You did?” said Harry, amused.

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“Yeah … yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we

need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,

don’t we? So, er, what’s he like?”

“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head

of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong,

Hermione?”

She was watching him as though expecting strange

symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment.

She rearranged her features hastily in an

unconvincing smile.

“No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like

he’ll be a good teacher?”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “He can’t be worse than

Umbridge, can he?”

“I know someone who’s worse than Umbridge,” said a

voice from the doorway. Ron’s younger sister slouched

into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.”

“What’s up with you?” Ron asked.

“It’s her, ” said Ginny, plonking herself down on

Harry’s bed. “She’s driving me mad.”

“What’s she done now?” asked Hermione

sympathetically.

“It’s the way she talks to me — you’d think I was

about three!”

“I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She’s so

full of herself.”

Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about

Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for

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saying angrily, “Can’t you two lay off her for five seconds?”

“Oh, that’s right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all

know you can’t get enough of her.”

This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron’s

mother. Starting to feel that he was missing

something, Harry said, “Who are you — ?”

But his question was answered before he could finish

it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry

instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so

hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto

the floor.

A young woman was standing in the doorway, a

woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room

seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall

and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to

emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision

of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden

breakfast tray.

“ ’Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ’as been too

long!”

As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs.

Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake,

looking rather cross.

“There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just

about to do it myself!”

“Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the

tray across Harry’s knees and then swooping to kiss

him on each cheek: He felt the places where her

mouth had touched him burn. “I ’ave been longing to

see ’im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She

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never stops talking about ’Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again.”

“Oh … is she here too?” Harry croaked.

“No, no, silly boy,” said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, “I

mean next summer, when we — but do you not

know?”

Her great blue eyes widened and she looked

reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, “We hadn’t

got around to telling him yet.”

Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet

of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the

face.

“Bill and I are going to be married!”

“Oh,” said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing

how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all

determinedly avoiding one another’s gaze. “Wow. Er

— congratulations!”

She swooped down upon him and kissed him again.

“Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very ’ard,

and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my

Eenglish, so he brought me ’ere for a few days to get

to know ’is family properly. I was so pleased to ’ear

you would be coming — zere isn’t much to do ’ere,

unless you like cooking and chickens! Well — enjoy

your breakfast, ’Arry!”

With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to

float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind

her.

Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like “tchah!”

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“Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly.

“I do not hate her!” said Mrs. Weasley in a cross

whisper. “I just think they’ve hurried into this

engagement, that’s all!”

“They’ve known each other a year,” said Ron, who

looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed

door.

“Well, that’s not very long! I know why it’s happened,

of course. It’s all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who

coming back, people think they might be dead

tomorrow, so they’re rushing all sorts of decisions

they’d normally take time over. It was the same last

time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and

center —”

“Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.

“Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other,

what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Whereas Bill and Fleur … well … what have they

really got in common? He’s a hardworking, down-to-

earth sort of person, whereas she’s —”

“A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill’s not that

down-to-earth. He’s a Curse-Breaker, isn’t he, he

likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour. … I expect

that’s why he’s gone for Phlegm.”

“Stop calling her that, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley

sharply, as Harry and Hermione laughed. “Well, I’d

better get on. … Eat your eggs while they’re warm,

Harry.”

Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed

slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head

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experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

“Don’t you get used to her if she’s staying in the same

house?” Harry asked.

“Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you

unexpectedly, like then …”

“It’s pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away

from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face

him with her arms folded once she had reached the

wall.

“You don’t really want her around forever?” Ginny

asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged,

she said, “Well, Mum’s going to put a stop to it if she

can, I bet you anything.”

“How’s she going to manage that?” asked Harry.

“She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I

think she’s hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I

hope he does, I’d much rather have her in the family.”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” said Ron sarcastically. “Listen,

no bloke in his right mind’s going to fancy Tonks

when Fleur’s around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking

when she isn’t doing stupid things to her hair and her

nose, but —”

“She’s a damn sight nicer than Phlegm, ’’ said Ginny

“And she’s more intelligent, she’s an Auror!” said

Hermione from the corner.

“Fleur’s not stupid, she was good enough to enter the

Triwizard Tournament,” said Harry.

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“Not you as well!” said Hermione bitterly.

“I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ‘’Arry,’ do

you?” asked Ginny scornfully.

“No,” said Harry, wishing he hadn’t spoken, “I was

just saying, Phlegm — I mean, Fleur —”

“I’d much rather have Tonks in the family,” said

Ginny. “At least she’s a laugh.”

“She hasn’t been much of a laugh lately,” said Ron.

“Every time I’ve seen her she’s looked more like

Moaning Myrtle.”

“That’s not fair,” snapped Hermione. “She still hasn’t

got over what happened … you know … I mean, he

was her cousin!”

Harry’s heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He

picked up a fork and began shoveling scrambled eggs

into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join

in this part of the conversation.

“Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!” said Ron.

“Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that

their families never met —”

“That’s not the point,” said Hermione. “She thinks it

was her fault he died!”

“How does she work that one out?” asked Harry, in

spite of himself.

“Well, she was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn’t

she? I think she feels that if only she had finished her

off, Bellatrix couldn’t have killed Sirius.”

“That’s stupid,” said Ron.

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“It’s survivor’s guilt,” said Hermione. “I know Lupin’s tried to talk her round, but she’s still really down.

She’s actually having trouble with her

Metamorphosing!”

“With her — ?”

“She can’t change her appearance like she used to,”

explained Hermione. “I think her powers must have

been affected by shock, or something.”

“I didn’t know that could happen,” said Harry.

“Nor did I,” said Hermione, “but I suppose if you’re

really depressed …”

The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her

head in. “Ginny,” she whispered, “come downstairs

and help me with the lunch.”

“I’m talking to this lot!” said Ginny, outraged.

“Now!” said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew.

“She only wants me there so she doesn’t have to be

alone with Phlegm!” said Ginny crossly. She swung

her long red hair around in a very good imitation of

Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms

held aloft like a ballerina.

“You lot had better come down quickly too,” she said

as she left.

Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat

more breakfast. Hermione was peering into Fred and

George’s boxes, though every now and then she cast

sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping

himself to Harry’s toast, was still gazing dreamily at

the door.

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“What’s this?” Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope.

“Dunno,” said Ron, “but if Fred and George’ve left it

here, it’s probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so

be careful.”

“Your mum said the shop’s going well,” said Harry.

“Said Fred and George have got a real flair for

business.”

“That’s an understatement,” said Ron. “They’re raking

in the Galleons! I can’t wait to see the place, we

haven’t been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says

Dad’s got to be there for extra security and he’s been

really busy at work, but it sounds excellent.”

“And what about Percy?” asked Harry; the third-

eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of

the family. “Is he talking to your mum and dad

again?”

“Nope,” said Ron.

“But he knows your dad was right all along now

about Voldemort being back —”

“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive

others for being wrong than being right,” said

Hermione. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.”

“Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore

would say,” said Ron.

“He’s going to be giving me private lessons this year,”

said Harry conversationally.

Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped.

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“You kept that quiet!” said Ron.

“I only just remembered,” said Harry honestly. “He

told me last night in your broom shed.”

“Blimey … private lessons with Dumbledore!” said

Ron, looking impressed. “I wonder why he’s … ?”

His voice tailed away. Harry saw him and Hermione

exchange looks. Harry laid down his knife and fork,

his heart beating rather fast considering that all he

was doing was sitting in bed. Dumbledore had said to

do it. … Why not now? He fixed his eyes on his fork,

which was gleaming in the sunlight streaming into his

lap, and said, “I don’t know exactly why he’s going to

be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because

of the prophecy.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the

impression that both had frozen. He continued, still

speaking to his fork, “You know, the one they were

trying to steal at the Ministry.”

“Nobody knows what it said, though,” said Hermione

quickly. “It got smashed.”

“Although the Prophet says —” began Ron, but

Hermione said, “Shh!”

“The Prophet’s got it right,” said Harry, looking up at

them both with a great effort: Hermione seemed

frightened and Ron amazed. “That glass ball that

smashed wasn’t the only record of the prophecy. I

heard the whole thing in Dumbledore’s office, he was

the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell

me. From what it said,” Harry took a deep breath, “it

looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off

Voldemort. … At least, it said neither of us could live

while the other survives.”

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The three of them gazed at one another in silence for a moment. Then there was a loud bang and Hermione

vanished behind a puff of black smoke.

“Hermione!” shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast

tray slid to the floor with a crash.

Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke,

clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly

purple black eye.

“I squeezed it and it — it punched me!” she gasped.

And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long

spring protruding from the end of the telescope.

“Don’t worry,” said Ron, who was plainly trying not to

laugh, “Mum’ll fix that, she’s good at healing minor

injuries —”

“Oh well, never mind that now!” said Hermione

hastily. “Harry, oh, Harry …”

She sat down on the edge of his bed again.

“We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry …

Obviously, we didn’t want to say anything to you, but

from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy,

how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we

thought it might be something like this. … Oh, Harry

…” She stared at him, then whispered, “Are you

scared?”

“Not as much as I was,” said Harry. “When I first

heard it, I was … but now, it seems as though I

always knew I’d have to face him in the end. …”

“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in

person, we thought he might be telling you something

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or showing you something to do with the prophecy,”

said Ron eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren’t

we? He wouldn’t be giving you lessons if he thought

you were a goner, wouldn’t waste his time — he must

think you’ve got a chance!”

“That’s true,” said Hermione. “I wonder what he’ll

teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic,

probably … powerful countercurses … anti-jinxes …”

Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading

through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight;

a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be

dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were

more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere

fact that they were still there on either side of him,

speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking

from him as though he were contaminated or

dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell

them.

“… and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded

Hermione. “Well, at least you know one lesson you’ll

be having this year, that’s one more than Ron and

me. I wonder when our O.W.L. results will come?”

“Can’t be long now, it’s been a month,” said Ron.

“Hang on,” said Harry, as another part of last night’s

conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore

said our O.W.L. results would be arriving today!”

“Today?” shrieked Hermione. “Today? But why didn’t

you — oh my God — you should have said —”

She leapt to her feet.

“I’m going to see whether any owls have come. …”

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But when Harry arrived downstairs ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his empty breakfast tray, it

was to find Hermione sitting at the kitchen table in

great agitation, while Mrs. Weasley tried to lessen her

resemblance to half a panda.

“It just won’t budge,” Mrs. Weasley was saying

anxiously, standing over Hermione with her wand in

her hand and a copy of The Healer’s Helpmate open at

“Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions.” “This has always

worked before, I just can’t understand it.”

“It’ll be Fred and George’s idea of a funny joke,

making sure it can’t come off,” said Ginny

“But it’s got to come off!” squeaked Hermione. “I can’t

go around looking like this forever!”

“You won’t, dear, we’ll find an antidote, don’t worry,”

said Mrs. Weasley soothingly.

“Bill told me ’ow Fred and George are very amusing!”

said Fleur, smiling serenely.

“Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing,” snapped

Hermione.

She jumped up and started walking round and round

the kitchen, twisting her fingers together.

“Mrs. Weasley, you’re quite, quite sure no owls have

arrived this morning?”

“Yes, dear, I’d have noticed,” said Mrs. Weasley

patiently. “But it’s barely nine, there’s still plenty of

time. …”

“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered

Hermione feverishly, “I definitely made at least one

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serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought

Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking

back —”

“Hermione, will you shut up, you’re not the only one

who’s nervous!” barked Ron. “And when you’ve got

your eleven ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L.s …”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” said Hermione, flapping her

hands hysterically. “I know I’ve failed everything!”

“What happens if we fail?” Harry asked the room at

large, but it was again Hermione who answered.

“We discuss our options with our Head of House, I

asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term.”

Harry’s stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten

less breakfast.

“At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur complacently, “we ’ad a

different way of doing things. I think eet was better.

We sat our examinations after six years of study, not

five, and then —”

Fleur’s words were drowned in a scream. Hermione

was pointing through the kitchen window. Three

black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing

larger all the time.

“They’re definitely owls,” said Ron hoarsely, jumping

up to join Hermione at the window.

“And there are three of them,” said Harry, hastening

to her other side.

“One for each of us,” said Hermione in a terrified

whisper. “Oh no … oh no … oh no …”

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She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the

elbows.

The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three

handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as

they flew lower over the path leading up to the house,

was carrying a large square envelope.

“Oh no!” squealed Hermione.

Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the

kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared

through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All

three of them lifted their right legs.

Harry moved forward. The letter addressed to him

was tied to the leg of the owl in the middle. He untied

it with fumbling fingers. To his left, Ron was trying to

detach his own results; to his right, Hermione’s

hands were shaking so much she was making her

whole owl tremble.

Nobody in the kitchen spoke. At last, Harry managed

to detach the envelope. He slit it open quickly and

unfolded the parchment inside.

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS

Pass Grades

Fail Grades

Outstanding (O)

Poor (P)

Exceeds Expectations (E)Dreadful (D)

Acceptable (A)

Troll (T)

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy

A

Care of Magical Creatures

E

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Charms

E

Defense Against the Dark ArtsO

Divination

P

Herbology

E

History of Magic

D

Potions

E

Transfiguration

E

Harry read the parchment through several times, his

breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was

all right: He had always known that he would fail

Divination, and he had had no chance of passing

History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway

through the examination, but he had passed

everything else! He ran his finger down the grades …

he had passed well in Transfiguration and Herbology,

he had even exceeded expectations at Potions! And

best of all, he had achieved “Outstanding” at Defense

Against the Dark Arts!

He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and

her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted.

“Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who

cares about them?” he said happily to Harry. “Here —

swap —”

Harry glanced down Ron’s grades: There were no

“Outstandings” there. …

“Knew you’d be top at Defense Against the Dark Arts,”

said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. “We’ve

done all right, haven’t we?”

“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron’s

hair. “Seven O.W.L.s, that’s more than Fred and

George got together!”

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“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn’t turned around. “How did you do?”

“I — not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice.

“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and

whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep — nine

‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at

Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at

her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re actually

disappointed, aren’t you?”

Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed.

“Well, we’re N.E.W.T. students now!” grinned Ron.

“Mum, are there any more sausages?”

Harry looked back down at his results. They were as

good as he could have hoped for. He felt just one tiny

twinge of regret. … This was the end of his ambition

to become an Auror. He had not secured the required

Potions grade. He had known all along that he

wouldn’t, but he still felt a sinking in his stomach as

he looked again at that small black E.

It was odd, really, seeing that it had been a Death

Eater in disguise who had first told Harry he would

make a good Auror, but somehow the idea had taken

hold of him, and he couldn’t really think of anything

else he would like to be. Moreover, it had seemed the

right destiny for him since he had heard the prophecy

a few weeks ago. … Neither can live while the other

survives. … Wouldn’t he be living up to the prophecy,

and giving himself the best chance of survival, if he

joined those highly trained wizards whose job it was

to find and kill Voldemort?

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DRACO’S DETOUR

Harry remained within the confines of the Burrow’s

garden over the next few weeks. He spent most of his

days playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys’

orchard (he and Hermione against Ron and Ginny;

Hermione was dreadful and Ginny good, so they were

reasonably well matched) and his evenings eating

triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front

of him.

It would have been a happy, peaceful holiday had it

not been for the stories of disappearances, odd

accidents, even of deaths now appearing almost daily

in the Prophet. Sometimes Bill and Mr. Weasley

brought home news before it even reached the paper.

To Mrs. Weasley’s displeasure, Harry’s sixteenth

birthday celebrations were marred by grisly tidings

brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who was

looking gaunt and grim, his brown hair streaked

liberally with gray, his clothes more ragged and

patched than ever.

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“There have been another couple of dementor

attacks,” he announced, as Mrs. Weasley passed him

a large slice of birthday cake. “And they’ve found Igor

Karkaroff’s body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark

had been set over it — well, frankly, I’m surprised he

stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death

Eaters; Sirius’s brother, Regulus, only managed a few

days as far as I can remember.”

“Yes, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, “perhaps we

should talk about something diff —”

“Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?”

asked Bill, who was being plied with wine by Fleur.

“The man who ran —”

“— the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” Harry

interrupted, with an unpleasant, hollow sensation in

the pit of his stomach. “He used to give me free ice

creams. What’s happened to him?”

“Dragged off, by the look of his place.”

“Why?” asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly

glared at Bill.

“Who knows? He must’ve upset them somehow. He

was a good man, Florean.”

“Talking of Diagon Alley,” said Mr. Weasley, “looks

like Ollivander’s gone too.”

“The wandmaker?” said Ginny, looking startled.

“That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of a struggle.

No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was

kidnapped.”

“But wands — what’ll people do for wands?”

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“They’ll make do with other makers,” said Lupin. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got

him it’s not so good for us.”

The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their

letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry’s

included a surprise: He had been made Quidditch

Captain.

“That gives you equal status with prefects!” cried

Hermione happily. “You can use our special bathroom

now and everything!”

“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,”

said Ron, examining the badge with glee. “Harry, this

is so cool, you’re my Captain — if you let me back on

the team, I suppose, ha ha. …”

“Well, I don’t suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon

Alley much longer now you’ve got these,” sighed Mrs.

Weasley, looking down Ron’s booklist. “We’ll go on

Saturday as long as your father doesn’t have to go

into work again. I’m not going there without him.”

“Mum, d’you honestly think You-Know-Who’s going to

be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?”

sniggered Ron.

“Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?”

said Mrs. Weasley, firing up at once. “If you think

security’s a laughing matter you can stay behind and

I’ll get your things myself —”

“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George’s

shop!” said Ron hastily.

“Then you just buck up your ideas, young man,

before I decide you’re too immature to come with us!”

said Mrs. Weasley angrily, snatching up her clock, all

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nine hands of which were still pointing at “mortal peril,” and balancing it on top of a pile of just-laundered towels. “And that goes for returning to

Hogwarts as well!”

Ron turned to stare incredulously at Harry as his

mother hoisted the laundry basket and the teetering

clock into her arms and stormed out of the room.

“Blimey … you can’t even make a joke round here

anymore. …”

But Ron was careful not to be flippant about

Voldemort over the next few days. Saturday dawned

without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley,

though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who

would be staying at home with Fleur (much to

Hermione and Ginny’s pleasure), passed a full money

bag across the table to Harry.

“Where’s mine?” demanded Ron at once, his eyes

wide.

“That’s already Harry’s, idiot,” said Bill. “I got it out of

your vault for you, Harry, because it’s taking about

five hours for the public to get to their gold at the

moment, the goblins have tightened security so

much. Two days ago Arkie Philpott had a Probity

Probe stuck up his … Well, trust me, this way’s

easier.”

“Thanks, Bill,” said Harry, pocketing his gold.

“ ’E is always so thoughtful,” purred Fleur adoringly,

stroking Bill’s nose. Ginny mimed vomiting into her

cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his

cornflakes, and Ron thumped him on the back.

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It was an overcast, murky day. One of the special

Ministry of Magic cars, in which Harry had ridden

once before, was awaiting them in the front yard

when they emerged from the house, pulling on their

cloaks.

“It’s good Dad can get us these again,” said Ron

appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car

moved smoothly away from the Burrow, Bill and Fleur

waving from the kitchen window. He, Harry,

Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy

comfort in the wide backseat.

“Don’t get used to it, it’s only because of Harry,” said

Mr. Weasley over his shoulder. He and Mrs. Weasley

were in front with the Ministry driver; the front

passenger seat had obligingly stretched into what

resembled a two-seater sofa. “He’s been given top-

grade security status. And we’ll be joining up with

additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”

Harry said nothing; he did not much fancy doing his

shopping while surrounded by a battalion of Aurors.

He had stowed his Invisibility Cloak in his backpack

and felt that, if that was good enough for

Dumbledore, it ought to be good enough for the

Ministry, though now he came to think of it, he was

not sure the Ministry knew about his cloak.

“Here you are, then,” said the driver, a surprisingly

short while later, speaking for the first time as he

slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside

the Leaky Cauldron. “I’m to wait for you, any idea

how long you’ll be?”

“A couple of hours, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley. “Ah,

good, he’s here!”

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Harry imitated Mr. Weasley and peered through the

window; his heart leapt. There were no Aurors waiting

outside the inn, but instead the gigantic, black-

bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts

gamekeeper, wearing a long beaverskin coat, beaming

at the sight of Harry’s face and oblivious to the

startled stares of passing Muggles.

“Harry!” he boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone-

crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of

the car. “Buckbeak — Witherwings, I mean — yeh

should see him, Harry, he’s so happy ter be back in

the open air —”

“Glad he’s pleased,” said Harry, grinning as he

massaged his ribs. “We didn’t know ‘security’ meant

you!”

“I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry

wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, but Dumbledore

said I’d do,” said Hagrid proudly, throwing out his

chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Let’s

get goin’ then — after yeh, Molly, Arthur —”

The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Harry’s

memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord,

wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He

looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he

could speak, Hagrid said importantly, “Jus’ passin’

through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts

business, yeh know.”

Tom nodded gloomily and returned to wiping glasses;

Harry, Hermione, Hagrid, and the Weasleys walked

through the bar and out into the chilly little courtyard

at the back where the dustbins stood. Hagrid raised

his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the

wall, which opened at once to form an archway onto a

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winding cobbled street. They stepped through the

entrance and paused, looking around.

Diagon Alley had changed. The colorful, glittering

window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients,

and cauldrons were lost to view, hidden behind the

large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted

over them. Most of these somber purple posters

carried blown-up versions of the security advice on

the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over

the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white

photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the

loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front

of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were

boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue’s Ice

Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of

shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street.

The nearest one, which had been erected outside

Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning,

had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:

AMULETS

Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi

A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of

silver symbols on chains at passersby.

“One for your little girl, madam?” he called at Mrs.

Weasley as they passed, leering at Ginny. “Protect her

pretty neck?”

“If I were on duty …” said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily

at the amulet seller.

“Yes, but don’t go arresting anyone now, dear, we’re

in a hurry,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a

list. “I think we’d better do Madam Malkin’s first,

Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron’s showing

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much too much ankle in his school robes, and you

must need new ones too, Harry, you’ve grown so

much — come on, everyone —”

“Molly, it doesn’t make sense for all of us to go to

Madam Malkin’s,” said Mr. Weasley. “Why don’t those

three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and

Blotts and get everyone’s schoolbooks?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly

torn between a desire to finish the shopping quickly

and the wish to stick together in a pack. “Hagrid, do

you think — ?”

“Don’ fret, they’ll be fine with me, Molly,” said Hagrid

soothingly, waving an airy hand the size of a dustbin

lid. Mrs. Weasley did not look entirely convinced, but

allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish

and Blotts with her husband and Ginny while Harry,

Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam

Malkin’s.

Harry noticed that many of the people who passed

them had the same harried, anxious look as Mrs.

Weasley, and that nobody was stopping to talk

anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own

tightly knit groups, moving intently about their

business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.

“Migh’ be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us,”

said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin’s and

bending down to peer through the window. “I’ll stand

guard outside, all right?”

So Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop

together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but

no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than

they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack

of dress robes in spangled green and blue.

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“… not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone. ”

There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry

recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said,

“Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is

supposed to go wandering around on our own

anymore, it’s nothing to do with being a child —”

“Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!”

A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-

blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a

handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with

pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He

strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a

few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and

Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His light gray

eyes narrowed.

“If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a

Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!”

said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the

clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand.

“And I don’t want wands drawn in my shop either!”

she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had

shown her Harry and Ron both standing there with

their wands out and pointing at Malfoy. Hermione,

who was standing slightly behind them, whispered,

“No, don’t, honestly, it’s not worth it. …”

“Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,”

sneered Malfoy. “Who blacked your eye, Granger? I

want to send them flowers.”

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“That’s quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply,

looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam —

please —”

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes

rack.

“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron.

“If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is

the last thing you ever do.”

“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing

into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor,

still resembled her sister’s. He was as tall as she was

now. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in,

are you?”

Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart.

“Really, you shouldn’t accuse — dangerous thing to

say — wands away, please!”

But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy

smiled unpleasantly.

“I see that being Dumbledore’s favorite has given you

a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But

Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.”

Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow …

look at that … he’s not here now! So why not have a

go? They might be able to find you a double cell in

Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”

Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but

stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.

“Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!”

Malfoy snarled.

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“It’s all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I

expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I

am reunited with Lucius.”

Harry raised his wand higher.

“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and

attempting to push it down by his side. “Think. …

You mustn’t. … You’ll be in such trouble. …”

Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot,

then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was

happening in the hope that it wouldn’t. She bent

toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.

“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more,

dear, let me just —”

“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away.

“Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman!

Mother — I don’t think I want these anymore —”

He pulled the robes over his head and threw them

onto the floor at Madam Malkin’s feet.

“You’re right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a

contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the

kind of scum that shops here. … We’ll do better at

Twilfitt and Tatting’s.”

And with that, the pair of them strode out of the

shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could

into Ron on the way out.

“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the

fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them

like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.

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She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron’s and Harry’s new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard’s

dress robes instead of witch’s, and when she finally

bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of

being glad to see the back of them.

“Got ev’rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they

reappeared at his side.

“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “Bu’ they wouldn’

dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley,

Harry. Don’ worry abou’ them.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but

before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable

notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all

clutching heavy packages of books.

“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your

robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary

and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George’s — stick

close, now. …”

Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the

Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying

Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every

minute or so, they headed farther along the street in

search of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop

run by Fred and George.

“We really haven’t got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said.

“So we’ll just have a quick look around and then back

to the car. We must be close, that’s number ninety-

two … ninety-four …”

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“Whoa, ” said Ron, stopping in his tracks.

Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts

around them, Fred and George’s windows hit the eye

like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking

back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few

rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a

halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly

full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped,

flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry’s eyes began to

water just looking at it. The right-hand window was

covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the

Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:

WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT

YOU-KNOW-WHO?

YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT

U-NO-POO—

THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION

THAT’S GRIPPING THE NATION!

Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan

beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley

gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved

silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.”

“They’ll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered.

“No they won’t!” said Ron, who, like Harry, was

laughing. “This is brilliant!”

And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was

packed with customers; Harry could not get near the

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shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes

that the twins had perfected during their last,

unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the

Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one

battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of

trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber

chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most

expensive beating the unwary user around the head

and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-

Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties.

A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his

way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted

ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man

slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows,

both perched on a box that read: REUSABLE

HANGMAN — SPELL IT OR HE’LL SWING!

“ ‘Patented Daydream Charms …’ ”

Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large

display near the counter and was reading the

information on the back of a box bearing a highly

colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning

girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.

“ ‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-

quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy

to fit into the average school lesson and virtually

undetectable (side effects include vacant expression

and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.’

You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that

really is extraordinary magic!”

“For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them, “you

can have one for free.”

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A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his

flaming hair.

“How are you, Harry?” They shook hands. “And

what’s happened to your eye, Hermione?”

“Your punching telescope,” she said ruefully.

“Oh blimey, I forgot about those,” said Fred. “Here —”

He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to

her; she unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow

paste.

“Just dab it on, that bruise’ll be gone within the

hour,” said Fred. “We had to find a decent bruise

remover. We’re testing most of our products on

ourselves.”

Hermione looked nervous. “It is safe, isn’t it?” she

asked.

“ ’Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry,

I’ll give you a tour.”

Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste

and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where

he saw a stand of card and rope tricks.

“Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing

them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love

Muggle stuff. It’s not a big earner, but we do fairly

steady business, they’re great novelties. … Oh, here’s

George. …”

Fred’s twin shook Harry’s hand energetically.

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“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that’s where we’re making the real money — pocket

anything, you, and you’ll pay in more than Galleons!”

he added warningly to a small boy who hastily

whipped his hand out of the tub labeled EDIBLE

DARK MARKS — THEY’LL MAKE ANYONE SICK!

George pushed back a curtain beside the Muggle

tricks and Harry saw a darker, less crowded room.

The packaging on the products lining these shelves

was more subdued.

“We’ve just developed this more serious line,” said

Fred. “Funny how it happened …”

“You wouldn’t believe how many people, even people

who work at the Ministry, can’t do a decent Shield

Charm,” said George. “ ’Course, they didn’t have you

teaching them, Harry.”

“That’s right. … Well, we thought Shield Hats were a

bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx

you while wearing it and watch his face when the jinx

just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five

hundred for all its support staff! And we’re still

getting massive orders!”

“So we’ve expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks,

Shield Gloves …”

“… I mean, they wouldn’t help much against the

Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate hexes

or jinxes …”

“And then we thought we’d get into the whole area of

Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it’s such a

money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically.

“This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we’re

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importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”

“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the

shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of

weird-looking black horn-type objects that were

indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just

drop one surreptitiously and it’ll run off and make a

nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if

you need one.

“Handy,” said Harry, impressed.

“Here,” said George, catching a couple and throwing

them to Harry.

A young witch with short blonde hair poked her head

around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was

wearing magenta staff robes.

“There’s a customer out here looking for a joke

cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.

Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George

called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride.

“Right you are, Verity, I’m coming,” said George

promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you

want, all right? No charge.”

“I can’t do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled

out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.

“You don’t pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away

Harry’s gold.

“But —”

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“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven’t forgotten,”

said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just

remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.”

George swept off through the curtain to help with the

customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main

part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still

poring over the Patented Daydream Charms.

“Haven’t you girls found our special WonderWitch

products yet?” asked Fred. “Follow me, ladies. …”

Near the window was an array of violently pink

products around which a cluster of excited girls was

giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both

hung back, looking wary.

“There you go,” said Fred proudly. “Best range of love

potions you’ll find anywhere.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Do they work?”

she asked.

“Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a

time depending on the weight of the boy in question

—”

“— and the attractiveness of the girl,” said George,

reappearing suddenly at their side. “But we’re not

selling them to our sister,” he added, becoming

suddenly stern, “not when she’s already got about five

boys on the go from what we’ve —”

“Whatever you’ve heard from Ron is a big fat lie,” said

Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink

pot off the shelf. “What’s this?”

“Guaranteed ten-second pimple vanisher,” said Fred.

“Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but

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don’t change the subject. Are you or are you not

currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?”

“Yes, I am,” said Ginny. “And last time I looked, he

was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?”

She was pointing at a number of round balls of fluff

in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the

bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks.

“Pygmy Puffs,” said George. “Miniature puffskeins, we

can’t breed them fast enough. So what about Michael

Corner?”

“I dumped him, he was a bad loser,” said Ginny,

putting a finger through the bars of the cage and

watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. “They’re

really cute!”

“They’re fairly cuddly, yes,” conceded Fred. “But

you’re moving through boyfriends a bit fast, aren’t

you?”

Ginny turned to look at him, her hands on her hips.

There was such a Mrs. Weasley-ish glare on her face

that Harry was surprised Fred didn’t recoil.

“It’s none of your business. And I’ll thank you, ” she

added angrily to Ron, who had just appeared at

George’s elbow, laden with merchandise, “not to tell

tales about me to these two!”

“That’s three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut,” said

Fred, examining the many boxes in Ron’s arms.

“Cough up.”

“I’m your brother!”

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“And that’s our stuff you’re nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I’ll knock off the Knut.”

“But I haven’t got three Galleons, nine Sickles!”

“You’d better put it back then, and mind you put it on

the right shelves.”

Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude

hand gesture at Fred that was unfortunately spotted

by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to

appear.

“If I see you do that again I’ll jinx your fingers

together,” she said sharply.

“Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?” said Ginny at once.

“A what?” said Mrs. Weasley warily.

“Look, they’re so sweet. …”

Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs,

and Harry, Ron, and Hermione momentarily had an

unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was

hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys’

Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder.

Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the

window and they lost sight of him.

“Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning.

“Given her the slip by the looks of it,” said Ron.

“Why, though?” said Hermione.

Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard.

Narcissa Malfoy would not have let her precious son

out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a

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real effort to free himself from her clutches. Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason

could not be innocent.

He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were

bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was

delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked

playing cards. Fred and George were both helping

customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was

standing with his back to them, looking up and down

the street.

“Get under here, quick,” said Harry, pulling his

Invisibility Cloak out of his bag.

“Oh — I don’t know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking

uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.

“Come on!” said Ron.

She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under

the cloak with Harry and Ron. Nobody noticed them

vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and

George’s products. Harry, Ron, and Hermione

squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they

could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy

had disappeared just as successfully as they had.

“He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as

quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid

would not hear them. “C’mon.”

They scurried along, peering left and right, through

shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed

ahead.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Turning left?”

“Big surprise,” whispered Ron.

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For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into

Knockturn Alley and out of sight.

“Quick, or we’ll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up.

“Our feet’ll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the

cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much

more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak

nowadays.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry impatiently. “Just

hurry!”

But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the

Dark Arts, looked completely deserted. They peered

into windows as they passed, but none of the shops

seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed

it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and

suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts — or at least,

to be seen buying them.

Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch.

“Ouch!”

“Shh! Look! He’s in there!” she breathed in Harry’s

ear.

They had drawn level with the only shop in

Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin

and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister

objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls

and old bottles stood Draco Malfoy with his back to

them, just visible beyond the very same large black

cabinet in which Harry had once hidden to avoid

Malfoy and his father. Judging by the movements of

Malfoy’s hands, he was talking animatedly. The

proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired,

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stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear.

“If only we could hear what they’re saying!” said

Hermione.

“We can!” said Ron excitedly. “Hang on — damn —”

He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still

clutching as he fumbled with the largest.

“Extendable Ears, look!”

“Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Ron unraveled the

long, fleshcolored strings and began to feed them

toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door

isn’t Imperturbable —”

“No!” said Ron gleefully. “Listen!”

They put their heads together and listened intently to

the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy’s voice

could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had

been turned on.

“… you know how to fix it?”

“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he

was unwilling to commit himself. “I’ll need to see it,

though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?”

“I can’t,” said Malfoy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need

you to tell me how to do it.”

Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.

“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very

difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee

anything.”

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“No?” said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you

more confident.”

He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view

by the cabinet. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled

sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they

could see was Borgin, looking very frightened.

“Tell anyone,” said Malfoy, “and there will be

retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family

friend. He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make

sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.”

“There will be no need for —”

“I’ll decide that,” said Malfoy. “Well, I’d better be off.

And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?”

“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how

would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t

sell it.”

“Of course not … sir.”

Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had

once seen him give Lucius Malfoy.

“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my

mother, understand?”

“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing

again.

Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as

Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased

with himself. He passed so close to Harry, Ron, and

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Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen;

his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.

“What was that about?” whispered Ron, reeling in the

Extendable Ears.

“Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants

something mended … and he wants to reserve

something in there. … Could you see what he pointed

at when he said ‘that one’?”

“No, he was behind that cabinet —”

“You two stay here,” whispered Hermione.

“What are you — ?”

But Hermione had already ducked out from under the

cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the

glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell

tinkling again. Ron hastily fed the Extendable Ears

back under the door and passed one of the strings to

Harry.

“Hello, horrible morning, isn’t it?” Hermione said

brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a

suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled

through the jumble of objects on display.

“Is this necklace for sale?” she asked, pausing beside

a glass-fronted case.

“If you’ve got one and a half thousand Galleons,” said

Mr. Borgin coldly.

“Oh — er — no, I haven’t got quite that much,” said

Hermione, walking on. “And … what about this lovely

— um — skull?”

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“Sixteen Galleons.”

“So it’s for sale, then? It isn’t being … kept for

anyone?”

Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty

feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to.

Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too

because she suddenly threw caution to the winds.

“The thing is, that — er — boy who was in here just

now, Draco Malfoy, well, he’s a friend of mine, and I

want to get him a birthday present, but if he’s already

reserved anything, I obviously don’t want to get him

the same thing, so … um …”

It was a pretty lame story in Harry’s opinion, and

apparently Borgin thought so too.

“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!”

Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried

to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell

tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her

and put up the closed sign.

“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over

Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious —

”

“Well, next time you can show me how it’s done,

Master of Mystery!” she snapped.

Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to

stop so that they could dodge undetected around a

very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who

had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop,

Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his

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bag, and joined in with the other two when they

insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasley’s accusations,

that they had been in the back room all along, and

that she could not have looked properly.

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THE SLUG CLUB

Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays

pondering the meaning of Malfoy’s behavior in

Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the

satisfied look on Malfoy’s face as he had left the shop.

Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be

good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither

Ron nor Hermione seemed quite as curious about

Malfoy’s activities as he was; or at least, they seemed

to get bored of discussing it after a few days.

“Yes, I’ve already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said

Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the

windowsill in Fred and George’s room with her feet up

on one of the cardboard boxes and had only

grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced

Rune Translation. “But haven’t we agreed there could

be a lot of explanations?”

“Maybe he’s broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron

vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his

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broomstick’s bent tail twigs. “Remember that

shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?”

“But what about when he said, ‘Don’t forget to keep

that one safe’?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time.

“That sounded to me like Borgin’s got another one of

the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”

“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some

dirt off his broom handle.

“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor

Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy’s father’s in

Azkaban. Don’t you think Malfoy’d like revenge?”

Ron looked up, blinking.

“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”

“That’s my point, I don’t know!” said Harry,

frustrated. “But he’s up to something and I think we

should take it seriously. His father’s a Death Eater

and —”

Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind

Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had

just occurred to him.

“Harry?” said Hermione in an anxious voice. “What’s

wrong?”

“Your scar’s not hurting again, is it?” asked Ron

nervously.

“He’s a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He’s

replaced his father as a Death Eater!”

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There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter.

“Malfoy? He’s sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-

Who would let Malfoy join?”

“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a

repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think — ?”

“In Madam Malkin’s. She didn’t touch him, but he

yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she

went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He’s

been branded with the Dark Mark.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

“Well …” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,”

said Hermione.

“He showed Borgin something we couldn’t see,” Harry

pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously

scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it — he was

showing Borgin who he was dealing with, you saw

how seriously Borgin took him!”

Ron and Hermione exchanged another look.

“I’m not sure, Harry. …”

“Yeah, I still don’t reckon You-Know-Who would let

Malfoy join. …”

Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right,

Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and

left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for

days not to leave their washing and packing until the

last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny,

who was returning to her room carrying a pile of

freshly laundered clothes.

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“I wouldn’t go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There’s a lot of Phlegm around.”

“I’ll be careful not to slip in it.” Harry smiled.

Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to

find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow

about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs.

Weasley kept watch over a pile of self-peeling sprouts,

looking bad-tempered.

“… Bill and I ’ave almost decided on only two

bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet

togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold

— pink would of course be ’orrible with Ginny’s ’air —

”

“Ah, Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across

Fleur’s monologue. “Good, I wanted to explain about

the security arrangements for the journey to

Hogwarts tomorrow. We’ve got Ministry cars again,

and there will be Aurors waiting at the station —”

“Is Tonks going to be there?” asked Harry, handing

over his Quidditch things.

“No, I don’t think so, she’s been stationed somewhere

else from what Arthur said.”

“She has let ’erself go, zat Tonks,” Fleur mused,

examining her own stunning reflection in the back of

a teaspoon. “A big mistake if you ask —”

“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting

across Fleur again. “You’d better get on, Harry, I want

the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don’t have

the usual last-minute scramble.”

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And in fact, their departure the following morning was smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to

the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks

packed; Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed

in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron’s owl,

Pigwidgeon; and Ginny’s new purple Pygmy Puff,

Arnold, in cages.

“Au revoir, ’Arry,” said Fleur throatily, kissing him

good-bye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but

Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in

the dust at Fleur’s feet. Furious, red-faced, and dirt-

spattered, he hurried into the car without saying

good-bye.

There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at

King’s Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced,

bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward

the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party,

marched them into the station without speaking.

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs.

Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere

efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with —”

She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who

nodded briefly, seized Harry’s upper arm, and

attempted to steer him toward the barrier between

platforms nine and ten.

“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his

arm out of the Auror’s grip. He pushed his trolley

directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent

companion, and found himself, a second later,

standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where

the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam

over the crowd.

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Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within

seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced

Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow

him up the platform, looking for an empty

compartment.

“We can’t, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic.

“Ron and I’ve got to go to the prefects’ carriage first

and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry.

“You’d better get straight on the train, all of you,

you’ve only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs.

Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely

term, Ron. …”

“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry,

making up his mind on the spur of the moment.

“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly

surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the

others nevertheless.

Harry had thought it through carefully and come to

the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr.

Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he

worked at the Ministry and was therefore in the best

position to make further investigations, and secondly,

because he thought that there was not too much risk

of Mr. Weasley exploding with anger.

He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror

casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they

moved away.

“When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr.

Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.

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“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and

Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to

be in the back room of Fred and George’s shop?”

“How did you — ?”

“Harry, please. You’re talking to the man who raised

Fred and George.”

“Er … yeah, all right, we weren’t in the back room.”

“Very well, then, let’s hear the worst.”

“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my

Invisibility Cloak.”

“Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or

was it a mere whim?”

“Because I thought Malfoy was up to something,” said

Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley’s look of mingled

exasperation and amusement. “He’d given his mother

the slip and I wanted to know why.”

“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding

resigned. “Well? Did you find out why?”

“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and

started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help

him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to

keep something else for him. He made it sound like it

was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like

they were a pair. And …”

Harry took a deep breath.

“There’s something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a

mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I

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think he’s been branded with the Dark Mark. I think he’s replaced his father as a Death Eater.”

Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he

said, “Harry, I doubt whether You-Know-Who would

allow a sixteen-year-old —”

“Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would

or wouldn’t do?” asked Harry angrily. “Mr. Weasley,

I’m sorry, but isn’t it worth investigating? If Malfoy

wants something fixing, and he needs to threaten

Borgin to get it done, it’s probably something Dark or

dangerous, isn’t it?”

“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley

slowly. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested,

we raided his house. We took away everything that

might have been dangerous.”

“I think you missed something,” said Harry

stubbornly.

“Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell

that Mr. Weasley was humoring him.

There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone

had boarded the train and the doors were closing.

“You’d better hurry,” said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs.

Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!”

He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped

him load his trunk onto the train.

“Now, dear, you’re coming to us for Christmas, it’s all

fixed with Dumbledore, so we’ll see you quite soon,”

said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry

slammed the door shut behind him and the train

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began to move. “You make sure you look after

yourself and —”

The train was gathering speed.

“— be good and —”

She was jogging to keep up now.

“— stay safe!”

Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned

to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron

and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects’

carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the

corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way

toward her, dragging his trunk.

People stared shamelessly as he approached. They

even pressed their faces against the windows of their

compartments to get a look at him. He had expected

an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawping he

would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen

One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not

enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright

spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder.

“Fancy trying to find a compartment?”

“I can’t, Harry, I said I’d meet Dean,” said Ginny

brightly. “See you later.”

“Right,” said Harry. He felt a strange twinge of

annoyance as she walked away, her long red hair

dancing behind her; he had become so used to her

presence over the summer that he had almost

forgotten that Ginny did not hang around with him,

Ron, and Hermione while at school. Then he blinked

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and looked around: He was surrounded by

mesmerized girls.

“Hi, Harry!” said a familiar voice from behind him.

“Neville!” said Harry in relief, turning to see a round-

faced boy struggling toward him.

“Hello, Harry,” said a girl with long hair and large

misty eyes, who was just behind Neville.

“Luna, hi, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Luna. She was clutching

a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front

announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs

inside.

“Quibbler still going strong, then?” asked Harry, who

felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given

it an exclusive interview the previous year.

“Oh yes, circulation’s well up,” said Luna happily.

“Let’s find seats,” said Harry, and the three of them

set off along the train through hordes of silently

staring students. At last they found an empty

compartment, and Harry hurried inside gratefully.

“They’re even staring at us!” said Neville, indicating

himself and Luna. “Because we’re with you!”

“They’re staring at you because you were at the

Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into

the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all

over the Daily Prophet, you must’ve seen it.”

“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the

publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased.

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Says I’m starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!”

He pulled it out and showed it to Harry.

“Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think

it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he

vanished next day — oi, come back here, Trevor!”

And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it

made one of its frequent bids for freedom.

“Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?”

asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic

spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.

“No point now we’ve got rid of Umbridge, is there?”

said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head

against the seat as he emerged from under it. He

looked most disappointed.

“I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!”

“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It

was like having friends.”

This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna

often said and which made Harry feel a squirming

mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could

respond, however, there was a disturbance outside

their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls

was whispering and giggling together on the other

side of the glass.

“You ask him!”

“No, you!”

“I’ll do it!”

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And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed

her way through the door.

“Hi, Harry, I’m Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said

loudly and confidently. “Why don’t you join us in our

compartment? You don’t have to sit with them, ” she

added in a stage whisper, indicating Neville’s bottom,

which was sticking out from under the seat again as

he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now

wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the

look of a demented, multicolored owl.

“They’re friends of mine,” said Harry coldly.

“Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh.

Okay.”

And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.

“People expect you to have cooler friends than us,”

said Luna, once again displaying her knack for

embarrassing honesty.

“You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them was

at the Ministry. They didn’t fight with me.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then

she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and

settled down to read The Quibbler.

“We didn’t face him, though,” said Neville, emerging

from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair

and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did.

You should hear my gran talk about you. ‘ That Harry

Potter’s got more backbone than the whole Ministry of

Magic put together!’ She’d give anything to have you

as a grandson. …”

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Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the

subject to O.W.L. results as soon as he could. While

Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud

whether he would be allowed to take a

Transfiguration N.E.W.T. with only an “Acceptable,”

Harry watched him without really listening.

Neville’s childhood had been blighted by Voldemort

just as much as Harry’s had, but Neville had no idea

how close he had come to having Harry’s destiny. The

prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet,

for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had

chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.

Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville

sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped

scar and the weight of the prophecy. … Or would it?

Would Neville’s mother have died to save him, as Lily

had died for Harry? Surely she would. … But what if

she had been unable to stand between her son and

Voldemort? Would there then have been no “Chosen

One” at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and

a scarless Harry who would have been kissed good-

bye by his own mother, not Ron’s?

“You all right, Harry? You look funny,” said Neville.

Harry started. “Sorry — I —”

“Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically,

peering at Harry through her enormous colored

spectacles.

“I — what?”

“A Wrackspurt … They’re invisible. They float in

through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” she

said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.”

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She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught

each other’s eyes and hastily began to talk of

Quidditch.

The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy

as it had been all summer; they passed through

stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak,

clear sunlight. It was during one of the clear spells,

when the sun was visible almost directly overhead,

that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at

last.

“Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I’m starving,”

said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat beside

Harry and rubbing his stomach. “Hi, Neville. Hi,

Luna. Guess what?” he added, turning to Harry.

“Malfoy’s not doing prefect duty. He’s just sitting in

his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw

him when we passed.”

Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like

Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his

power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the

previous year.

“What did he do when he saw you?”

“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a

rude hand gesture. “Not like him, though, is it? Well

— that is” — he did the hand gesture again — “but

why isn’t he out there bullying first years?

“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn’t

this look as though Malfoy had more important things

on his mind than bullying younger students?

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“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said Hermione. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame

after that.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “I think he’s —”

But before he could expound on his theory, the

compartment door slid open again and a breathless

third-year girl stepped inside.

“I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom

and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met

Harry’s and she turned scarlet. She was holding out

two scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon.

Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed

to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the

compartment.

“What is it?” Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.

“An invitation,” said Harry.

Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of

lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looking

perplexedly at his own invitation.

“New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we’ll have

to go, won’t we?”

“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville

nervously, as though he was expecting detention.

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“No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was

correct. “Listen,” he added, seized by a sudden brain

wave, “let’s go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we

might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what

he’s up to.”

This idea, however, came to nothing: The corridors,

which were packed with people on the lookout for the

lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while

wearing the cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in

his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to

wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to

have increased in intensity even since he had last

walked down the train. Every now and then, students

would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better

look at him. The exception was Cho Chang, who

darted into her compartment when she saw Harry

coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her

deep in determined conversation with her friend

Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of

makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd

formation of pimples still etched across her face.

Smirking slightly, Harry pushed on.

When they reached compartment C, they saw at once

that they were not Slughorn’s only invitees, although

judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn’s welcome,

Harry was the most warmly anticipated.

“Harry, m’boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the

sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly

seemed to fill all the remaining space in the

compartment. His shiny bald head and great silvery

mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the

golden buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you,

good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!”

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Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from

Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the

only two empty seats, which were nearest the door.

Harry glanced around at their fellow guests. He

recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy

with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there

were also two seventh-year boys Harry did not know

and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and

looking as though she was not entirely sure how she

had got there, Ginny.

“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry

and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course —

”

Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or

greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and

Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come

across each other — ? No?”

McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand,

and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.

“— and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether —

?”

Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a

strained smile.

“— and this charming young lady tells me she knows

you!” Slughorn finished.

Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind

Slughorn’s back.

“Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn

cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better.

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Here, take a napkin. I’ve packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on licorice wands,

and a poor old man’s digestive system isn’t quite up

to such things. … Pheasant, Belby?”

Belby started and accepted what looked like half a

cold pheasant.

“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the

pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn

told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket

of rolls. “Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his

Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much

of your uncle, Marcus?”

Unfortunately, Belby had just taken a large mouthful

of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he

swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to

choke.

“Anapneo, ” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand

at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.

“Not … not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes

streaming.

“Well, of course, I daresay he’s busy,” said Slughorn,

looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented

the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard

work!”

“I suppose …” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take

another bite of pheasant until he was sure that

Slughorn had finished with him. “Er … he and my

dad don’t get on very well, you see, so I don’t really

know much about …”

His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold

smile and turned to McLaggen instead.

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“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he

has a rather splendid picture of the two of you

hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?”

“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen.

“We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour —

this was before he became Minister, obviously —”

“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed

Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies;

somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me …”

It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed

to have been invited because they were connected to

somebody well-known or influential — everyone

except Ginny. Zabini, who was interrogated after

McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful

witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out,

she had been married seven times, each of her

husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds

of gold). It was Neville’s turn next: This was a very

uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville’s parents, well-

known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by

Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater

cronies. At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had

the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment

on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his

parents’ flair.

“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his

seat with the air of a compere introducing his star

act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely

scratched the surface when we met over the summer!”

He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he

was a particularly large and succulent piece of

pheasant, then said, “ ‘The Chosen One,’ they’re

calling you now!”

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Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini

were all staring at him.

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely,

“there have been rumors for years. … I remember

when — well — after that terrible night — Lily —

James — and you survived — and the word was that

you must have powers beyond the ordinary —”

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly

supposed to indicate amused skepticism. An angry

voice burst out from behind Slughorn.

“Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented … at posing.

…”

“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking

around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around

Slughorn’s great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise!

I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous

Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I

wouldn’t cross her!”

Zabini merely looked contemptuous.

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry.

“Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t

know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to

print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems

little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there

was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you

were there in the thick of it all!”

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without

flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn

beamed at him.

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so

fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the

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stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for

instance —”

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning

geranium pink as he said it.

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I

were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish

is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”

“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn

with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but

both of them sat clamlike before his encouraging

smile.

“Yes … well … it is true that the Prophet often

exaggerates, of course. …” Slughorn said, sounding a

little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling

me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the

Holyhead Harpies) —”

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence,

but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn

had not finished with him, and that he had not been

convinced by Neville and Ginny.

The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about

illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom

had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug

Club” at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but

couldn’t see how to do so politely. Finally the train

emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a

red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in

the twilight.

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t

notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and

change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you

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must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails.

Harry, Blaise — any time you’re passing. Same goes

for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go,

off you go!”

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor,

Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with

interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back

along the train.

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man,

isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini.

“How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”

“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You

remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the

D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened

at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so

much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I

thought I was going to get detention, but he just

thought it was a really good hex and invited me to

lunch! Mad, eh?”

“Better reason for inviting someone than because

their mother’s famous,” said Harry, scowling at the

back of Zabini’s head, “or because their uncle —”

But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a

reckless but potentially wonderful idea. … In a

minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the

Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would

be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody

except fellow Slytherins. … If Harry could only enter,

unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear?

True, there was little of the journey left — Hogsmeade

Station had to be less than half an hour away,

judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the

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windows — but nobody else seemed prepared to take

Harry’s suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to

prove them.

“I’ll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath,

pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over

himself.

“But what’re you — ?” asked Neville.

“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as

quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train

made such caution almost pointless.

The corridors were almost completely empty now.

Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to

change into their school robes and pack up their

possessions. Though he was as close as he could get

to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick

enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini

opened the door. Zabini was already sliding it shut

when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it

closing.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” said Zabini angrily as

he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry’s

foot.

Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard;

Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over

sideways into Gregory Goyle’s lap, and in the ensuing

ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt

onto Zabini’s temporarily empty seat, and hoisted

himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that

Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, drawing

all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet

and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had

flapped around them; indeed, for one horrible

moment he thought he saw Malfoy’s eyes follow his

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trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off

him; Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking

ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and

Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats

with his head in Pansy Parkinson’s lap. Harry lay

curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that

every inch of him remained hidden, and watched

Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off Malfoy’s

forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone

would have loved to have been in her place. The

lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a

bright light over the scene: Harry could read every

word of Crabbe’s comic directly below him.

“So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?”

“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,”

said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not

that he managed to find many.”

This information did not seem to please Malfoy.

“Who else had he invited?” he demanded.

“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini.

“Oh yeah, his uncle’s big in the Ministry,” said

Malfoy.

“— someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw —”

“Not him, he’s a prat!” said Pansy.

“— and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl,”

finished Zabini.

Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand

aside.

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“He invited Longbottom?”

“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said

Zabini indifferently.

“What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?”

Zabini shrugged.

“Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at

‘ the Chosen One, ’ ” sneered Malfoy, “but that Weasley

girl! What’s so special about her?”

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy

out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even

you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Blaise, and

we all know how hard you are to please!”

“I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her

whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and

Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her

lap and allowed her to resume the stroking of his

hair.

“Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit

senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good

wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a

favorite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on

the train, or —”

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He

asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived.

They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he

heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look

happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I

don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.”

Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly

humorless laugh.

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“Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid

teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I

might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it

matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or

not?”

“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts

next year?” said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming

Malfoy at once.

“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of

a smirk. “I might have — er — moved on to bigger and

better things.”

Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry’s

heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione

say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at

Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any

plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even

Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his

haughty features. Pansy resumed the slow stroking of

Malfoy’s hair, looking dumbfounded.

“Do you mean — Him?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“Mother wants me to complete my education, but

personally, I don’t see it as that important these days.

I mean, think about it. … When the Dark Lord takes

over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or

N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t. … It’ll be

all about the kind of service he received, the level of

devotion he was shown.”

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for

him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and

not even fully qualified yet?”

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“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t

something that you need to be qualified for,” said

Malfoy quietly.

Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths

open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy

as though she had never seen anything so awe-

inspiring.

“I can see Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, clearly relishing the

effect he had created as he pointed out of the

blackened window. “We’d better get our robes on.”

Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice

Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down,

it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an

involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the

luggage rack, frowning.

Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not

much like the idea of being discovered hiding under

his Invisibility Cloak by a group of unfriendly

Slytherins. Eyes still watering and head still

throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to

disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his

relief, Malfoy seemed to decide that he had imagined

the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others,

locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky

crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak round his

neck.

Harry could see the corridors filling up again and

hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things

out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he

was until the compartment had quite emptied. At last,

with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt.

Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out

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into a crowd of second years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed.

“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for

him with her hand held out as though hoping he

would hold it. “I just want to check something.”

Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the

compartment. People were filing past, descending

onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the

compartment door and let down the blinds, so that

people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He

then bent down over his trunk and opened it again.

Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack,

his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy

wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the

mysterious broken object it was so important to

mend?

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry,

who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow

motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell,

with an agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy’s

feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his

whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly

into the cramped kneeling position. He couldn’t move

a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who

smiled broadly.

“I thought so,” he said jubilantly. “I heard Goyle’s

trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white

flash through the air after Zabini came back. …”

His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry’s trainers.

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“You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here …”

And he stamped, hard, on Harry’s face. Harry felt his

nose break; blood spurted everywhere.

“That’s from my father. Now, let’s see. …”

Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry’s

immobilized body and threw it over him.

“I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in

London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter …

or not.”

And taking care to tread on Harry’s fingers, Malfoy

left the compartment.

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SNAPE VICTORIOUS

Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath

the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose

flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices

and footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate

thought was that someone, surely, would check the

compartments before the train departed again. But at

once came the dispiriting realization that even if

somebody looked into the compartment, he would be

neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that

somebody else would walk in and step on him.

Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay

there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood

dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a

stupid situation to have landed himself in … and now

the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was

shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could

hear the scraping of trunks and the loud babble of

talk.

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Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the

train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts

and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and

down the Gryffindor table a few times, and finally

realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be

halfway back to London.

He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was

impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards,

like Dumbledore, could perform spells without

speaking, so he tried to summon his wand, which had

fallen out of his hand, by saying the words “Accio

Wand!” over and over again in his head, but nothing

happened.

He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees

that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an

owl, but no hint of a search being made or even (he

despised himself slightly for hoping it) panicked

voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A

feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he

imagined the convoy of thestral-drawn carriages

trundling up to the school and the muffled yells of

laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was

riding in, where he could be recounting his attack on

Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson.

The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his

side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of

the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to

vibrate as the engine roared into life. The Express was

leaving and nobody knew he was still on it. …

Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a

voice overhead said, “Wotcher, Harry.”

There was a flash of red light and Harry’s body

unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more

dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his

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bruised face with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the

Invisibility Cloak she had just pulled away.

“We’d better get out of here, quickly,” she said, as the

train windows became obscured with steam and they

began to move out of the station. “Come on, we’ll

jump.”

Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled

open the train door and leapt onto the platform,

which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the

train gathered momentum. He followed her, staggered

a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see

the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed,

round the corner, and disappear from view.

The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing

nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and

embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a

ridiculous position. Silently she handed him back the

Invisibility Cloak.

“Who did it?”

“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. “Thanks for …

well …”

“No problem,” said Tonks, without smiling. From

what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as

mousy-haired and miserable-looking as she had been

when he had met her at the Burrow. “I can fix your

nose if you stand still.”

Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been

intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in

whom he had a little more confidence when it came to

Healing Spells, but it seemed rude to say this, so he

stayed stock-still and closed his eyes.

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“Episkey, ” said Tonks.

Harry’s nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He

raised a hand and felt it gingerly. It seemed to be

mended.

“Thanks a lot!”

“You’d better put that cloak back on, and we can walk

up to the school,” said Tonks, still unsmiling. As

Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved

her wand; an immense silvery four-legged creature

erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness.

“Was that a Patronus?” asked Harry, who had seen

Dumbledore send messages like this.

“Yes, I’m sending word to the castle that I’ve got you

or they’ll worry. Come on, we’d better not dawdle.”

They set off toward the lane that led to the school.

“How did you find me?”

“I noticed you hadn’t left the train and I knew you

had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for

some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn

down on that compartment I thought I’d check.”

“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked.

“I’m stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school

extra protection,” said Tonks.

“Is it just you who’s stationed up here, or — ?”

“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.”

“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?”

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“That’s right.”

They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the

freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways

at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been

inquisitive (to the point of being a little annoying at

times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes.

Now she seemed older and much more serious and

purposeful. Was this all the effect of what had

happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably

that Hermione would have suggested he say

something consoling about Sirius to her, that it

hadn’t been her fault at all, but he couldn’t bring

himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for

Sirius’s death; it was no more her fault than anyone

else’s (and much less than his), but he did not like

talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they

tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks’s

long cloak whispering on the ground behind them.

Having always traveled there by carriage, Harry had

never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was

from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally

saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each

topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was

hungry, and he was quite keen to leave this new,

gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to

push open the gates, he found them chained shut.

“Alohomora!” he said confidently, pointing his wand at

the padlock, but nothing happened.

“That won’t work on these,” said Tonks. “Dumbledore

bewitched them himself.”

Harry looked around.

“I could climb a wall,” he suggested.

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“No, you couldn’t,” said Tonks flatly. “Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security’s been tightened a

hundredfold this summer.”

“Well then,” said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her

lack of helpfulness, “I suppose I’ll just have to sleep

out here and wait for morning.”

“Someone’s coming down for you,” said Tonks. “Look.”

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the

castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could

even endure Filch’s wheezy criticisms of his tardiness

and rants about how his timekeeping would improve

with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was

not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away

from them, and Harry had pulled off his Invisibility

Cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognized,

with a rush of pure loathing, the uplit hooked nose

and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand

and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains

snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice

of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently

decided that the wearing of school robes would

detract from your appearance.”

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my —” Harry began,

but Snape cut across him.

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite

— ah — safe in my hands.”

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks,

frowning.

“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like

Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,”

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said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him,

“I was interested to see your new Patronus.”

He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and

tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they

slithered, clinking, back into place.

“I think you were better off with the old one,” said

Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. “The

new one looks weak.”

As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw,

fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks’s face.

Then she was covered in darkness once more.

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as

he began the walk up to the school with Snape.

“Thanks for … everything.”

“See you, Harry.”

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as

though his body was generating waves of hatred so

powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could

not feel them burning him. He had loathed Snape

from their first encounter, but Snape had placed

himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility

of Harry’s forgiveness by his attitude toward Sirius.

Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to

think over the summer, and had concluded that

Snape’s snide remarks to Sirius about remaining

safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the

Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably

been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the

Ministry the night that he had died. Harry clung to

this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape,

which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if

anyone was not sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the

man now striding next to him in the darkness.

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“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,”

said Snape. “And, let me see, another twenty for your

Muggle attire. You know, I don’t believe any House

has ever been in negative figures this early in the

term: We haven’t even started pudding. You might

have set a record, Potter.”

The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to

blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been

immobilized all the way back to London than tell

Snape why he was late.

“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did

you?” Snape continued. “And with no flying car

available you decided that bursting into the Great

Hall halfway through the feast ought to create a

dramatic effect.”

Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his

chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come

to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he

could needle and torment Harry without anyone else

listening.

They reached the castle steps at last and as the great

oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged

entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of

tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the

doors standing open into the Great Hall. Harry

wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak

back on, thereby gaining his seat at the long

Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the

farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed.

As though he had read Harry’s mind, however, Snape

said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees

you, which is what you wanted, I’m sure.”

Harry turned on the spot and marched straight

through the open doors: anything to get away from

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Snape. The Great Hall, with its four long House tables and its staff table set at the top of the room, was

decorated as usual with floating candles that made

the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a

shimmering blur to Harry, however, who walked so

fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before

people really started to stare, and by the time they

were standing up to get a good look at him, he had

spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches

toward them, and forced his way in between them.

“Where’ve you — blimey, what’ve you done to your

face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone

else in the vicinity.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a

spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.

“You’re covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here

—”

She raised her wand, said “Tergeo!” and siphoned off

the dried blood.

“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face.

“How’s my nose looking?”

“Normal,” said Hermione anxiously. “Why shouldn’t

it? Harry, what happened? We’ve been terrified!”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Harry curtly. He was very

conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus

were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the

Gryffindor ghost, had come floating along the bench

to eavesdrop.

“But —” said Hermione.

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“Not now, Hermione,” said Harry, in a darkly

significant voice. He hoped very much that they would

all assume he had been involved in something heroic,

preferably involving a couple of Death Eaters and a

dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story

as far and wide as he could, but there was always a

chance it wouldn’t reach too many Gryffindor ears.

He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs

and a handful of chips, but before he could take them

they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.

“You missed the Sorting, anyway,” said Hermione, as

Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau.

“Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a

piece of treacle tart.

“More of the same, really … advising us all to unite in

the face of our enemies, you know.”

“Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?”

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for

after the feast, doesn’t he? It can’t be long now.”

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —”

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between

frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.

“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” said Hermione.

“Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.”

Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at

Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had

never quite managed to comport himself with the

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dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere

between Hagrid’s elbow and shoulder as they were

sitting side by side, and who was looking

disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry

was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor

Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid’s other side; she rarely

left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the

start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever,

glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes

magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having

always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had

been shocked to discover at the end of the previous

term that it had been she who had made the

prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry’s

parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge had

made him even less eager to find himself in her

company, but thankfully, this year he would be

dropping Divination. Her great beaconlike eyes

swiveled in his direction; he hastily looked away

toward the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming

the shattering of a nose to raucous laughter and

applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart,

his insides burning again. What he would not give to

fight Malfoy one-on-one …

“So what did Professor Slughorn want?” Hermione

asked.

“To know what really happened at the Ministry,” said

Harry.

“Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione.

“People were interrogating us about it on the train,

weren’t they, Ron?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “All wanting to know if you really

are ‘the Chosen One’ —”

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“There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless

Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward

Harry so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am

considered something of a Potter authority; it is

widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the

spirit community that I will not pester you for

information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he

can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told

them. ‘I would rather die than betray his trust.’ ”

“That’s not saying much, seeing as you’re already

dead,” Ron observed.

“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt

axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones,

and he rose into the air and glided back toward the

far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got

to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter

echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.

“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling

broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace

the whole room.

“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione.

She was not the only one who had noticed.

Dumbledore’s right hand was as blackened and dead-

looking as it had been on the night he had come to

fetch Harry from the Dursleys. Whispers swept the

room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly,

merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve

over his injury.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now … to

our new students, welcome, to our old students,

welcome back! Another year full of magical education

awaits you …”

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“His hand was like that when I saw him over the

summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought

he’d have cured it by now, though … or Madam

Pomfrey would’ve done.”

“It looks as if it’s died,” said Hermione, with a

nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries

you can’t cure … old curses … and there are poisons

without antidotes. …”

“… and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say

that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought

at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch

teams should give their names to their Heads of

House as usual. We are also looking for new

Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff

this year. Professor Slughorn” — Slughorn stood up,

his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big

waistcoated belly casting the table below into shadow

— “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to

resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

“Potions?”

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered

whether they had heard right.

“Potions?” said Ron and Hermione together, turning

to stare at Harry. “But you said —”

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore,

raising his voice so that it carried over all the

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muttering, “will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in

his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at

the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given

the Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this

time? Hadn’t it been widely known for years that

Dumbledore did not trust him to do it?

“But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be

teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said

Hermione.

“I thought he was!” said Harry, racking his brains to

remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but

now that he came to think of it, he was unable to

recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn

would be teaching.

Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did

not stand up at the mention of his name; he merely

raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause

from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could

detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so

much.

“Well, there’s one good thing,” he said savagely.

“Snape’ll be gone by the end of the year.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ron.

“That job’s jinxed. No one’s lasted more than a year.

… Quirrell actually died doing it. … Personally, I’m

going to keep my fingers crossed for another death.

…”

“Harry!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful.

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“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” said Ron reasonably. “That Slughorn

bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody

didn’t.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and

Hermione were not the only ones who had been

talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of

conversation at the news that Snape had finally

achieved his heart’s desire. Seemingly oblivious to the

sensational nature of the news he had just imparted,

Dumbledore said nothing more about staff

appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure

that the silence was absolute before continuing.

“Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord

Voldemort and his followers are once more at large

and gaining in strength.”

The silence seemed to tauten and strain as

Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy

was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork

hover in midair with his wand, as though he found

the headmaster’s words unworthy of his attention.

“I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous

the present situation is, and how much care each of

us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain

safe. The castle’s magical fortifications have been

strengthened over the summer, we are protected in

new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard

scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any

student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to

abide by any security restrictions that your teachers

might impose upon you, however irksome you might

find them — in particular, the rule that you are not to

be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you

notice anything strange or suspicious within or

outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff

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immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves,

always, with the utmost regard for your own and

others’ safety.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students

before he smiled once more.

“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable

as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top

priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow.

Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!”

With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches

were moved back and the hundreds of students began

to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories.

Harry, who was in no hurry at all to leave with the

gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to

allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping,

lagged behind, pretending to retie the lace on his

trainer, allowing most of the Gryffindors to draw

ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill

her prefect’s duty of shepherding the first years, but

Ron remained with Harry.

“What really happened to your nose?” he asked, once

they were at the very back of the throng pressing out

of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else.

Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their

friendship that Ron did not laugh.

“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,”

he said darkly.

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly.

“Listen to what he was saying before he found out I

was there. …”

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Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoy’s

boasts. With what Harry considered pure

pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed.

“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for

Parkinson. … What kind of mission would You-Know-

Who have given him?”

“How d’you know Voldemort doesn’t need someone at

Hogwarts? It wouldn’t be the first —”

“I wish yeh’d stop sayin’ tha’ name, Harry,” said a

reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his

shoulder to see Hagrid shaking his head.

“Dumbledore uses that name,” said Harry stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, tha’s Dumbledore, innit?” said Hagrid

mysteriously. “So how come yeh were late, Harry? I

was worried.”

“Got held up on the train,” said Harry. “Why were you

late?”

“I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’

the time. He’s got a new home up in the mountains

now, Dumbledore fixed it — nice big cave. He’s much

happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a

good chat.”

“Really?” said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron’s

eye; the last time he had met Hagrid’s half-brother, a

vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the

roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of

which he was unable to pronounce properly.

“Oh yeah, he’s really come on,” said Hagrid proudly.

“Yeh’ll be amazed. I’m thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as

me assistant.”

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Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the

oak front doors.

“Anyway, I’ll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson’s straight

after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck

— I mean, Witherwings!”

Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of

the front doors into the darkness.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell

that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as

himself.

“You’re not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are

you?”

Ron shook his head. “And you’re not either, are you?”

Harry shook his head too.

“And Hermione,” said Ron, “she’s not, is she?”

Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid

would say when he realized his three favorite

students had given up his subject, he did not like to

think.

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THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room

before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some

support for his theory, Harry lost no time in telling

Hermione what he had overheard Malfoy saying on

the Hogwarts Express.

“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson,

wasn’t he?” interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione

could say anything.

“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t know. … It would

be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important

than he is … but that’s a big lie to tell. …”

“Exactly,” said Harry, but he could not press the

point, because so many people were trying to listen in

to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and

whispering behind their hands.

“It’s rude to point,” Ron snapped at a particularly

minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to

climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been

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muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of

the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered.

“I love being a sixth year. And we’re going to be

getting free time this year. Whole periods when we

can just sit up here and relax.”

“We’re going to need that time for studying, Ron!” said

Hermione, as they set off down the corridor.

“Yeah, but not today,” said Ron. “Today’s going to be

a real doss, I reckon.”

“Hold it!” said Hermione, throwing out an arm and

halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to

push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly

in his hand. “Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it

over,” she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed

over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and

took off after his friends. Ron waited for him to

vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione’s grip.

“Excellent, I’ve always wanted one of these.”

Hermione’s remonstration was drowned by a loud

giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron’s

remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as

she passed them, glancing back at Ron over her

shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and

streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares

of sky visible through the high mullioned windows.

While they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon,

Harry and Ron told Hermione about their

embarrassing conversation with Hagrid the previous

evening.

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“But he can’t really think we’d continue Care of

Magical Creatures!” she said, looking distressed. “I

mean, when has any of us expressed … you know …

any enthusiasm?”

“That’s it, though, innit?” said Ron, swallowing an

entire fried egg whole. “We were the ones who made

the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But

he thinks we liked the stupid subject. D’you reckon

anyone’s going to go on to N.E.W.T.?”

Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no

need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their

year would want to continue Care of Magical

Creatures. They avoided Hagrid’s eye and returned

his cheery wave only halfheartedly when he left the

staff table ten minutes later.

After they had eaten, they remained in their places,

awaiting Professor McGonagall’s descent from the

staff table. The distribution of class schedules was

more complicated than usual this year, for Professor

McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody

had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue

with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.

Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with

Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts,

Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient

Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first-period

Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took

a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious

as Professor McGonagall looked down his application

and then consulted his O.W.L. results.

“Herbology, fine,” she said. “Professor Sprout will be

delighted to see you back with an ‘Outstanding’

O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark

Arts with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ But the problem is

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Transfiguration. I’m sorry, Longbottom, but an

Acceptable’ really isn’t good enough to continue to

N.E.W.T level. I just don’t think you’d be able to cope

with the coursework.”

Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered

at him through her square spectacles.

“Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration,

anyway? I’ve never had the impression that you

particularly enjoyed it.”

Neville looked miserable and muttered something

about “my grandmother wants.”

“Hmph,” snorted Professor McGonagall. “It’s high time

your grandmother learned to be proud of the

grandson she’s got, rather than the one she thinks

she ought to have — particularly after what happened

at the Ministry.”

Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly;

Professor McGonagall had never paid him a

compliment before.

“I’m sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my

N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an ‘Exceeds

Expectations’ in Charms, however — why not try for a

N.E.W.T. in Charms?”

“My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option,”

mumbled Neville.

“Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I

shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just

because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is

not necessarily worthless.” Smiling slightly at the look

of delighted incredulity on Neville’s face, Professor

McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of

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her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville.

Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil,

whose first question was whether Firenze, the

handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination.

“He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes

between them this year,” said Professor McGonagall,

a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common

knowledge that she despised the subject of

Divination. “The sixth year is being taken by Professor

Trelawney.”

Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking

slightly crestfallen.

“So, Potter, Potter …” said Professor McGonagall,

consulting her notes as she turned to Harry.

“Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology,

Transfiguration … all fine. I must say, I was pleased

with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased.

Now, why haven’t you applied to continue with

Potions? I thought it was your ambition to become an

Auror?”

“It was, but you told me I had to get an ‘Outstanding’

in my O.W.L., Professor.”

“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching

the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly

happy to accept N.E.W.T students with ‘Exceeds

Expectations’ at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with

Potions?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I didn’t buy the books or any

ingredients or anything —”

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“I’m sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some,” said Professor McGonagall. “Very well, Potter,

here is your schedule. Oh, by the way — twenty

hopefuls have already put down their names for the

Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you

in due course and you can fix up trials at your

leisure.”

A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same

subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table

together.

“Look,” said Ron delightedly, gazing at his schedule,

“we’ve got a free period now … and a free period after

break … and after lunch … excellent!”

They returned to the common room, which was empty

apart from a half dozen seventh years, including Katie

Bell, the only remaining member of the original

Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined in

his first year.

“I thought you’d get that, well done,” she called over,

pointing at the Captain’s badge on Harry’s chest. “Tell

me when you call trials!”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Harry, “you don’t need to try

out, I’ve watched you play for five years. …”

“You mustn’t start off like that,” she said warningly.

“For all you know, there’s someone much better than

me out there. Good teams have been ruined before

now because Captains just kept playing the old faces,

or letting in their friends. …”

Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing

with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the

fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common

room, snarling and attempting to take bites of the

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tapestry. Crookshanks’s yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close.

An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common

room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom

four floors below. Hermione was already queuing

outside, carrying an armful of heavy books and

looking put-upon.

“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said

anxiously, when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen-

inch essay, two translations, and I’ve got to read

these by Wednesday!”

“Shame,” yawned Ron.

“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us

loads.”

The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape

stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as

ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell

over the queue immediately.

“Inside,” he said.

Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had

imposed his personality upon the room already; it

was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn

over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New

pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing

people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly

injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody

spoke as they settled down, looking around at the

shadowy, gruesome pictures.

“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said

Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class

from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her

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copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to

you, and I want your fullest attention.”

His black eyes roved over their upturned faces,

lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry’s

than anyone else’s.

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I

believe.”

You believe … like you haven’t watched them all come

and go, Snape, hoping you’d be next, thought Harry

scathingly.

“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own

methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am

surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this

subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you

manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will

be much more advanced.”

Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking

now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to

keep him in view.

“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-

changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a

many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is

severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than

before. You are fighting that which is unfixed,

mutating, indestructible.”

Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to

respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another

to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving

caress in his voice?

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“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you

seek to undo. These pictures” — he indicated a few of

them as he swept past — “give a fair representation of

what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the

Cruciatus Curse” — he waved a hand toward a witch

who was clearly shrieking in agony — “feel the

Dementor’s Kiss” — a wizard lying huddled and

blank-eyed, slumped against a wall — “or provoke the

aggression of the Inferius” — a bloody mass upon the

ground.

“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil

in a high-pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using

them?”

“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said

Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to

assume he might use them again. Now …”

He set off again around the other side of the

classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched

him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind

him.

“… you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of

nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a

nonverbal spell?”

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Snape took his

time looking around at everybody else, making sure

he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well —

Miss Granger?”

“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of

magic you’re about to perform,” said Hermione,

“which gives you a split-second advantage.”

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“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six, ” said Snape

dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered),

“but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to

using magic without shouting incantations gain an

element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all

wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of

concentration and mind power which some” — his

gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more —

“lack.”

Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous

Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused

to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape

looked away.

“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One

partner will attempt to jinx the other without

speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in

equal silence. Carry on.”

Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at

least half the class (everyone who had been a member

of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the

previous year. None of them had ever cast the charm

without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of

cheating ensued; many people were merely

whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud.

Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione

managed to repel Neville’s muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx

without uttering a single word, a feat that would

surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor

from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly,

but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as

they practiced, looking just as much like an

overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and

Ron struggling with the task.

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Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was

purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save

himself from the temptation of muttering the

incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting on

tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever

to come.

“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here

— let me show you —”

He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry

reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells

forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!”

His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked

off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had

looked around and now watched as Snape righted

himself, scowling.

“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing

nonverbal spells, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.

“Yes, sir. ”

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”

The words had escaped him before he knew what he

was saying. Several people gasped, including

Hermione. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and

Seamus grinned appreciatively.

“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I

do not take cheek from anyone, Potter … not even ‘ the

Chosen One. ’ ”

“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they

were safely on their way to break a short while later.

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“You really shouldn’t have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?”

“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice!” fumed

Harry. “I had enough of that during those

Occlumency lessons! Why doesn’t he use another

guinea pig for a change? What’s Dumbledore playing

at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear

him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All

that unfixed, indestructible stuff —”

“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit

like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face

Voldemort. You said it wasn’t just memorizing a

bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your

brains and your guts — well, wasn’t that what Snape

was saying? That it really comes down to being brave

and quick-thinking?”

Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his

words as well worth memorizing as The Standard

Book of Spells that he did not argue.

“Harry! Hey, Harry!”

Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters

on last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team, was

hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment.

“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you’re the

new Captain. When’re you holding trials?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that

Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team.

“I’ll let you know.”

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“Oh, right. I was hoping it’d be this weekend —”

But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized

the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving

Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron

and Hermione, unrolling the parchment as he went.

Dear Harry,

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday.

Kindly come along to my office at 8 p.m. I hope you are

enjoying your first day back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the

message over Harry’s shoulder and was looking

perplexed.

“It’s the password to get past the gargoyle outside his

study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape’s not

going to be pleased. … I won’t be able to do his

detention!”

He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break

speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry.

Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes

and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not

know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and

thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted

to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic. After

break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and

Ron returned to the common room, where they

grudgingly started Snape’s homework. This turned

out to be so complex that they still had not finished

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when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the

process). They had only just finished when the bell

rang for the afternoon’s double Potions and they beat

the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that

had, for so long, been Snape’s.

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there

were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T.

level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve

the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had

made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws

were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan,

whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous

manner.

“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand

as Harry approached, “didn’t get a chance to speak in

Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good

lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of

course, for us old D.A. lags … And how are you, Ron

— Hermione?”

Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon

door opened and Slughorn’s belly preceded him out of

the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus

mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he

greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.

The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of

vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione

sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling

cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together,

as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and

Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the

one nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting

one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever

inhaled: Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of

treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle,

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and something flowery he thought he might have

smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was

breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion’s

fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great

contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron,

who grinned back lazily.

“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn,

whose massive outline was quivering through the

many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and

potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced

Potion-Making. …”

“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand.

“Harry, m’boy?”

“I haven’t got a book or scales or anything — nor’s

Ron — we didn’t realize we’d be able to do the

N.E.W.T., you see —”

“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention … not to

worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use

ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I’m

sure we can lend you some scales, and we’ve got a

small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can

write to Flourish and Blotts. …”

Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after

a moment’s foraging, emerged with two very battered-

looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius

Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with

two sets of tarnished scales.

“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of

the class and inflating his already bulging chest so

that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst

off, “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look

at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind

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of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ’em, even

if you haven’t made ’em yet. Anyone tell me what this

one is?”

He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table.

Harry raised himself slightly in his seat and saw what

looked like plain water boiling away inside it.

Hermione’s well-practiced hand hit the air before

anybody else’s; Slughorn pointed at her.

“It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that

forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione.

“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,”

he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the

Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known.

… Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too … Who

can — ?”

Hermione’s hand was fastest once more.

“It’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said.

Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike

substance in the second cauldron, but did not resent

Hermione getting the credit for answering the

question; she, after all, was the one who had

succeeded in making it, back in their second year.

“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here … yes, my

dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused,

as Hermione’s hand punched the air again.

“It’s Amortentia!”

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“It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I

assume you know what it does?”

“It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!” said

Hermione.

“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its

distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”

“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said

Hermione enthusiastically, “and it’s supposed to

smell differently to each of us, according to what

attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and

new parchment and —”

But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the

sentence.

“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn,

ignoring Hermione’s embarrassment.

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to

Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most

Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.”

Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper

something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn

showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and

looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next

to her.

“Oho! ‘ One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and

she’s the best in our year!’ I’m assuming this is the

very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”

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“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for

Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.

Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time

Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione

turned to Harry with a radiant expression and

whispered, “Did you really tell him I’m the best in the

year? Oh, Harry!”

“Well, what’s so impressive about that?” whispered

Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are

the best in the year — I’d’ve told him so if he’d asked

me!”

Hermione smiled but made a “shhing” gesture, so that

they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron

looked slightly disgruntled.

“Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course. It is

impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this

will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession.

It is probably the most dangerous and powerful

potion in this room — oh yes,” he said, nodding

gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were

smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much

of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power

of obsessive love. …

“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start

work.”

“Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” said

Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron

standing on Slughorn’s desk. The potion within was

splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten

gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above

the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

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“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that

Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had

waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That.

Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most

curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he

turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out

an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis

does, Miss Granger?”

“It’s liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes

you lucky!”

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter.

Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his

sleek blond head, because he was at last giving

Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor.

Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said

Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and

disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly,

as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors

tend to succeed … at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” said

Terry Boot eagerly.

“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness,

recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said

Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know …

highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly,

and very occasionally …”

“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner

with great interest.

“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was

twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two

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tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect

days.”

He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was

playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good.

“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to

earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this

lesson.”

There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of

the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.

“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking

a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his

pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve

hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in

everything you attempt.

“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a

banned substance in organized competitions …

sporting events, for instance, examinations, or

elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary

day only … and watch how that ordinary day becomes

extraordinary!

“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to

win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of

Advanced Potion-Making. We have a little over an hour

left to us, which should be time for you to make a

decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know

it is more complex than anything you have attempted

before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from

anybody. The person who does best, however, will win

little Felix here. Off you go!”

There was a scraping as everyone drew their

cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as

people began adding weights to their scales, but

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nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly

through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could

not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that

lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book

Slughorn had lent him.

To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had

scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were

as black as the printed portions. Bending low to

decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous

owner had made annotations and crossed things out)

Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find

what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron,

he saw Malfoy cutting up valerian roots as fast as he

could.

Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the

class was doing; this was both an advantage and a

disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your

work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place

was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed

to have progressed furthest. Her potion already

resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid”

mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.

Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low

over his book again. It was really very irritating,

having to try and decipher the directions under all the

stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some

reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the

sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative

instruction:

Crush with flat side of silver dagger,

releases juice better than cutting.

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“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas

Malfoy?”

Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the

Slytherin table.

“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I

was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it

wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age. …”

And he walked away. Harry bent back over his

cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had

expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps

even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type

he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as

though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but

talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis.

The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to

cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.

“Can I borrow your silver knife?”

She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her

potion, which was still deep purple, though according

to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac

by now.

Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the

dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded

so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean

could have held it all. Hastily scooping it all into the

cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion

immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac

described by the textbook.

His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on

the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of

instructions. According to the book, he had to stir

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counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as

water. According to the addition the previous owner

had made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir

after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the

old owner be right twice?

Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and

stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The

potion turned palest pink.

“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who

was red-faced and whose hair was growing bushier

and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her

potion was still resolutely purple.

“Add a clockwise stir —”

“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she

snapped.

Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing.

Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause …

seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise …

Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his

breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry

glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else’s

potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated,

something that had certainly never happened before

in this dungeon.

“And time’s … up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring,

please!”

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into

cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally

gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached

the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie

were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike

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substance in Ron’s cauldron. He passed over Ernie’s navy concoction. Hermione’s potion he gave an

approving nod. Then he saw Harry’s, and a look of

incredulous delight spread over his face.

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon.

“Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it’s clear

you’ve inherited your mother’s talent. She was a dab

hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here

you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and

use it well!”

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his

inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at

the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at

the disappointed expression on Hermione’s. Ron

looked simply dumbfounded.

“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they

left the dungeon.

“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy

was within earshot.

Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor

table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell

them. Hermione’s face became stonier with every

word he uttered.

“I s’pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated

by her expression.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly your own work, was it?” she

said stiffly.

“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said

Ron. “Could’ve been a catastrophe, couldn’t it? But he

took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh.

“Slughorn could’ve handed me that book, but no, I get

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the one no one’s ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but —”

“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry’s left ear and

he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had

picked up in Slughorn’s dungeon. He looked around

and saw that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear

right? You’ve been taking orders from something

someone wrote in a book, Harry?”

She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was

on her mind at once.

“It’s nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice.

“It’s not like, you know, Riddle’s diary. It’s just an old

textbook someone’s scribbled on.”

“But you’re doing what it says?”

“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins,

honestly, Ginny, there’s nothing funny —”

“Ginny’s got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at

once. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd

about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who

knows?”

“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy

of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised

her wand.

“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the

front cover.

Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay

there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.

“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d’you want to

wait and see if it does a few backflips?”

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“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be

… just a textbook.”

“Good. Then I’ll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it

off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed

open on the floor.

Nobody else was looking. Harry bent low to retrieve

the book, and as he did so, he saw something

scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the

same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions

that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now

safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk

upstairs.

This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

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THE HOUSE OF GAUNT

For the rest of the week’s Potions lessons Harry

continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince’s

instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius

Borage’s, with the result that by their fourth lesson

Slughorn was raving about Harry’s abilities, saying

that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither

Ron nor Hermione was delighted by this. Although

Harry had offered to share his book with both of

them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the

handwriting than Harry did, and could not keep

asking Harry to read aloud or it might look

suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely

plowing on with what she called the “official”

instructions, but becoming increasingly bad-tempered

as they yielded poorer results than the Prince’s.

Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince

had been. Although the amount of homework they

had been given prevented him from reading the whole

of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, he had

skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was

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barely a page on which the Prince had not made

additional notes, not all of them concerned with

potion-making. Here and there were directions for

what looked like spells that the Prince had made up

himself.

“Or herself,” said Hermione irritably, overhearing

Harry pointing some of these out to Ron in the

common room on Saturday evening. “It might have

been a girl. I think the handwriting looks more like a

girl’s than a boy’s.”

“The Half-Blood Prince, he was called,” Harry said.

“How many girls have been Princes?”

Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She

merely scowled and twitched her essay on The

Principles of Rematerialization away from Ron, who

was trying to read it upside down.

Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old

copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag.

“It’s five to eight, I’d better go, I’ll be late for

Dumbledore.”

“Ooooh!” gasped Hermione, looking up at once. “Good

luck! We’ll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches

you!”

“Hope it goes okay,” said Ron, and the pair of them

watched Harry leave through the portrait hole.

Harry proceeded through deserted corridors, though

he had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor

Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to

herself as she shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing

cards, reading them as she walked.

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“Two of spades: conflict,” she murmured, as she

passed the place where Harry crouched, hidden.

“Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence.

Knave of spades: a dark young man, possibly

troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —”

She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry’s

statue.

“Well, that can’t be right,” she said, annoyed, and

Harry heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off

again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry

behind her. Harry waited until he was quite sure she

had gone, then hurried off again until he reached the

spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single

gargoyle stood against the wall.

“Acid Pops,” said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside;

the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral

stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry

stepped, so that he was carried in smooth circles up

to the door with the brass knocker that led to

Dumbledore’s office.

Harry knocked.

“Come in,” said Dumbledore’s voice.

“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking into the

headmaster’s office.

“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said

Dumbledore, smiling. “I hope you’ve had an enjoyable

first week back at school?”

“Yes, thanks, sir,” said Harry.

“You must have been busy, a detention under your

belt already!”

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“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did

not look too stern.

“I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will

do your detention next Saturday instead.”

“Right,” said Harry, who had more pressing matters

on his mind than Snape’s detention, and now looked

around surreptitiously for some indication of what

Dumbledore was planning to do with him this

evening. The circular office looked just as it always

did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-

legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of

previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in

their frames, and Dumbledore’s magnificent phoenix,

Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching

Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as

though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling

practice.

“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice.

“You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have

planned for you during these — for want of a better

word — lessons?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you

know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill

you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain

information.”

There was a pause.

“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to

tell me everything,” said Harry. It was hard to keep a

note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added.

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“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be

leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying

together through the murky marshes of memory into

thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in,

Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey

Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese

cauldron.”

“But you think you’re right?” said Harry.

“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I

make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being —

forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my

mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.”

“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you’re going

to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will

it help me … survive?”

“It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy,” said

Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him

about the next day’s weather, “and I certainly hope

that it will help you to survive.”

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the

desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to

watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside

the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was

holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with

odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve

on the desk in front of Harry.

“You look worried.”

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some

apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd

device that stored and revealed thoughts and

memories, though highly instructive, had also been

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uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its

contents, he had seen much more than he would

have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling.

“This time, you enter the Pensieve with me … and,

even more unusually, with permission.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said

Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle

containing a swirling silvery-white substance.

“Who was Bob Ogden?”

“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law

Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time

ago, but not before I had tracked him down and

persuaded him to confide these recollections to me.

We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in

the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry …”

But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the

stopper of the crystal bottle: His injured hand seemed

stiff and painful.

“Shall — shall I, sir?”

“No matter, Harry —”

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the

cork flew out.

“Sir — how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked

again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture

of revulsion and pity.

“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet.

We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.”

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Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered,

neither liquid nor gas.

“After you,” said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the

bowl.

Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged

his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet

leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through

whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was

blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had

adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him.

They were standing in a country lane bordered by

high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as

bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in

front of them stood a short, plump man wearing

enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to

molelike specks. He was reading a wooden signpost

that was sticking out of the brambles on the left-hand

side of the road. Harry knew this must be Ogden; he

was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing

the strange assortment of clothes so often chosen by

inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in

this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-

piece bathing costume. Before Harry had time to do

more than register his bizarre appearance, however,

Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane.

Dumbledore and Harry followed. As they passed the

wooden sign, Harry looked up at its two arms. The

one pointing back the way they had come read:

GREAT HANGLETON, 5 MILES. The arm pointing

after Ogden said LITTLE HANGLETON, 1 MILE.

They walked a short way with nothing to see but the

hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the

swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane

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curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected

view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Harry

could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton,

nestled between two steep hills, its church and

graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the

opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house

surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn.

Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the

steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his

stride, and Harry hurried to keep up. He thought

Little Hangleton must be their final destination and

wondered, as he had done on the night they had

found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from

such a distance. He soon discovered that he was

mistaken in thinking that they were going to the

village, however. The lane curved to the right and

when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very

edge of Ogden’s frock coat vanishing through a gap in

the hedge.

Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow

dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows

than those they had left behind. The path was

crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like

the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch

of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the

track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore

and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had

stopped and drawn his wand.

Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast

deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds

before Harry’s eyes discerned the building half-hidden

amongst the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very

strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd

decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking

all light and the view of the valley below. He wondered

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whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were

visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips

reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with

grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could

possibly live there, however, one of the windows was

thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam

or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was

cooking.

Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry,

rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees

slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front

door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake.

Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in

rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his

feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so

fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and

stumbled.

“You’re not welcome. ”

The man standing before them had thick hair so

matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several

of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and

dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have

looked comical, but he did not; the effect was

frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for

backing away several more paces before he spoke.

“Er — good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic

—”

“You’re not welcome. ”

“Er — I’m sorry — I don’t understand you,” said

Ogden nervously.

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Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the

stranger was making himself very clear in Harry’s

opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in

one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the

other.

“You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?” said

Dumbledore quietly.

“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed.

“Why can’t Ogden — ?”

But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door

again, he suddenly understood.

“He’s speaking Parseltongue?”

“Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.

The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife

in one hand, wand in the other.

“Now, look —” Ogden began, but too late: There was a

bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his

nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from

between his fingers.

“Morfin!” said a loud voice.

An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage,

banging the door behind him so that the dead snake

swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the

first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very

broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright

brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face,

gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He

came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who

was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden

on the ground.

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“Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at Ogden.

“Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And

you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?”

“S’right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?”

“Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden.

“Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t

you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private

property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my

son to defend himself.”

“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden,

clambering back to his feet.

“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.”

Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was

still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow

pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke

out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin.

“Get in the house. Don’t argue. ”

This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue;

even while he could understand what was being said,

he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all

Ogden could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point

of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a

threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering

away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and

slamming the front door behind him, so that the

snake swung sadly again.

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“It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his

coat. “That was Morfin, wasn’t it?”

“Ar, that was Morfin,” said the old man indifferently.

“Are you pure-blood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive.

“That’s neither here nor there,” said Ogden coldly,

and Harry felt his respect for Ogden rise. Apparently

Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden’s

face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to

be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about it,

I’ve seen noses like yours down in the village.”

“I don’t doubt it, if your son’s been let loose on them,”

said Ogden. “Perhaps we could continue this

discussion inside?”

“Inside?”

“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about

Morfin. We sent an owl —”

“I’ve no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don’t open

letters.”

“Then you can hardly complain that you get no

warning of visitors,” said Ogden tartly. “I am here

following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which

occurred here in the early hours of this morning —”

“All right, all right, all right!” bellowed Gaunt. “Come

in the bleeding house, then, and much good it’ll do

you!”

The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two

doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen

and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a

filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live

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adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue:

Hissy, hissy, little snakey,

Slither on the floor,

You be good to Morfin

Or he’ll nail you to the door.

There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the

open window, and Harry realized that there was

somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray

dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall

behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot

on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with

the shelf of squalid-looking pots and pans above it.

Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale,

rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother’s, stared

in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than

the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a

more defeated-looking person.

“M’daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as

Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.

“Good morning,” said Ogden.

She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at

her father turned her back on the room and

continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.

“Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the

point, we have reason to believe that your son,

Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last

night.”

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped

one of the pots.

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“Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That’s it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand

for, you useless sack of muck?”

“Mr. Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice,

as Merope, who had already picked up the pot,

flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot

again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket,

pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible

spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor

away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in

two.

Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt

screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!”

Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had

time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and

said firmly, “Reparo. ” The pot mended itself instantly.

Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to

shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it:

Instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice

man from the Ministry’s here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll

take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty

Squibs. …”

Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden,

Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands

trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her

back against the wall between the filthy window and

the stove, as though she wished for nothing more

than to sink into the stone and vanish.

“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I’ve said: the

reason for my visit —”

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“I heard you the first time!” snapped Gaunt. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming

to him — what about it, then?”

“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden

sternly.

“ ‘Morfin has broken Wizarding law.’ ” Gaunt imitated

Ogden’s voice, making it pompous and singsong.

Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a

lesson, that’s illegal now, is it?”

“Yes,” said Ogden. “I’m afraid it is.”

He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of

parchment and unrolled it.

“What’s that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt, his

voice rising angrily.

“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —”

“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are,

summoning my son anywhere?”

“I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,”

said Ogden.

“And you think we’re scum, do you?” screamed

Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-

nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who’ll come

running when the Ministry tells ’em to? Do you know

who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do

you?

“I was under the impression that I was speaking to

Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, looking wary, but standing

his ground.

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“That’s right!” roared Gaunt. For a moment, Harry

thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture,

but then realized that he was showing Ogden the

ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle

finger, waving it before Ogden’s eyes. “See this? See

this? Know what it is? Know where it came from?

Centuries it’s been in our family, that’s how far back

we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much

I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of

arms engraved on the stone?”

“I’ve really no idea,” said Ogden, blinking as the ring

sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it’s quite

beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed

—”

With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter.

For a split second, Harry thought he was going to

throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next

moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold

chain around her neck.

“See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy

gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and

gasped for breath.

“I see it, I see it!” said Ogden hastily.

“Slytherin’s!” yelled Gaunt. “Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re

his last living descendants, what do you say to that,

eh?”

“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” said Ogden in alarm, but

Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered

away from him, back to her corner, massaging her

neck and gulping for air.

“So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just

proved a complicated point beyond all possible

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dispute. “Don’t you go talking to us as if we’re dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all —

more than you can say, I don’t doubt!”

And he spat on the floor at Ogden’s feet. Morfin

cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window,

her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair,

said nothing.

“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that

neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do

with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin,

Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night.

Our information” — he glanced down at his scroll of

parchment — “is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex

on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly

painful hives.”

Morfin giggled.

“Be quiet, boy, ” snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and

Morfin fell silent again.

“And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to

Ogden. “I expect you’ve wiped the Muggle’s filthy face

clean for him, and his memory to boot —”

“That’s hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” said

Ogden. “This was an unprovoked attack on a

defenseless —”

“Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the

moment I saw you,” sneered Gaunt, and he spat on

the floor again.

“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden

firmly. “It is clear from your son’s attitude that he

feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at

his scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a

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hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and

causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —”

Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of

horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in

through the open window. Apparently the winding

lane to the village passed very close to the copse

where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his

eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward

the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her

head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white.

“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as

clearly audible through the open window as if she had

stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father

have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”

“It’s not ours,” said a young man’s voice. “Everything

on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that

cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his

children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some

of the stories they tell in the village —”

The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were

growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of

his armchair.

“Keep your seat, ” said his father warningly, in

Parseltongue.

“Tom,” said the girl’s voice again, now so close they

were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong

— but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?”

“Good lord, you’re right!” said the man’s voice. “That’ll

be the son, I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t

look at it, Cecilia, darling.”

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The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing

fainter again.

“ ‘ Darling, ’ ” whispered Morfin in Parseltongue,

looking at his sister. “ ‘ Darling, ’ he called her. So he wouldn’t have you anyway. ”

Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to

faint.

“What’s that?” said Gaunt sharply, also in

Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter.

“What did you say, Morfin?”

“She likes looking at that Muggle, ” said Morfin, a

vicious expression on his face as he stared at his

sister, who now looked terrified. “Always in the

garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at

him, isn’t she? And last night —”

Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but

Morfin went on ruthlessly, “Hanging out of the

window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she?”

“Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” said

Gaunt quietly.

All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten

Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated

at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing

and rasping.

“Is it true?” said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a

step or two toward the terrified girl. “My daughter —

pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin —

hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself

into the wall, apparently unable to speak.

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“But I got him, Father!” cackled Morfin. “I got him as he went by and he didn’t look so pretty with hives all

over him, did he, Merope?”

“You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood

traitor!” roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands

closed around his daughter’s throat.

Both Harry and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time;

Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relashio!” Gaunt

was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he

tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a

roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at

Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes

indiscriminately from his wand.

Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they

ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope’s screams

echoing in his ears.

Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main

lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with

the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome,

dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl

riding beside him on a gray horse roared with

laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the

horse’s flank and set off again, his frock coat flying,

covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell

up the lane.

“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He

took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment,

they were both soaring weightlessly through

darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet,

back in Dumbledore’s now twilit office.

“What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Harry

at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of

his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?”

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“Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating

himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry

should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the

Ministry and returned with reinforcements within

fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to

fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the

cottage, and subsequently convicted by the

Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of

Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in

Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry

employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.”

“Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval.

“I am glad to see you’re keeping up.”

“That old man was — ?”

“Voldemort’s grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore.

“Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope,

were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding

family noted for a vein of instability and violence that

flourished through the generations due to their habit

of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled

with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family

gold was squandered several generations before

Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor

and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic

amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of

family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as

his son, and rather more than his daughter.”

“So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair

and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was … Sir,

does that mean she was … Voldemort’s mother?”

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“It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort’s father. I wonder

whether you noticed?”

“The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the

horse?”

“Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes,

that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle

who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for

whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning

passion.”

“And they ended up married?” Harry said in disbelief,

unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love.

“I think you are forgetting,” said Dumbledore, “that

Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical

powers appeared to their best advantage when she

was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and

Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone

and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure,

she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to

plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for

eighteen years.

“Can you not think of any measure Merope could

have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle

companion, and fall in love with her instead?”

“The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love

potion?”

“Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she

used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed

more romantic to her, and I do not think it would

have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle

was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of

water. In any case, within a few months of the scene

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we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the

gossip it caused when the squire’s son ran off with

the tramp’s daughter, Merope.

“But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo’s. He

returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his

daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal

ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of

dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she

had done.

“From all that I have been able to discover, he never

mentioned her name or existence from that time

forth. The shock of her desertion may have

contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had

simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had

greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see

Morfin return to the cottage.”

“And Merope? She … she died, didn’t she? Wasn’t

Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a

certain amount of guessing here, although I do not

think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see,

within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom

Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little

Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around

the neighborhood that he was talking of being

‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am

sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that

had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use

those precise words for fear of being thought insane.

When they heard what he was saying, however, the

villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle,

pretending that she was going to have his baby, and

that he had married her for this reason.”

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“But she did have his baby.”

“But not until a year after they were married. Tom

Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.”

“What went wrong?” asked Harry. “Why did the love

potion stop working?”

“Again, this is guesswork,” said Dumbledore, “but I

believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her

husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by

magical means. I believe that she made the choice to

stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she

was, she had convinced herself that he would by now

have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she

thought he would stay for the baby’s sake. If so, she

was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her

again, and never troubled to discover what became of

his son.”

The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in

Dumbledore’s office seemed to glow more brightly

than before.

“I think that will do for tonight, Harry,” said

Dumbledore after a moment or two.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

He got to his feet, but did not leave.

“Sir … is it important to know all this about

Voldemort’s past?”

“Very important, I think,” said Dumbledore.

“And it … it’s got something to do with the prophecy?”

“It has everything to do with the prophecy.”

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“Right,” said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same.

He turned to go, then another question occurred to

him, and he turned back again. “Sir, am I allowed to

tell Ron and Hermione everything you’ve told me?”

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said,

“Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have

proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going

to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to

anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got

around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord

Voldemort’s secrets.”

“No, sir, I’ll make sure it’s just Ron and Hermione.

Good night.”

He turned away again, and was almost at the door

when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-

legged tables that supported so many frail-looking

silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a

large, cracked, black stone.

“Sir,” said Harry, staring at it. “That ring —”

“Yes?” said Dumbledore.

“You were wearing it when we visited Professor

Slughorn that night.”

“So I was,” Dumbledore agreed.

“But isn’t it … sir, isn’t it the same ring Marvolo

Gaunt showed Ogden?”

Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.”

“But how come — ? Have you always had it?”

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“No, I acquired it very recently,” said Dumbledore. “A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt

and uncle’s, in fact.”

“That would be around the time you injured your

hand, then, sir?”

“Around that time, yes, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling.

“Sir, how exactly — ?”

“Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another

time. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

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HERMIONE’S HELPING HAND

As Hermione had predicted, the sixth years’ free

periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron

had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to

keep up with the vast amount of homework they were

being set. Not only were they studying as though they

had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had

become more demanding than ever before. Harry

barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall

said to them these days; even Hermione had had to

ask her to repeat instructions once or twice.

Incredibly, and to Hermione’s increasing resentment,

Harry’s best subject had suddenly become Potions,

thanks to the Half-Blood Prince.

Nonverbal spells were now expected, not only in

Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and

Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at

his classmates in the common room or at mealtimes

to see them purple in the face and straining as

though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew

that they were really struggling to make spells work

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without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing

with more dangerous plants than ever in Herbology,

but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if

the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly

from behind.

One result of their enormous workload and the frantic

hours of practicing nonverbal spells was that Harry,

Ron, and Hermione had so far been unable to find

time to go and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to

meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the

few occasions when they had passed him in the

corridors or out in the grounds, he had mysteriously

failed to notice them or hear their greetings.

“We’ve got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking

up at Hagrid’s huge empty chair at the staff table the

following Saturday at breakfast.

“We’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ron.

“And we’re supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti

Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are

we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?”

“We didn’t hate it!” said Hermione.

“Speak for yourself, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts,”

said Ron darkly. “And I’m telling you now, we’ve had a

narrow escape. You didn’t hear him going on about

his gormless brother — we’d have been teaching

Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we’d stayed.”

“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” said Hermione, looking

upset.

“We’ll go down after Quidditch,” Harry assured her.

He too was missing Hagrid, although like Ron he

thought that they were better off without Grawp in

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their lives. “But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied.” He felt slightly

nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his

Captaincy. “I dunno why the team’s this popular all of

a sudden.”

“Oh, come on, Harry,” said Hermione, suddenly

impatient. “It’s not Quidditch that’s popular, it’s you!

You’ve never been more interesting, and frankly,

you’ve never been more fanciable.”

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione

spared him one look of disdain before turning back to

Harry.

“Everyone knows you’ve been telling the truth now,

don’t they? The whole Wizarding world has had to

admit that you were right about Voldemort being back

and that you really have fought him twice in the last

two years and escaped both times. And now they’re

calling you ‘the Chosen One’ — well, come on, can’t

you see why people are fascinated by you?”

Harry was finding the Great Hall very hot all of a

sudden, even though the ceiling still looked cold and

rainy.

“And you’ve been through all that persecution from

the Ministry when they were trying to make out you

were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks

on the back of your hand where that evil woman

made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to

your story anyway. …”

“You can still see where those brains got hold of me in

the Ministry, look,” said Ron, shaking back his

sleeves.

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“And it doesn’t hurt that you’ve grown about a foot over the summer either,” Hermione finished, ignoring

Ron.

“I’m tall,” said Ron inconsequentially.

The post owls arrived, swooping down through rain-

flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of

water. Most people were receiving more post than

usual; anxious parents were keen to hear from their

children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was

well at home. Harry had received no mail since the

start of term; his only regular correspondent was now

dead and although he had hoped that Lupin might

write occasionally, he had so far been disappointed.

He was very surprised, therefore, to see the snowy

white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and gray

owls. She landed in front of him carrying a large,

square package. A moment later, an identical package

landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his

minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon.

“Ha!” said Harry, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a

new copy of Advanced Potion-Making, fresh from

Flourish and Blotts.

“Oh good,” said Hermione, delighted. “Now you can

give that graffitied copy back.”

“Are you mad?” said Harry. “I’m keeping it! Look, I’ve

thought it out —”

He pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making out

of his bag and tapped the cover with his wand,

muttering, “Diffindo!” The cover fell off. He did the

same thing with the brand-new book (Hermione

looked scandalized). He then swapped the covers,

tapped each, and said, “Reparo!”

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There sat the Prince’s copy, disguised as a new book, and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts,

looking thoroughly secondhand.

“I’ll give Slughorn back the new one, he can’t

complain, it cost nine Galleons.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry

and disapproving, but was distracted by a third owl

landing in front of her carrying that day’s copy of the

Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned

the front page.

“Anyone we know dead?” asked Ron in a determinedly

casual voice; he posed the same question every time

Hermione opened her paper.

“No, but there have been more dementor attacks,”

said Hermione. “And an arrest.”

“Excellent, who?” said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix

Lestrange.

“Stan Shunpike,” said Hermione.

“What?” said Harry, startled.

“ ‘ Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular

Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been

arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr.

Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night

after a raid on his Clapham home …’ ”

“Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?” said Harry,

remembering the spotty youth he had first met three

years before. “No way!”

“He might have been put under the Imperius Curse,”

said Ron reasonably. “You never can tell.”

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“It doesn’t look like it,” said Hermione, who was still reading. “It says here he was arrested after he was

overheard talking about the Death Eaters’ secret

plans in a pub.” She looked up with a troubled

expression on her face. “If he was under the Imperius

Curse, he’d hardly stand around gossiping about

their plans, would he?”

“It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew

more than he did,” said Ron. “Isn’t he the one who

claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic

when he was trying to chat up those veela?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Harry. “I dunno what they’re

playing at, taking Stan seriously.”

“They probably want to look as though they’re doing

something,” said Hermione, frowning. “People are

terrified — you know the Patil twins’ parents want

them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already

been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night.”

“What!” said Ron, goggling at Hermione. “But

Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be!

We’ve got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells,

and we’ve got Dumbledore!”

“I don’t think we’ve got him all the time,” said

Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table

over the top of the Prophet. “Haven’t you noticed? His

seat’s been empty as often as Hagrid’s this past

week.”

Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The

headmaster’s chair was indeed empty. Now Harry

came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore

since their private lesson a week ago.

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“I think he’s left the school to do something with the Order,” said Hermione in a low voice. “I mean … it’s

all looking serious, isn’t it?

Harry and Ron did not answer, but Harry knew that

they were all thinking the same thing. There had been

a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah

Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her

mother had been found dead. They had not seen

Hannah since.

When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later

to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed

Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Remembering what

Hermione had said about the Patil twins’ parents

wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Harry was

unsurprised to see that the two best friends were

whispering together, looking distressed. What did

surprise him was that when Ron drew level with

them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked

around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at

her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk

instantly became something more like a strut. Harry

resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that

Ron had refrained from doing so after Malfoy had

broken Harry’s nose; Hermione, however, looked cold

and distant all the way down to the stadium through

the cool, misty drizzle, and departed to find a place in

the stands without wishing Ron good luck.

As Harry had expected, the trials took most of the

morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have

turned up, from first years who were nervously

clutching a selection of the dreadful old school

brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest,

looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a

large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognized immediately

from the Hogwarts Express.

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“We met on the train, in old Sluggy’s compartment,”

he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to

shake Harry’s hand. “Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.”

“You didn’t try out last year, did you?” asked Harry,

taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking

that he would probably block all three goal hoops

without even moving.

“I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials,”

said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. “Ate a

pound of doxy eggs for a bet.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Well … if you wait over there …”

He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to

where Hermione was sitting. He thought he saw a

flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen’s face and

wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential

treatment because they were both “old Sluggy’s”

favorites.

Harry decided to start with a basic test, asking all

applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten

and fly once around the pitch. This was a good

decision: The first ten was made up of first years and

it could not have been plainer that they had hardly

ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain

airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so

surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal

posts.

The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest

girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew

his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching

one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When

he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite

cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle

everyone else.

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The third group had a pileup halfway around the

pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without

broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs.

“If there’s anyone else here who’s not from

Gryffindor,” roared Harry, who was starting to get

seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!”

There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws

went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter.

After two hours, many complaints, and several

tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty

and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself

three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after

an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins,

who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and

Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition

and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though

he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted

himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now

enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.

“That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of

the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he bellowed.

Neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of

Fred and George, but he was still reasonably pleased

with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested

third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the

size of an egg on the back of Harry’s head with a

ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked

weedy but aimed well. They now joined Katie,

Demelza, and Ginny in the stands to watch the

selection of their last team member.

Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers

until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less

pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all

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the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had

joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than

ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the

crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Harry

glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem

with nerves; Harry had hoped that winning their final

match last term might have cured it, but apparently

not: Ron was a delicate shade of green.

None of the first five applicants saved more than two

goals apiece. To Harry’s great disappointment,

Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On

the last one, however, he shot off in completely the

wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and

McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth.

Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his

Cleansweep Eleven. “Good luck!” cried a voice from

the stands. Harry looked around, expecting to see

Hermione, but it was Lavender Brown. He would have

quite liked to have hidden his face in his hands, as

she did a moment later, but thought that as the

Captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so

turned to watch Ron do his trial.

Yet he need not have worried: Ron saved one, two,

three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and

resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with

difficulty, Harry turned to McLaggen to tell him that,

most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find

McLaggen’s red face inches from his own. He stepped

back hastily.

“His sister didn’t really try,” said McLaggen

menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple

like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle

Vernon’s. “She gave him an easy save.”

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“Rubbish,” said Harry coldly. “That was the one he nearly missed.”

McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his

ground this time.

“Give me another go.”

“No,” said Harry. “You’ve had your go. You saved four.

Ron saved five. Ron’s Keeper, he won it fair and

square. Get out of my way.”

He thought for a moment that McLaggen might punch

him, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace

and stormed away, growling what sounded like

threats to thin air.

Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at

him.

“Well done,” he croaked. “You flew really well —”

“You did brilliantly, Ron!”

This time it really was Hermione running toward

them from the stands; Harry saw Lavender walking

off the pitch, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather

grumpy expression on her face. Ron looked extremely

pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he

grinned at the team and at Hermione.

After fixing the time of their first full practice for the

following Thursday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade

good-bye to the rest of the team and headed off

toward Hagrid’s. A watery sun was trying to break

through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling

at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there

would be something to eat at Hagrid’s.

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“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,”

Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza,

did you see, had a bit of spin on it —”

“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione,

looking amused.

“I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron

in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him

lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth?

Looked like he’d been Confunded. …”

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione turned a very deep

shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he

was too busy describing each of his other penalties in

loving detail.

The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in

front of Hagrid’s cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp

beak at their approach and turned his huge head

toward them.

“Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He’s still a bit

scary, isn’t he?”

“Come off it, you’ve ridden him, haven’t you?” said

Ron.

Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the

hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking.

After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too.

“How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice,

moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Missing

him? But you’re okay here with Hagrid, aren’t you?”

“Oi!” said a loud voice.

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Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his

cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a

sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang,

was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and

bounded forward.

“Git away from him! He’ll have yer fingers — oh. It’s

yeh lot.”

Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron,

attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked

at them all for a split second, then turned and strode

into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

“Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked

over to the door and knocked loudly.

“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!”

There was no sound from within.

“If you don’t open the door, we’ll blast it open!” Harry

said, pulling out his wand.

“Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can’t

possibly —”

“Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back —”

But before he could say anything else, the door flew

open again as Harry had known it would, and there

stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking,

despite the flowery apron, positively alarming.

“I’m a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter!

How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!”

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“I’m sorry, sir, ” said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes.

Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called

me ‘sir’?”

“Since when have you called me ‘Potter’?”

“Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin’.

That’s me outsmarted, innit? All righ’, come in then,

yeh ungrateful little …”

Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass.

Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather

frightened.

“Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and

Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden

table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry’s

knee and drooling all over his robes. “What’s this?

Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I’m lonely or summat?”

“No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.”

“We’ve missed you!” said Hermione tremulously.

“Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ’.”

He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous

copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he

slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of

mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of

his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for

Hagrid’s cooking, and took one at once.

“Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them

at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a

brutality that suggested that each tuber had done

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him a great personal wrong, “we really wanted to

carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.”

Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought

some bogeys landed on the potatoes, and was

inwardly thankful that they were not staying for

dinner.

“We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it

into our schedules!”

“Yeah. Righ’,” said Hagrid again.

There was a funny squelching sound and they all

looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and

Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table

away from the large barrel standing in the corner that

they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked

like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing.

“What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound

interested rather than revolted, but putting down his

rock cake all the same.

“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid.

“And they grow into … ?” said Ron, looking

apprehensive.

“They won’ grow inter nuthin’,” said Hagrid. “I got ’em

ter feed ter Aragog.”

And without warning, he burst into tears.

“Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying

around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of

maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking

shoulders. “What is it?”

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“It’s … him …” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It’s

… Aragog. … I think he’s dyin’. … He got ill over the

summer an’ he’s not gettin’ better. … I don’ know

what I’ll do if he … if he … We’ve bin tergether so

long. …”

Hermione patted Hagrid’s shoulder, looking at a

complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how

she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious

baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over

giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to

reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this

was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his

monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog,

who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which

he and Ron had only narrowly escaped four years

previously.

“Is there — is there anything we can do?” Hermione

asked, ignoring Ron’s frantic grimaces and head-

shakings.

“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid,

attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the

rest o’ the tribe … Aragog’s family … they’re gettin’ a

bit funny now he’s ill … bit restive …”

“Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them,” said

Ron in an undertone.

“… I don’ reckon it’d be safe fer anyone but me ter go

near the colony at the mo’,” Hagrid finished, blowing

his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But

thanks fer offerin’, Hermione. … It means a lot. …”

After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for

although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any

inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous,

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gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for

granted that they would have liked to have done and

became his usual self once more.

“Ar, I always knew yeh’d find it hard ter squeeze me

inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them

more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —”

“We couldn’t have done,” said Hermione. “We

smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners

when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily

Prophet. ”

“Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There’s no way yeh

could’ve done it. … I’m sorry I’ve bin — yeh know —

I’ve jus’ bin worried abou’ Aragog … an’ I did wonder

whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’

yeh —”

At which all three of them stated categorically and

untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had

substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful

teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved

them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite

cheerful.

“I’m starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed

behind them and they were hurrying through the

dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the

rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one

of his back teeth. “And I’ve got that detention with

Snape tonight, I haven’t got much time for dinner. …”

As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac

McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two

attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off

the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed

gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but

Harry caught Hermione’s arm and held her back.

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“What?” said Hermione defensively.

“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks

like he was Confunded this morning. And he was

standing right in front of where you were sitting.”

Hermione blushed.

“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you

should have heard the way he was talking about Ron

and Ginny! Anyway, he’s got a nasty temper, you saw

how he reacted when he didn’t get in — you wouldn’t

have wanted someone like that on the team.”

“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that’s true. But

wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a

prefect, aren’t you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.

“What are you two doing?” demanded Ron,

reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and

looking suspicious.

“Nothing,” said Harry and Hermione together, and

they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made

Harry’s stomach ache with hunger, but they had

barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table

when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them,

blocking their path.

“Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he

boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus

mustache and puffing out his enormous belly. “I was

hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to

a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We’re

having a little party, just a few rising stars, I’ve got

McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda

Bobbin — I don’t know whether you know her? Her

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family owns a large chain of apothecaries — and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor

me by coming too.”

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished

speaking. It was as though Ron was not present;

Slughorn did not so much as look at him.

“I can’t come, Professor,” said Harry at once. “I’ve got

a detention with Professor Snape.”

“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically.

“Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now,

I’ll just have to have a word with Severus and explain

the situation. I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to

postpone your detention. Yes, I’ll see you both later!”

He bustled away out of the Hall.

“He’s got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry,

the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. “This

detention’s already been postponed once; Snape did it

for Dumbledore, but he won’t do it for anyone else.”

“Oh, I wish you could come, I don’t want to go on my

own!” said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she

was thinking about McLaggen.

“I doubt you’ll be alone, Ginny’ll probably be invited,”

snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly

to being ignored by Slughorn.

After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor

Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most

people had finished dinner by now, but they managed

to find a free table and sat down; Ron, who had been

in a bad mood ever since the encounter with

Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling.

Hermione reached out for a copy of the Evening

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Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a chair.

“Anything new?” said Harry.

“Not really …” Hermione had opened the newspaper

and was scanning the inside pages. “Oh, look, your

dad’s in here, Ron — he’s all right!” she added

quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. “It just

says he’s been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘ This

second search of the Death Eater’s residence does not

seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of

the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of

Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects

said that his team had been acting upon a confidential

tip-off. ’ ”

“Yeah, mine!” said Harry. “I told him at King’s Cross

about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get

Borgin to fix! Well, if it’s not at their house, he must

have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him —”

“But how can he have done, Harry?” said Hermione,

putting down the newspaper with a surprised look.

“We were all searched when we arrived, weren’t we?”

“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn’t!”

“Oh no, of course you weren’t, I forgot you were late.

… Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors

when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object

would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had

a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can’t

have brought in anything dangerous!”

Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley

playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before

seeing a way around this objection.

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“Someone’s sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His mother or someone.”

“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione.

“Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy

Sensors everywhere he could reach.”

Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to

say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could

have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the

school. He looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting

with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown.

“Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?”

“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron.

“Listen, it’s not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione

and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to

go, you know!” said Harry, firing up.

“Well, as I’m not invited to any parties,” said Ron,

getting to his feet again, “I think I’ll go to bed.”

He stomped off toward the door to the boys’

dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after

him.

“Harry?” said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins,

appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “I’ve got a

message for you.”

“From Professor Slughorn?” asked Harry, sitting up

hopefully.

“No … from Professor Snape,” said Demelza. Harry’s

heart sank. “He says you’re to come to his office at

half past eight tonight to do your detention — er — no

matter how many party invitations you’ve received.

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And he wanted you to know you’ll be sorting out

rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions

and — and he says there’s no need to bring protective

gloves.”

“Right,” said Harry grimly. “Thanks a lot, Demelza.”

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SILVER AND OPALS

Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing?

Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over

the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals

anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in

thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a

time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was

supposed to be giving Harry? Dumbledore had said

that the lessons were leading to something to do with

the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted,

and now he felt slightly abandoned.

Halfway through October came their first trip of the

term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether

these trips would still be allowed, given the

increasingly tight security measures around the

school, but was pleased to know that they were going

ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle

grounds for a few hours.

Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which

was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until

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breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He did not usually lie in bed reading his

textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said,

was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was

simply weird that way. Harry felt, however, that the

Half-Blood Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making

hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored

over the book, the more he realized how much was in

there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on

potions that were earning him such a glowing

reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative

little jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which

Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and

revisions, that the Prince had invented himself.

Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince’s self-

invented spells. There had been a hex that caused

toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on

Crabbe in the corridor, with very entertaining results);

a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth

(which he had twice used, to general applause, on an

unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful

of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone

nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy

conversations could be held in class without being

overheard. The only person who did not find these

charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a

rigidly disapproving expression throughout and

refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato

spell on anyone in the vicinity.

Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so

as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions

for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince

some trouble. There were many crossings-out and

alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the

page, the scribble:

Levicorpus (nvbl)

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While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at

the letters in brackets. Nvbl … that had to mean

“nonverbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able

to bring off this particular spell; he was still having

difficulty with nonverbal spells, something Snape had

been quick to comment on in every D.A.D.A. class. On

the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more

effective teacher than Snape so far.

Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it

an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head.

“Aaaaaaaargh!”

There was a flash of light and the room was full of

voices: Everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a

yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in

panic; Ron was dangling upside down in midair as

though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the

ankle.

“Sorry!” yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared

with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the

floor, having fallen out of bed. “Hang on — I’ll let you

down —”

He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in

a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he

located it and deciphered one cramped word

underneath the spell: Praying that this was the

counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his

might.

There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a

heap onto his mattress.

“Sorry,” repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and

Seamus continued to roar with laughter.

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“Tomorrow,” said Ron in a muffled voice, “I’d rather you set the alarm clock.”

By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves

out with several of Mrs. Weasley’s hand-knitted

sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves,

Ron’s shock had subsided and he had decided that

Harry’s new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in

fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with

the story as they sat down for breakfast.

“… and then there was another flash of light and I

landed on the bed again!” Ron grinned, helping

himself to sausages.

Hermione had not cracked a smile during this

anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry

disapproval upon Harry.

“Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that

potion book of yours?” she asked.

Harry frowned at her.

“Always jump to the worst conclusion, don’t you?”

“Was it?”

“Well … yeah, it was, but so what?”

“So you just decided to try out an unknown,

handwritten incantation and see what would

happen?”

“Why does it matter if it’s handwritten?” said Harry,

preferring not to answer the rest of the question.

“Because it’s probably not Ministry of Magic–

approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as

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Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, “because I’m starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy.”

Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once.

“It was a laugh!” said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle

over his sausages. “Just a laugh, Hermione, that’s

all!”

“Dangling people upside down by the ankle?” said

Hermione. “Who puts their time and energy into

making up spells like that?”

“Fred and George,” said Ron, shrugging, “it’s their

kind of thing. And, er —”

“My dad,” said Harry. He had only just remembered.

“What?” said Ron and Hermione together.

“My dad used this spell,” said Harry. “I — Lupin told

me.”

This last part was not true; in fact, Harry had seen

his father use the spell on Snape, but he had never

told Ron and Hermione about that particular

excursion into the Pensieve. Now, however, a

wonderful possibility occurred to him. Could the Half-

Blood Prince possibly be — ?

“Maybe your dad did use it, Harry,” said Hermione,

“but he’s not the only one. We’ve seen a whole bunch

of people use it, in case you’ve forgotten. Dangling

people in the air. Making them float along, asleep,

helpless.”

Harry stared at her. With a sinking feeling, he too

remembered the behavior of the Death Eaters at the

Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid.

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“That was different,” he said robustly. “They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a

laugh. You don’t like the Prince, Hermione,” he added,

pointing a sausage at her sternly, “because he’s better

than you at Potions —”

“It’s got nothing to do with that!” said Hermione, her

cheeks reddening. “I just think it’s very irresponsible

to start performing spells when you don’t even know

what they’re for, and stop talking about ‘the Prince’ as

if it’s his title, I bet it’s just a stupid nickname, and it

doesn’t seem as though he was a very nice person to

me!”

“I don’t see where you get that from,” said Harry

heatedly. “If he’d been a budding Death Eater he

wouldn’t have been boasting about being ‘half-blood,’

would he?”

Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father

had been pure-blood, but he pushed the thought out

of his mind; he would worry about that later. …

“The Death Eaters can’t all be pure-blood, there aren’t

enough pure-blood wizards left,” said Hermione

stubbornly. “I expect most of them are half-bloods

pretending to be pure. It’s only Muggle-borns they

hate, they’d be quite happy to let you and Ron join

up.”

“There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said

Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he

was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie

Macmillan on the head. “My whole family are blood

traitors! That’s as bad as Muggle-borns to Death

Eaters!”

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“And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically.

“We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me

in.”

This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging

smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny.

“Hey, Harry, I’m supposed to give you this.”

It was a scroll of parchment with Harry’s name

written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing.

“Thanks, Ginny … It’s Dumbledore’s next lesson!”

Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the

parchment and quickly reading its contents. “Monday

evening!” He felt suddenly light and happy. “Want to

join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?” he asked.

“I’m going with Dean — might see you there,” she

replied, waving at them as she left.

Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual,

checking off the names of people who had permission

to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer

than normal as Filch was triple-checking everybody

with his Secrecy Sensor.

“What does it matter if we’re smuggling Dark stuff

OUT?” demanded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy

Sensor with apprehension. “Surely you ought to be

checking what we bring back IN?”

His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the

Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out

into the wind and sleet.

The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Harry

wrapped his scarf over his lower face; the exposed

part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the

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village was full of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether

they might not have had a better time in the warm

common room, and when they finally reached

Hogsmeade and saw that Zonko’s Joke Shop had

been boarded up, Harry took it as confirmation that

this trip was not destined to be fun. Ron pointed, with

a thickly gloved hand, toward Honeydukes, which was

mercifully open, and Harry and Hermione staggered

in his wake into the crowded shop.

“Thank God,” shivered Ron as they were enveloped by

warm, toffee-scented air. “Let’s stay here all

afternoon.”

“Harry, m’boy!” said a booming voice from behind

them.

“Oh no,” muttered Harry. The three of them turned to

see Professor Slughorn, who was wearing an

enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching

fur collar, clutching a large bag of crystalized

pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the

shop.

“Harry, that’s three of my little suppers you’ve missed

now!” said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest.

“It won’t do, m’boy, I’m determined to have you! Miss

Granger loves them, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Hermione helplessly, “they’re really —”

“So why don’t you come along, Harry?” demanded

Slughorn.

“Well, I’ve had Quidditch practice, Professor,” said

Harry, who had indeed been scheduling practices

every time Slughorn had sent him a little, violet

ribbon-adorned invitation. This strategy meant that

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Ron was not left out, and they usually had a laugh with Ginny, imagining Hermione shut up with

McLaggen and Zabini.

“Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match

after all this hard work!” said Slughorn. “But a little

recreation never hurt anybody. Now, how about

Monday night, you can’t possibly want to practice in

this weather. …”

“I can’t, Professor, I’ve got — er — an appointment

with Professor Dumbledore that evening.”

“Unlucky again!” cried Slughorn dramatically. “Ah,

well … you can’t evade me forever, Harry!”

And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop,

taking as little notice of Ron as though he had been a

display of Cockroach Clusters.

“I can’t believe you’ve wriggled out of another one,”

said Hermione, shaking her head. “They’re not that

bad, you know. … They’re even quite fun sometimes.

…” But then she caught sight of Ron’s expression.

“Oh, look — they’ve got deluxe sugar quills — those

would last hours!”

Glad that Hermione had changed the subject, Harry

showed much more interest in the new extra-large

sugar quills than he would normally have done, but

Ron continued to look moody and merely shrugged

when Hermione asked him where he wanted to go

next.

“Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks,” said Harry. “It’ll

be warm.”

They bundled their scarves back over their faces and

left the sweetshop. The bitter wind was like knives on

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their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes.

The street was not very busy; nobody was lingering to

chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The

exceptions were two men a little ahead of them,

standing just outside the Three Broomsticks. One was

very tall and thin; squinting through his rain-washed

glasses Harry recognized the barman who worked in

the other Hogsmeade pub, the Hog’s Head. As Harry,

Ron, and Hermione drew closer, the barman drew his

cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away,

leaving the shorter man to fumble with something in

his arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry

realized who the man was.

“Mundungus!”

The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly,

ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase,

which burst open, releasing what looked like the

entire contents of a junk shop window.

“Oh, ’ello, ’Arry,” said Mundungus Fletcher, with a

most unconvincing stab at airiness. “Well, don’t let

me keep ya.”

And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the

contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a

man eager to be gone.

“Are you selling this stuff?” asked Harry, watching

Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby-looking

objects from the ground.

“Oh, well, gotta scrape a living,” said Mundungus.

“Gimme that!”

Ron had stooped down and picked up something

silver.

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“Hang on,” Ron said slowly. “This looks familiar —”

“Thank you!” said Mundungus, snatching the goblet

out of Ron’s hand and stuffing it back into the case.

“Well, I’ll see you all — OUCH!”

Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the

pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he

pulled out his wand.

“Harry!” squealed Hermione.

“You took that from Sirius’s house,” said Harry, who

was almost nose to nose with Mundungus and was

breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and

spirits. “That had the Black family crest on it.”

“I — no — what — ?” spluttered Mundungus, who

was slowly turning purple.

“What did you do, go back the night he died and strip

the place?” snarled Harry.

“I — no —”

“Give it to me!”

“Harry, you mustn’t!” shrieked Hermione, as

Mundungus started to turn blue.

There was a bang, and Harry felt his hands fly off

Mundungus’s throat. Gasping and spluttering,

Mundungus seized his fallen case, then — CRACK —

he Disapparated.

Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the

spot to see where Mundungus had gone.

“COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !”

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“There’s no point, Harry.”

Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair

wet with sleet.

“Mundungus will probably be in London by now.

There’s no point yelling.”

“He’s nicked Sirius’s stuff! Nicked it!”

“Yes, but still,” said Tonks, who seemed perfectly

untroubled by this piece of information. “You should

get out of the cold.”

She watched them go through the door of the Three

Broomsticks.

The moment he was inside, Harry burst out, “He was

nicking Sirius’s stuff!”

“I know, Harry, but please don’t shout, people are

staring,” whispered Hermione. “Go and sit down, I’ll

get you a drink.”

Harry was still fuming when Hermione returned to

their table a few minutes later holding three bottles of

butterbeer.

“Can’t the Order control Mundungus?” Harry

demanded of the other two in a furious whisper.

“Can’t they at least stop him stealing everything that’s

not fixed down when he’s at headquarters?”

“Shh!” said Hermione desperately, looking around to

make sure nobody was listening; there were a couple

of warlocks sitting close by who were staring at Harry

with great interest, and Zabini was lolling against a

pillar not far away. “Harry, I’d be annoyed too, I know

it’s your things he’s stealing —”

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Harry gagged on his butterbeer; he had momentarily forgotten that he owned number twelve, Grimmauld

Place.

“Yeah, it’s my stuff!” he said. “No wonder he wasn’t

pleased to see me! Well, I’m going to tell Dumbledore

what’s going on, he’s the only one who scares

Mundungus.”

“Good idea,” whispered Hermione, clearly pleased that

Harry was calming down. “Ron, what are you staring

at?”

“Nothing,” said Ron, hastily looking away from the

bar, but Harry knew he was trying to catch the eye of

the curvy and attractive barmaid, Madam Rosmerta,

for whom he had long nursed a soft spot.

“I expect ‘nothing’s’ in the back getting more

firewhisky,” said Hermione waspishly.

Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he

evidently considered to be a dignified silence. Harry

was thinking about Sirius, and how he had hated

those silver goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her

fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron

and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last

drops in his bottle she said, “Shall we call it a day

and go back to school, then?”

The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and

the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed.

Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around

them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves,

then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub

and back up the High Street. Harry’s thoughts

strayed to Ginny as they trudged up the road to

Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met

up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because

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she and Dean were cozily closeted in Madam

Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples.

Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet

and trudged on.

It was a little while before Harry became aware that

the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were

being carried back to him on the wind, had become

shriller and louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct

figures. The two girls were having an argument about

something Katie was holding in her hand. “It’s

nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Harry heard Katie

say.

They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick

and fast, blurring Harry’s glasses. Just as he raised a

gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold

of the package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back

and the package fell to the ground.

At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done,

suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her

arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly.

Yet there was something wrong, something eerie. …

Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind,

but her eyes were closed and her face was quite

empty of expression. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and

Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching.

Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a

terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she

could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly

causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and

screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized

Katie’s ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed forward to help,

but even as they grabbed Katie’s legs, she fell on top

of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she

was writhing so much they could hardly hold her.

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Instead they lowered her to the ground where she

thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to

recognize any of them.

Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted.

“Stay there!” he shouted at the others over the

howling wind. “I’m going for help!”

He began to sprint toward the school; he had never

seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and

could not think what had caused it; he hurtled

around a bend in the lane and collided with what

seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs.

“Hagrid!” he panted, disentangling himself from the

hedgerow into which he had fallen.

“Harry!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his

eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great,

shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he’s

comin’ on so well yeh wouldn’ —”

“Hagrid, someone’s hurt back there, or cursed, or

something —”

“Wha?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what

Harry was saying over the raging wind.

“Someone’s been cursed!” bellowed Harry.

“Cursed? Who’s bin cursed — not Ron? Hermione?”

“No, it’s not them, it’s Katie Bell — this way …”

Together they ran back along the lane. It took them

no time to find the little group of people around Katie,

who was still writhing and screaming on the ground;

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Ron, Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her.

“Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!”

“Something’s happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I

don’t know what —”

Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a

word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran

off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie’s

piercing screams had died away and the only sound

was the roar of the wind.

Hermione hurried over to Katie’s wailing friend and

put an arm around her.

“It’s Leanne, isn’t it?”

The girl nodded.

“Did it just happen all of a sudden, or — ?”

“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne,

pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on

the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish

glitter. Ron bent down, his hand outstretched, but

Harry seized his arm and pulled him back.

“Don’t touch it!”

He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was

visible, poking out of the paper.

“I’ve seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the

thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages

ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have

touched it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started

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to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of this?”

“Well, that’s why we were arguing. She came back

from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding

it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts

and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when

she said it. … Oh no, oh no, I bet she’d been

Imperiused and I didn’t realize!”

Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted

her shoulder gently.

“She didn’t say who’d given it to her, Leanne?”

“No … she wouldn’t tell me … and I said she was

being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she

just wouldn’t listen and … and then I tried to grab it

from her … and — and —”

Leanne let out a wail of despair.

“We’d better get up to school,” said Hermione, her

arm still around Leanne. “We’ll be able to find out

how she is. Come on. …”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf

from around his face and, ignoring Ron’s gasp,

carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up.

“We’ll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said.

As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road,

Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered

the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his

thoughts to himself any longer.

“Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at

Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a

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good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. This is what he was buying that day when we

followed him! He remembered it and he went back for

it!”

“I — I dunno, Harry,” said Ron hesitantly. “Loads of

people go to Borgin and Burkes … and didn’t that girl

say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?”

“She said she came back from the bathroom with it,

she didn’t necessarily get it in the bathroom itself —”

“McGonagall!” said Ron warningly.

Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall

was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling

sleet to meet them.

“Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie

Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What’s

that you’re holding, Potter?”

“It’s the thing she touched,” said Harry.

“Good lord,” said Professor McGonagall, looking

alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. “No, no,

Filch, they’re with me!” she added hastily, as Filch

came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall

holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. “Take this necklace

to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch

it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!”

Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall

upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered

windows were rattling in their frames, and the room

was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate.

Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept

around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and

the still sobbing Leanne.

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“Well?” she said sharply. “What happened?”

Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted

to control her crying, Leanne told Professor

McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in

the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the

unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little

odd, and how they had argued about the advisability

of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument

culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore

open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there

was no getting another word out of her.

“All right,” said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly,

“go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get

Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock.”

When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall

turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“What happened when Katie touched the necklace?”

“She rose up in the air,” said Harry, before either Ron

or Hermione could speak, “and then began to scream,

and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor

Dumbledore, please?”

“The headmaster is away until Monday, Potter,” said

Professor McGonagall, looking surprised.

“Away?” Harry repeated angrily.

“Yes, Potter, away!” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

“But anything you have to say about this horrible

business can be said to me, I’m sure!”

For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor

McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore,

though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed

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less likely to scorn a theory, however wild. This was a life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to

worry about being laughed at.

“I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace,

Professor.”

On one side of him, Ron rubbed his nose in apparent

embarrassment; on the other, Hermione shuffled her

feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance

between herself and Harry.

“That is a very serious accusation, Potter,” said

Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. “Do you

have any proof?”

“No,” said Harry, “but …” and he told her about

following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the

conversation they had overheard between him and

Mr. Borgin.

When he had finished speaking, Professor

McGonagall looked slightly confused.

“Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for

repair?”

“No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how

to mend something, he didn’t have it with him. But

that’s not the point, the thing is that he bought

something at the same time, and I think it was that

necklace —”

“You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar

package?”

“No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop

for him —”

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“But Harry,” Hermione interrupted, “Borgin asked

him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said

no —”

“Because he didn’t want to touch it, obviously!” said

Harry angrily.

“What he actually said was, ‘How would I look

carrying that down the street?’ ” said Hermione.

“Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a

necklace,” interjected Ron.

“Oh, Ron,” said Hermione despairingly, “it would be

all wrapped up, so he wouldn’t have to touch it, and

quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see

it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes

was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw

attention to him if he carried it down the street — and

in any case,” she pressed on loudly, before Harry

could interrupt, “I asked Borgin about the necklace,

don’t you remember? When I went in to try and find

out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, I saw it

there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn’t say

it was already sold or anything —”

“Well, you were being really obvious, he realized what

you were up to within about five seconds, of course

he wasn’t going to tell you — anyway, Malfoy could’ve

sent off for it since —”

“That’s enough!” said Professor McGonagall, as

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, looking

furious. “Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but

we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy

purely because he visited the shop where this

necklace might have been purchased. The same is

probably true of hundreds of people —”

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“— that’s what I said —” muttered Ron.

“— and in any case, we have put stringent security

measures in place this year. I do not believe that

necklace can possibly have entered this school

without our knowledge —”

“But —”

“— and what is more,” said Professor McGonagall,

with an air of awful finality, “Mr. Malfoy was not in

Hogsmeade today.”

Harry gaped at her, deflating.

“How do you know, Professor?”

“Because he was doing detention with me. He has

now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework

twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your

suspicions, Potter,” she said as she marched past

them, “but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to

check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all.”

She held open her office door. They had no choice but

to file past her without another word.

Harry was angry with the other two for siding with

McGonagall; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in

once they started discussing what had happened.

“So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the

necklace to?” asked Ron, as they climbed the stairs to

the common room.

“Goodness only knows,” said Hermione. “But whoever

it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have

opened that package without touching the necklace.”

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“It could’ve been meant for loads of people,” said Harry. “Dumbledore — the Death Eaters would love to

get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or

Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really

wanted him and they can’t be pleased that he’s sided

with Dumbledore. Or —”

“Or you,” said Hermione, looking troubled.

“Couldn’t have been,” said Harry, “or Katie would’ve

just turned around in the lane and given it to me,

wouldn’t she? I was behind her all the way out of the

Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more

sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what

with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I

wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?”

“Harry, Malfoy wasn’t in Hogsmeade!” said Hermione,

actually stamping her foot in frustration.

“He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry.

“Crabbe or Goyle — or, come to think of it, another

Death Eater, he’ll have loads better cronies than

Crabbe and Goyle now he’s joined up —”

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said

There’s no point arguing with him.

“Dilligrout,” said Hermione firmly as they reached the

Fat Lady.

The portrait swung open to admit them to the

common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp

clothing; many people seemed to have returned from

Hogsmeade early because of the bad weather. There

was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: Clearly,

the news of Katie’s fate had not yet spread.

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“It wasn’t a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,” said Ron, casually turfing a first

year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so

that he could sit down. “The curse didn’t even make it

into the castle. Not what you’d call foolproof.”

“You’re right,” said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the

chair with her foot and offering it to the first year

again. “It wasn’t very well thought-out at all.”

“But since when has Malfoy been one of the world’s

great thinkers?” asked Harry.

Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.

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THE SECRET RIDDLE

Katie was removed to St. Mungo’s Hospital for

Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by

which time the news that she had been cursed had

spread all over the school, though the details were

confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron,

Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie

herself had not been the intended target.

“Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,” said Harry to Ron

and Hermione, who continued their new policy of

feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his

Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory.

Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would

return from wherever he had been in time for Monday

night’s lesson, but having had no word to the

contrary, he presented himself outside Dumbledore’s

office at eight o’clock, knocked, and was told to enter.

There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his

hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled

when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve

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was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.

“You have had a busy time while I have been away,”

Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie’s

accident.”

“Yes, sir. How is she?”

“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky.

She appears to have brushed the necklace with the

smallest possible amount of skin: There was a tiny

hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even

held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died,

perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able

to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse —

”

“Why him?” asked Harry quickly. “Why not Madam

Pomfrey?”

“Impertinent,” said a soft voice from one of the

portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black,

Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, raised his head from

his arms where he had appeared to be sleeping. “I

would not have permitted a student to question the

way Hogwarts operated in my day.”

“Yes, thank you, Phineas,” said Dumbledore

quellingly. “Professor Snape knows much more about

the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway,

the St. Mungo’s staff are sending me hourly reports,

and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery

in time.”

“Where were you this weekend, sir?” Harry asked,

disregarding a strong feeling that he might be

pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by

Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly.

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“I would rather not say just now,” said Dumbledore.

“However, I shall tell you in due course.”

“You will?” said Harry, startled.

“Yes, I expect so,” said Dumbledore, withdrawing a

fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes

and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.

“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “I met Mundungus in

Hogsmeade.”

“Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has

been treating your inheritance with light-fingered

contempt,” said Dumbledore, frowning a little. “He

has gone to ground since you accosted him outside

the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads

facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be

making away with any more of Sirius’s old

possessions.”

“That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black

heirlooms?” said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he

stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his

portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

“Professor,” said Harry, after a short pause, “did

Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after

Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?”

“She told me of your suspicions, yes,” said

Dumbledore.

“And do you — ?”

“I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate

anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s

accident,” said Dumbledore. “But what concerns me

now, Harry, is our lesson.”

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Harry felt slightly resentful at this: If their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a

long gap between the first and second? However, he

said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as

Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the

Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once

more between his long-fingered hands.

“You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of

Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the

handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his

witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home

in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London,

expecting the baby who would one day become Lord

Voldemort.”

“How do you know she was in London, sir?”

“Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,”

said Dumbledore, “who, by an odd coincidence,

helped found the very shop whence came the

necklace we have just been discussing.”

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had

seen him swill them before, much as a gold

prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery

mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the

Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with

a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was

brought in by a young witch just before Christmas,

oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the

gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in

rags and pretty far along … Going to have a baby, see.

She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we

hear that sort of story all the time, ‘Oh, this was

Merlin’s, this was, his favorite teapot,’ but when I

looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few

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simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t

seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy

to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!”

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous

shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the

swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

“He only gave her ten Galleons?” said Harry

indignantly.

“Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,”

said Dumbledore. “So we know that, near the end of

her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in

desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her

one and only valuable possession, the locket that was

one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.”

“But she could do magic!” said Harry impatiently.

“She could have got food and everything for herself by

magic, couldn’t she?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is

my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am

right — that when her husband abandoned her,

Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she

wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also

possible that her unrequited love and the attendant

despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen.

In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused

to raise her wand even to save her own life.”

“She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Could you possibly

be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?”

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“No,” said Harry quickly, “but she had a choice, didn’t she, not like my mother —”

“Your mother had a choice too,” said Dumbledore

gently. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a

son who needed her, but do not judge her too

harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long

suffering and she never had your mother’s courage.

And now, if you will stand …”

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore

joined him at the front of the desk.

“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter

my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail

and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry …”

Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool

surface of the memory and then he was falling

through darkness again. … Seconds later, his feet hit

firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he

and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-

fashioned London street.

“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing

ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in

front of a horse-drawn milk cart.

This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard

were auburn. Having reached their side of the street,

he strode off along the pavement, drawing many

curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of

plum velvet that he was wearing.

“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop

himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they

followed his younger self a short distance, finally

passing through a set of iron gates into a bare

courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building

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surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few

steps leading to the front door and knocked once.

After a moment or two, the door was opened by a

scruffy girl wearing an apron.

“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs.

Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?”

“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in

Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. “Um … just a

mo’ … MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder.

Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in

response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. “Come

in, she’s on ’er way.”

Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and

white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly

clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed.

Before the front door had closed behind them, a

skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying

toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that

appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was

talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper

as she walked toward Dumbledore.

“… and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy

Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s

oozing all over his sheets — chicken pox on top of

everything else,” she said to nobody in particular, and

then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped

dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a

giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his

hand.

Mrs. Cole simply gaped.

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“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter

requesting an appointment and you very kindly

invited me here today.”

Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that

Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly,

“Oh yes. Well — well then — you’d better come into

my room. Yes.”

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed

part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the

hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched.

She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and

seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him

nervously.

“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom

Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said

Dumbledore.

“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole.

“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come

to offer Tom a place at my school.”

“What school’s this, then?”

“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“And how come you’re interested in Tom?”

“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.”

“You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have

done? He’s never been entered for one.”

“Well, his name has been down for our school since

birth —”

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“Who registered him? His parents?”

There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an

inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore

thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand

out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time

picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs.

Cole’s desktop.

“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he

passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make

everything clear.”

Mrs. Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as

she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly,

handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of

gin and two glasses that had certainly not been

present a few seconds before.

“Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an

extra-refined voice.

“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming.

It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice

when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a

generous measure, she drained her own glass in one

gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at

Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate

to press his advantage.

“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything

of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in

the orphanage?”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more

gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just

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started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not

much older than I was myself at the time, came

staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the

first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the

hour. And she was dead in another hour.”

Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another

generous gulp of gin.

“Did she say anything before she died?” asked

Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy’s father, for

instance?”

“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who

seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin

in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I

remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his

papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it,

because she was no beauty — and then she told me

he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo,

for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We

wondered whether she came from a circus — and she

said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she

died soon after that without another word.

“Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so

important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo

nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor

any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and

he’s been here ever since.”

Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to

another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had

appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said,

“He’s a funny boy.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”

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“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was …

odd.”

“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.

“Well, he —”

But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing

blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she

shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.

“He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?”

“Definitely,” said Dumbledore.

“And nothing I say can change that?”

“Nothing,” said Dumbledore.

“You’ll be taking him away, whatever?”

“Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely.

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or

not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could,

because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the

other children.”

“You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore.

“I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning

slightly, “but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There

have been incidents. … Nasty things …”

Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could

tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp

of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.

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“Billy Stubbs’s rabbit … well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so,

it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?”

“I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly.

“But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do

it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day

before. And then” — Mrs. Cole took another swig of

gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — “on the

summer outing — we take them out, you know, once

a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well,

Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite

right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was

that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He

swore they’d just gone exploring, but something

happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there

have been a lot of things, funny things. …”

She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though

her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. “I don’t

think many people will be sorry to see the back of

him.”

“You understand, I’m sure, that we will not be

keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will

have to return here, at the very least, every summer.”

“Oh, well, that’s better than a whack on the nose with

a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup.

She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see

that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of

the gin was now gone. “I suppose you’d like to see

him?”

“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too.

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs,

calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers

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and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They

looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no

denying that this was a grim place in which to grow

up.

“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the

second landing and stopped outside the first door in a

long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

“Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton —

sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you — well, I’ll

let him do it.”

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room,

and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small

bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe,

a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was

sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched

out in front of him, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s

face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his

handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years

old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly

as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance.

There was a moment’s silence.

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking

forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook

hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair

beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather

like a hospital patient and visitor.

“I am Professor Dumbledore.”

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“ ‘Professor’?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get

you in to have a look at me?”

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole

had just left.

“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“I don’t believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me

looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!”

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force

that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it

sounded as though he had given it many times

before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at

Dumbledore, who made no response except to

continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds

Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything,

warier still.

“Who are you?”

“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore

and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come

to offer you a place at my school — your new school,

if you would like to come.”

Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt

from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore,

looking furious.

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re

from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m

not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be

in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy

Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them,

they’ll tell you!”

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“I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore

patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down

calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if

you would rather not come to the school, nobody will

force you —”

“I’d like to see them try,” sneered Riddle.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had

not heard Riddle’s last words, “is a school for people

with special abilities —”

“I’m not mad!”

“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a

school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face

expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and

forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying

to catch one of them lying.

“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore.

“It’s … it’s magic, what I can do?”

“What is it that you can do?”

“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was

rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked

fevered. “I can make things move without touching

them. I can make animals do what I want them to do,

without training them. I can make bad things happen

to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I

want to.”

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His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head

bowed as though in prayer.

“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own

quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I

knew there was something.”

“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who

was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently.

“You are a wizard.”

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured:

There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some

reason it did not make him better looking; on the

contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow

rougher, his expression almost bestial.

“Are you a wizard too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same

commanding tone he had used when he had said,

“Tell the truth.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you

are accepting your place at Hogwarts —”

“Of course I am!”

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ”

Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting

moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite

voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor,

could you show me — ?”

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Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time

for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they

were currently in a building full of Muggles and must

therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however,

Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of

his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in

the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame

him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly

possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle

rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving

the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then,

his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand.

“Where can I get one of them?”

“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is

something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from

inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.

“Open the door,” said Dumbledore.

Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw

open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above

a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box

was shaking and rattling as though there were several

frantic mice trapped inside it.

“Take it out,” said Dumbledore.

Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked

unnerved.

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“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating

look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an

expressionless voice.

“Open it,” said Dumbledore.

Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto

his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had

expected something much more exciting, saw a mess

of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble,

and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free

of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still

upon the thin blankets.

“You will return them to their owners with your

apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand

back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has

been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated

at Hogwarts.”

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still

staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last

he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.”

“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you

not only to use magic, but to control it. You have —

inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in

a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our

school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last,

to allow your magic to run away with you. But you

should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and

the Ministry of Magic — yes, there is a Ministry — will

punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new

wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they

abide by our laws.”

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“Yes, sir,” said Riddle again.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his

face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of

stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he

had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said

baldly, “I haven’t got any money.”

“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a

leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a

fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to

buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of

your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —”

“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Riddle,

who had taken the heavy money bag without

thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat

gold Galleon.

“In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list

of books and school equipment with me. I can help

you find everything —”

“You’re coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up.

“Certainly, if you —”

“I don’t need you,” said Riddle. “I’m used to doing

things for myself, I go round London on my own all

the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?”

he added, catching Dumbledore’s eye.

Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon

accompanying Riddle, but once again he was

surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope

containing his list of equipment, and after telling

Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from

the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it,

although Muggles around you — non-magical people,

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that is — will not. Ask for Tom the barman — easy

enough to remember, as he shares your name —”

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to

displace an irksome fly.

“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?”

“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Riddle. Then, as

though he could not suppress the question, as

though it burst from him in spite of himself, he

asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom

Riddle too, they’ve told me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice

gentle.

“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t

have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than

Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So — when I’ve got

all my stuff — when do I come to this Hogwarts?”

“All the details are on the second piece of parchment

in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave

from King’s Cross Station on the first of September.

There is a train ticket in there too.”

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held

out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, “I can

speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the

country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me.

Is that normal for a wizard?”

Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this

strangest power until that moment, determined to

impress.

“It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment’s

hesitation, “but not unheard of.”

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His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously

over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and

boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was

broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

“Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

“I think that will do,” said the white-haired

Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they

were soaring weightlessly through darkness once

more, before landing squarely in the present-day

office.

“Sit down,” said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry.

Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just

seen.

“He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean,

when you told him he was a wizard,” said Harry. “I

didn’t believe Hagrid at first, when he told me.”

“Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was

— to use his word — ‘special,’ ” said Dumbledore.

“Did you know — then?” asked Harry.

“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous

Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had

no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is.

However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned

to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him,

something I should have done in any case, given that

he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt

I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his.

“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-

developed for such a young wizard and — most

interestingly and ominously of all — he had already

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discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as

you saw, they were not the random experiments

typical of young wizards: He was already using magic

against other people, to frighten, to punish, to

control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and

the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most

suggestive. … ‘ I can make them hurt if I want to. …’ ”

“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry.

“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly

connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know,

there are Parselmouths among the great and the good

too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not

make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for

cruelty, secrecy, and domination.

“Time is making fools of us again,” said Dumbledore,

indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. “But

before we part, I want to draw your attention to

certain features of the scene we have just witnessed,

for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall

be discussing in future meetings.

“Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle’s reaction when I

mentioned that another shared his first name, ‘Tom’?”

Harry nodded.

“There he showed his contempt for anything that tied

him to other people, anything that made him

ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different,

separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know,

within a few short years of that conversation and

created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort’ behind which he

has been hidden for so long.

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“I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and,

apparently, friendless? He did not want help or

companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He

preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the

same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters

claiming that they are in his confidence, that they

alone are close to him, even understand him. They

are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend,

nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.

“And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay

attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked

to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles

he had hidden in his room. These were taken from

victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will,

of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind

this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will

be important later.

“And now, it really is time for bed.”

Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room,

his eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo

Gaunt’s ring had rested last time, but the ring was no

longer there.

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to

a halt.

“The ring’s gone,” said Harry, looking around. “But I

thought you might have the mouth organ or

something.”

Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of

his half-moon spectacles.

“Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only

ever a mouth organ.”

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And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who

understood himself to be dismissed.

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FELIX FELICIS

Harry had Herbology first thing the following

morning. He had been unable to tell Ron and

Hermione about his lesson with Dumbledore over

breakfast for fear of being overheard, but he filled

them in as they walked across the vegetable patch

toward the greenhouses. The weekend’s brutal wind

had died out at last; the weird mist had returned and

it took them a little longer than usual to find the

correct greenhouse.

“Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who,” said

Ron quietly, as they took their places around one of

the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this term’s

project, and began pulling on their protective gloves.

“But I still don’t get why Dumbledore’s showing you

all this. I mean, it’s really interesting and everything,

but what’s the point?”

“Dunno,” said Harry, inserting a gum shield. “But he

says it’s all important and it’ll help me survive.”

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“I think it’s fascinating,” said Hermione earnestly. “It makes absolute sense to know as much about

Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his

weaknesses?”

“So how was Slughorn’s latest party?” Harry asked

her thickly through the gum shield.

“Oh, it was quite fun, really,” said Hermione, now

putting on protective goggles. “I mean, he drones on

about famous ex-pupils a bit, and he absolutely

fawns on McLaggen because he’s so well-connected,

but he gave us some really nice food and he

introduced us to Gwenog Jones.”

“Gwenog Jones?” said Ron, his eyes widening under

his own goggles. “The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the

Holyhead Harpies?”

“That’s right,” said Hermione. “Personally, I thought

she was a bit full of herself, but —”

“Quite enough chat over here!” said Professor Sprout

briskly, bustling over and looking stern. “You’re

lagging behind, everybody else has started, and

Neville’s already got his first pod!”

They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville

with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along

the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly

pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit.

“Okay, Professor, we’re starting now!” said Ron,

adding quietly, when she had turned away again,

“should’ve used Muffliato, Harry.”

“No, we shouldn’t!” said Hermione at once, looking, as

she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the

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Half-Blood Prince and his spells. “Well, come on …

we’d better get going. …”

She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all

took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled

stump between them.

It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramblelike

vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air.

One tangled itself in Hermione’s hair, and Ron beat it

back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in

trapping a couple of vines and knotting them

together; a hole opened in the middle of all the

tentaclelike branches; Hermione plunged her arm

bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around

her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at

the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and

Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her

fingers a pod just like Neville’s. At once, the prickly

vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat

there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll be having any of these in

my garden when I’ve got my own place,” said Ron,

pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping

sweat from his face.

“Pass me a bowl,” said Hermione, holding the

pulsating pod at arm’s length; Harry handed one over

and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust

on her face.

“Don’t be squeamish, squeeze it out, they’re best

when they’re fresh!” called Professor Sprout.

“Anyway,” said Hermione, continuing their

interrupted conversation as though a lump of wood

had not just attacked them, “Slughorn’s going to have

a Christmas party, Harry, and there’s no way you’ll be

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able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be

sure to have it on a night you can come.”

Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting

to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on

it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could,

said angrily, “And this is another party just for

Slughorn’s favorites, is it?”

“Just for the Slug Club, yes,” said Hermione.

The pod flew out from under Ron’s fingers and hit the

greenhouse glass, rebounding onto the back of

Professor Sprout’s head and knocking off her old,

patched hat. Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he

got back, Hermione was saying, “Look, I didn’t make

up the name ‘Slug Club’ —”

“ ‘ Slug Club, ’ ” repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of

Malfoy. “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your

party. Why don’t you try hooking up with McLaggen,

then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —

”

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, who

for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet,

“and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think

it’s that stupid then I won’t bother!”

Harry suddenly wished the pod had flown a little

farther, so that he need not have been sitting here

with the pair of them. Unnoticed by either, he seized

the bowl that contained the pod and began to try and

open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he

could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every

word of their conversation.

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“You were going to ask me?” asked Ron, in a

completely different voice.

“Yes,” said Hermione angrily. “But obviously if you’d

rather I hooked up with McLaggen …”

There was a pause while Harry continued to pound

the resilient pod with a trowel.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Ron, in a very quiet voice.

Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it.

“Reparo, ” he said hastily, poking the pieces with his

wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The

crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and

Hermione to Harry’s presence. Hermione looked

flustered and immediately started fussing about for

her copy of Flesh-Eating Trees of the World to find out

the correct way to juice Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the

other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased

with himself.

“Hand that over, Harry,” said Hermione hurriedly. “It

says we’re supposed to puncture them with

something sharp. …”

Harry passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron

both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and

dived, once more, for the stump.

It was not as though he was really surprised, thought

Harry, as he wrestled with a thorny vine intent upon

throttling him; he had had an inkling that this might

happen sooner or later. But he was not sure how he

felt about it. … He and Cho were now too

embarrassed to look at each other, let alone talk to

each other; what if Ron and Hermione started going

out together, then split up? Could their friendship

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survive it? Harry remembered the few weeks when

they had not been talking to each other in the third

year; he had not enjoyed trying to bridge the distance

between them. And then, what if they didn’t split up?

What if they became like Bill and Fleur, and it

became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their

presence, so that he was shut out for good?

“Gotcha!” yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the

stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first

one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling

like pale green worms.

The rest of the lesson passed without further mention

of Slughorn’s party. Although Harry watched his two

friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and

Hermione did not seem any different except that they

were a little politer to each other than usual. Harry

supposed he would just have to wait to see what

happened under the influence of butterbeer in

Slughorn’s dimly lit room on the night of the party. In

the meantime, however, he had more pressing

worries.

Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo’s Hospital with no

prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising

Gryffindor team Harry had been training so carefully

since September was one Chaser short. He kept

putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would

return, but their opening match against Slytherin was

looming, and he finally had to accept that she would

not be back in time to play.

Harry did not think he could stand another full-

House tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to

do with Quidditch, he cornered Dean Thomas after

Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had

already left, although several twittering yellow birds

were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione’s

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creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air.

“Are you still interested in playing Chaser?”

“Wha — ? Yeah, of course!” said Dean excitedly. Over

Dean’s shoulder, Harry saw Seamus Finnigan

slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. One of

the reasons why Harry would have preferred not to

have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus

would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do

what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown

Seamus at the tryouts.

“Well then, you’re in,” said Harry. “There’s a practice

tonight, seven o’clock.”

“Right,” said Dean. “Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can’t

wait to tell Ginny!”

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and

Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment

made no easier when a bird dropping landed on

Seamus’s head as one of Hermione’s canaries whizzed

over them.

Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the

choice of Katie’s substitute. There was much

muttering in the common room about the fact that

Harry had now chosen two of his classmates for the

team. As Harry had endured much worse mutterings

than this in his school career, he was not particularly

bothered, but all the same, the pressure was

increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match

against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Harry knew that

the whole House would forget that they had criticized

him and swear that they had always known it was a

great team. If they lost … well, Harry thought wryly,

he had still endured worse mutterings. …

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Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and

Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting

better all the time. The only problem was Ron.

Harry had known all along that Ron was an

inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a

lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming

prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to

have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting

in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny,

his technique became wilder and wilder, until he

finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the

mouth.

“It was an accident, I’m sorry, Demelza, really sorry!”

Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the

ground, dripping blood everywhere. “I just —”

“Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to

Demelza and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron,

look at the state of her!”

“I can fix that,” said Harry, landing beside the two

girls, pointing his wand at Demelza’s mouth, and

saying “Episkey. ” “And Ginny, don’t call Ron a prat,

you’re not the Captain of this team —”

“Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I

thought someone should —”

Harry forced himself not to laugh.

“In the air, everyone, let’s go. …”

Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had

all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was

the best policy when they were this close to the

match.

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“Good work, everyone, I think we’ll flatten Slytherin,”

he said bracingly and the Chasers and Beaters left

the changing room looking reasonably happy with

themselves.

“I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a

hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind

Ginny.

“No, you didn’t,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the best

Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.”

He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the

way back to the castle, and by the time they reached

the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more

cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to

take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower,

however, they found themselves looking at Dean and

Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and

kissing fiercely as though glued together.

It was as though something large and scaly erupted

into life in Harry’s stomach, clawing at his insides:

Hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all

thought was extinguished, replaced by a savage urge

to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden

madness, he heard Ron’s voice as though from a great

distance away.

“Oi!”

Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around.

“What?” said Ginny.

“I don’t want to find my own sister snogging people in

public!”

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“This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!” said Ginny.

Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a

shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn

monster inside him was roaring for Dean’s instant

dismissal from the team.

“Er … c’mon, Ginny,” said Dean, “let’s go back to the

common room. …”

“You go!” said Ginny. “I want a word with my dear

brother!”

Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to

depart the scene.

“Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of

her face and glaring at Ron, “let’s get this straight

once and for all. It is none of your business who I go

out with or what I do with them, Ron —”

“Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’you think I

want people saying my sister’s a —”

“A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what,

exactly?”

“He doesn’t mean anything, Ginny —” said Harry

automatically, though the monster was roaring its

approval of Ron’s words.

“Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just

because he’s never snogged anyone in his life, just

because the best kiss he’s ever had is from our Auntie

Muriel —”

“Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and

turning maroon.

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“No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I’ve seen you with Phlegm, hoping she’ll kiss you on the cheek

every time you see her, it’s pathetic! If you went out

and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn’t

mind so much that everyone else does it!”

Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped

swiftly between them.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron

roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around

Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his

arms outstretched. “Just because I don’t do it in

public — !”

Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push

Harry out of the way.

“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got

a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your

pillow?”

“You—”

A streak of orange light flew under Harry’s left arm

and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up

against the wall.

“Don’t be stupid —”

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who

sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged

Viktor Krum, it’s only you who acts like it’s something

disgusting, Ron, and that’s because you’ve got about

as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”

And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go

of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They

both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris,

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Filch’s cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.

“C’mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch’s shuffling

feet reached their ears.

They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor

corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small

girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of

toadspawn.

Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he

felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt

must be something like this. It’s just because she’s

Ron’s sister, he told himself. You just didn’t like seeing her kissing Dean because she’s Ron’s sister. …

But unbidden into his mind came an image of that

same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny

instead. … The monster in his chest purred … but

then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain

and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like

“betrayal of trust” … “supposed to be my friend” …

“D’you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked

abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry

gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination

away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in

which he and Ginny were quite alone —

“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh … er …”

The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to

give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from

the look on Harry’s face.

“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they

climbed through the portrait hole into the common

room.

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Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening

and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own

thoughts.

Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the

canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince

himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-

brotherly. They had lived, had they not, like brother

and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing

Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He

had known Ginny for years now. … It was natural

that he should feel protective … natural that he

should want to look out for her … want to rip Dean

limb from limb for kissing her … No … he would have

to control that particular brotherly feeling. …

Ron gave a great grunting snore.

She’s Ron’s sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron’s

sister. She’s out-of-bounds. He would not risk his

friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his

pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited for

sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his

thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny.

Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and

confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had

chased him with a Beater’s bat, but by midday he

would have happily exchanged the dream Ron for the

real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny

and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered

Hermione with an icy, sneering indifference. What

was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as

touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-

Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to

keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no

success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high

dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory

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after swearing angrily at several frightened first years for looking at him.

To Harry’s dismay, Ron’s new aggression did not wear

off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided

with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which

made him still more aggressive, so that during the

final Quidditch practice before Saturday’s match, he

failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at

him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he

reduced Demelza Robins to tears.

“You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes,

who was about two-thirds Ron’s height, though

admittedly carrying a heavy bat.

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny

glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her

reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-

Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene before things got

out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers.

Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well

today. Ron …” he waited until the rest of the team

were out of earshot before saying it, “you’re my best

mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this

and I’m going to kick you off the team.”

He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit

him, but then something much worse happened: Ron

seemed to sag on his broom; all the fight went out of

him and he said, “I resign. I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic and you’re not resigning!” said

Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes.

“You can save anything when you’re on form, it’s a

mental problem you’ve got!”

“You calling me mental?”

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“Yeah, maybe I am!”

They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron

shook his head wearily. “I know you haven’t got any

time to find another Keeper, so I’ll play tomorrow, but

if we lose, and we will, I’m taking myself off the team.”

Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried

boosting Ron’s confidence all through dinner, but Ron

was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione

to notice. Harry persisted in the common room that

evening, but his assertion that the whole team would

be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined

by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a

huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about

Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally Harry tried

getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into

a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this

strategy did not appear to work any better than

encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and

hopeless as ever.

Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness.

He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only

was it his first as Captain, but he was determined to

beat Draco Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not

yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played

as he had done in the last few practices, their

chances of winning were very slim. …

If only there was something he could do to make Ron

pull himself together … make him play at the top of

his form … something that would ensure that Ron

had a really good day. …

And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden,

glorious stroke of inspiration.

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Breakfast was the usual excitable affair next morning; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every

member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great

Hall. Harry glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear,

pale blue sky: a good omen.

The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold,

cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned

and waved; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head.

“Cheer up, Ron!” called Lavender. “I know you’ll be

brilliant!”

Ron ignored her.

“Tea?” Harry asked him. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?”

“Anything,” said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of

toast.

A few minutes later Hermione, who had become so

tired of Ron’s recent unpleasant behavior that she

had not come down to breakfast with them, paused

on her way up the table.

“How are you both feeling?” she asked tentatively, her

eyes on the back of Ron’s head.

“Fine,” said Harry, who was concentrating on handing

Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. “There you go, Ron.

Drink up.”

Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when

Hermione spoke sharply.

“Don’t drink that, Ron!”

Both Harry and Ron looked up at her.

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“Why not?” said Ron.

Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she

could not believe her eyes.

“You just put something in that drink.”

“Excuse me?” said Harry.

“You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something

into Ron’s drink. You’ve got the bottle in your hand

right now!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry,

stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket.

“Ron, I warn you, don’t drink it!” Hermione said

again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained

it in one gulp, and said, “Stop bossing me around,

Hermione.”

She looked scandalized. Bending low so that only

Harry could hear her, she hissed, “You should be

expelled for that. I’d never have believed it of you,

Harry!”

“Hark who’s talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded

anyone lately?”

She stormed up the table away from them. Harry

watched her go without regret. Hermione had never

really understood what a serious business Quidditch

was. He then looked around at Ron, who was

smacking his lips.

“Nearly time,” said Harry blithely.

The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode

down to the stadium.

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“Pretty lucky the weather’s this good, eh?” Harry

asked Ron.

“Yeah,” said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking.

Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their

Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room.

“Conditions look ideal,” said Ginny, ignoring Ron.

“And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey — he

took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their

practice, and he’s too sore to play! And even better

than that — Malfoy’s gone off sick too!”

“What?” said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her.

“He’s ill? What’s wrong with him?”

“No idea, but it’s great for us,” said Ginny brightly.

“They’re playing Harper instead; he’s in my year and

he’s an idiot.”

Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his

scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy

had once before claimed he could not play due to

injury, but on that occasion he had made sure the

whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited

the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a

substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking?

“Fishy, isn’t it?” he said in an undertone to Ron.

“Malfoy not playing?”

“Lucky, I call it,” said Ron, looking slightly more

animated. “And Vaisey off too, he’s their best goal

scorer, I didn’t fancy — hey!” he said suddenly,

freezing halfway through pulling on his Keeper’s

gloves and staring at Harry.

“What?”

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“I … you …” Ron had dropped his voice, he looked

both scared and excited. “My drink … my pumpkin

juice … you didn’t … ?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except,

“We’ll be starting in about five minutes, you’d better

get your boots on.”

They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars

and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and

gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many

Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had taken sides too:

Amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could

distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood’s famous

lion-topped hat.

Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who

was standing ready to release the balls from the crate.

“Captains shake hands,” she said, and Harry had his

hand crushed by the new Slytherin Captain,

Urquhart. “Mount your brooms. On the whistle …

three … two … one …”

The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off

hard from the frozen ground, and they were away.

Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds,

looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on

Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a

voice that was jarringly different to the usual

commentator’s started up.

“Well, there they go, and I think we’re all surprised to

see the team that Potter’s put together this year.

Many thought, given Ronald Weasley’s patchy

performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off

the team, but of course, a close personal friendship

with the Captain does help. …”

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These words were greeted with jeers and applause

from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned

around on his broom to look toward the

commentator’s podium. A tall, skinny blond boy with

an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the

magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan’s;

Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player

whom he heartily disliked.

“Oh, and here comes Slytherin’s first attempt on goal,

it’s Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —”

Harry’s stomach turned over.

“— Weasley saves it, well, he’s bound to get lucky

sometimes, I suppose. …”

“That’s right, Smith, he is,” muttered Harry, grinning

to himself, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his

eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive

Snitch.

With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were

leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some

truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his

gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor’s

six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias

wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only

there because Harry liked them, and he started on

Peakes and Coote instead.

“Of course, Coote isn’t really the usual build for a

Beater,” said Zacharias loftily, “they’ve generally got a

bit more muscle —”

“Hit a Bludger at him!” Harry called to Coote as he

zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to

aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just

passing Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was

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pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the

Bludger had found its mark.

It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong.

Again and again they scored, and again and again, at

the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with

apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and

when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with

a rousing chorus of the old favorite “Weasley Is Our

King,” he pretended to conduct them from on high.

“Thinks he’s something special today, doesn’t he?”

said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off

his broom as Harper collided with him hard and

deliberately. “Your blood-traitor pal …”

Madam Hooch’s back was turned, and though

Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she

looked around, Harper had already sped off. His

shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, determined to

ram him back. …

“And I think Harper of Slytherin’s seen the Snitch!”

said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. “Yes,

he’s certainly seen something Potter hasn’t!”

Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn’t he

noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach

seemed to drop out of the sky — Smith was right and

Harry was wrong: Harper had not sped upward at

random; he had spotted what Harry had not: The

Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting

brightly against the clear blue sky.

Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears

so that it drowned all sound of Smith’s commentary

or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and

Gryffindor was only a hundred points up; if Harper

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got there first Gryffindor had lost … and now Harper was feet from it, his hand outstretched. …

“Oi, Harper!” yelled Harry in desperation. “How much

did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?”

He did not know what made him say it, but Harper

did a double-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip

through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry

made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and

caught it.

“YES!” Harry yelled. Wheeling around, he hurtled

back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his

hand. As the crowd realized what had happened, a

great shout went up that almost drowned the sound

of the whistle that signaled the end of the game.

“Ginny, where’re you going?” yelled Harry, who had

found himself trapped in the midst of a mass midair

hug with the rest of the team, but Ginny sped right

on past them until, with an almighty crash, she

collided with the commentator’s podium. As the

crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team

landed beside the wreckage of wood under which

Zacharias was feebly stirring; Harry heard Ginny

saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall,

“Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry.”

Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and

hugged Ginny, but let go very quickly. Avoiding her

gaze, he clapped a cheering Ron on the back instead

as, all enmity forgotten, the Gryffindor team left the

pitch arm in arm, punching the air and waving to

their supporters.

The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant.

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“Party up in the common room, Seamus said!” yelled Dean exuberantly. “C’mon, Ginny, Demelza!”

Ron and Harry were the last two in the changing

room. They were just about to leave when Hermione

entered. She was twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her

hands and looked upset but determined.

“I want a word with you, Harry.” She took a deep

breath. “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard

Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

“What are you going to do, turn us in?” demanded

Ron.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Harry,

turning away to hang up his robes so that neither of

them would see him grinning.

“You know perfectly well what we’re talking about!”

said Hermione shrilly. “You spiked Ron’s juice with

lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!”

“No, I didn’t,” said Harry, turning back to face them

both.

“Yes you did, Harry, and that’s why everything went

right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron

saved everything!”

“I didn’t put it in!” said Harry, grinning broadly. He

slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and drew

out the tiny bottle that Hermione had seen in his

hand that morning. It was full of golden potion and

the cork was still tightly sealed with wax. “I wanted

Ron to think I’d done it, so I faked it when I knew you

were looking.” He looked at Ron. “You saved

everything because you felt lucky. You did it all

yourself.”

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He pocketed the potion again.

“There really wasn’t anything in my pumpkin juice?”

Ron said, astounded. “But the weather’s good … and

Vaisey couldn’t play. … I honestly haven’t been given

lucky potion?”

Harry shook his head. Ron gaped at him for a

moment, then rounded on Hermione, imitating her

voice. “You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this

morning, that’s why he saved everything! See! I can

save goals without help, Hermione!”

“I never said you couldn’t — Ron, you thought you’d

been given it too!”

But Ron had already strode past her out of the door

with his broomstick over his shoulder.

“Er,” said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not

expected his plan to backfire like this, “shall … shall

we go up to the party, then?”

“You go!” said Hermione, blinking back tears. “I’m

sick of Ron at the moment, I don’t know what I’m

supposed to have done. …”

And she stormed out of the changing room too.

Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the

castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted

congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of

letdown; he had been sure that if Ron won the match,

he and Hermione would be friends again immediately.

He did not see how he could possibly explain to

Hermione that what she had done to offend Ron was

kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offense had occurred

so long ago.

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Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor

celebration party, which was in full swing when he

arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his

appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of

people congratulating him. What with trying to shake

off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow

match analysis, and the large group of girls that

encircled him, laughing at his least amusing

comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time

before he could try and find Ron. At last, he

extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was

hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn’s

Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward

the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny,

Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and

Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.

“Looking for Ron?” she asked, smirking. “He’s over

there, the filthy hypocrite.”

Harry looked into the corner she was indicating.

There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron

wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was

hard to tell whose hands were whose.

“It looks like he’s eating her face, doesn’t it?” said

Ginny dispassionately. “But I suppose he’s got to

refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry.”

She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping

sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to

help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted

after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he

would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was

closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a

mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

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He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The

corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

“Hermione?”

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried.

She was sitting on the teacher’s desk, alone except for

a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her

head, which she had clearly just conjured out of

midair. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work

at a time like this.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was

just practicing.”

“Yeah … they’re — er — really good. …” said Harry.

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just

wondering whether there was any chance that she

had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the

room because the party was a little too rowdy, when

she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Ron

seems to be enjoying the celebrations.”

“Er … does he?” said Harry.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see him,” said Hermione.

“He wasn’t exactly hiding it, was — ?”

The door behind them burst open. To Harry’s horror,

Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

“Oh,” he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry

and Hermione.

“Oops!” said Lavender, and she backed out of the

room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.

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There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence.

Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at

her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and

awkwardness, “Hi, Harry! Wondered where you’d got

to!”

Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden

birds continued to twitter in circles around her head

so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of

the solar system.

“You shouldn’t leave Lavender waiting outside,” she

said quietly. “She’ll wonder where you’ve gone.”

She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door.

Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that

nothing worse had happened.

“Oppugno!” came a shriek from the doorway.

Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her

wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of

birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets

toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his

hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at

every bit of flesh they could reach.

“Gerremoffme!” he yelled, but with one last look of

vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door

and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a

sob before it slammed.

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THE UNBREAKABLE VOW

Snow was swirling against the icy windows once

more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had

already single-handedly delivered the usual twelve

Christmas trees for the Great Hall; garlands of holly

and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of

the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the

helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of

mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the

corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge

underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry

went past, which caused blockages in the corridors;

fortunately, however, Harry’s frequent nighttime

wanderings had given him an unusually good

knowledge of the castle’s secret passageways, so that

he was able, without too much difficulty, to navigate

mistletoe-free routes between classes.

Ron, who might once have found the necessity of

these detours a cause for jealousy rather than

hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all.

Although Harry much preferred this new laughing,

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joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had

been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved

Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, Harry had to put

up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown,

who seemed to regard any moment that she was not

kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly,

Harry found himself once more the best friend of two

people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each

other again.

Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches

and cuts from Hermione’s bird attack, was taking a

defensive and resentful tone.

“She can’t complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged

Krum. So she’s found out someone wants to snog me

too. Well, it’s a free country. I haven’t done anything

wrong.”

Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed

in the book they were supposed to have read before

Charms next morning ( Quintessence: A Quest).

Determined as he was to remain friends with both

Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with

his mouth shut tight.

“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled.

“I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn’s

Christmas party with her, but she never said … just

as friends … I’m a free agent. …”

Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron

was watching him. Ron’s voice tailed away in mutters,

barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire,

though Harry thought he caught the words “Krum”

and “can’t complain” again.

Hermione’s schedule was so full that Harry could only

talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in

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any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione

refused to sit in the common room while Ron was

there, so Harry generally joined her in the library,

which meant that their conversations were held in

whispers.

“He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,”

said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince,

prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn’t

care less.”

She raised her quill and dotted an i so ferociously

that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry

said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish

from lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced

Potion-Making and continued to make notes on

Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher

the Prince’s useful additions to Libatius Borage’s text.

“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few

moments, “you need to be careful.”

“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly

hoarse whisper after three-quarters of an hour of

silence, “I am not giving back this book, I’ve learned

more from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or

Slughorn have taught me in —”

“I’m not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,”

said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though

it had been rude to her. “I’m talking about earlier. I

went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in

here and there were about a dozen girls in there,

including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to

slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going

to get you to take them to Slughorn’s party, and they

all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love

potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work —”

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“Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded

Harry. It seemed extraordinary that Hermione’s mania

for upholding rules could have abandoned her at this

crucial juncture.

“They didn’t have the potions with them in the

bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully. “They were just

discussing tactics. As I doubt whether even the Half-

Blood Prince” — she gave the book another nasty look

— “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different

love potions at once, I’d just invite someone to go with

you, that’ll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got

a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting

desperate.”

“There isn’t anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry,

who was still trying not to think about Ginny any

more than he could help, despite the fact that she

kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made

him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform

Legilimency.

“Well, just be careful what you drink, because

Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” said

Hermione grimly.

She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which

she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued

to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her

with his mind a long way away.

“Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch

had banned anything bought at Weasleys’ Wizard

Wheezes?”

“And when has anyone ever paid attention to what

Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still

concentrating on her essay.

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“But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions

into school?”

“Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes

and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It’s part of their

Owl Order Service.”

“You know a lot about it.”

Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had

just given his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

“It was all on the back of the bottles they showed

Ginny and me in the summer,” she said coldly. “I

don’t go around putting potions in people’s drinks …

or pretending to, either, which is just as bad. …”

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry quickly.

“The point is, Filch is being fooled, isn’t he? These

girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as

something else! So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought

the necklace into the school — ?”

“Oh, Harry … not that again …”

“Come on, why not?” demanded Harry.

“Look,” sighed Hermione, “Secrecy Sensors detect

jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don’t they?

They’re used to find Dark Magic and Dark objects.

They’d have picked up a powerful curse, like the one

on that necklace, within seconds. But something

that’s just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn’t

register — and anyway, love potions aren’t Dark or

dangerous —”

“Easy for you to say,” muttered Harry, thinking of

Romilda Vane.

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“— so it would be down to Filch to realize it wasn’t a cough potion, and he’s not a very good wizard, I doubt

he can tell one potion from —”

Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too.

Somebody had moved close behind them among the

dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later

the vulturelike countenance of Madam Pince

appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her

skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose

illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was

carrying.

“The library is now closed,” she said. “Mind you

return anything you have borrowed to the correct —

what have you been doing to that book, you depraved

boy?”

“It isn’t the library’s, it’s mine!” said Harry hastily,

snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the

table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand.

“Despoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated! Befouled!”

“It’s just a book that’s been written on!” said Harry,

tugging it out of her grip.

She looked as though she might have a seizure;

Hermione, who had hastily packed her things,

grabbed Harry by the arm and frogmarched him

away.

“She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful.

Why did you have to bring that stupid book?”

“It’s not my fault she’s barking mad, Hermione. Or

d’you think she overheard you being rude about

Filch? I’ve always thought there might be something

going on between them. …”

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“Oh, ha ha …”

Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally

again, they made their way along the deserted, lamp-

lit corridors back to the common room, arguing about

whether or not Filch and Madam Pince were secretly

in love with each other.

“Baubles,” said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the

new, festive password.

“Same to you,” said the Fat Lady with a roguish grin,

and she swung forward to admit them.

“Hi, Harry!” said Romilda Vane, the moment he had

climbed through the portrait hole. “Fancy a

gillywater?”

Hermione gave him a “what-did-I-tell-you?” look over

her shoulder.

“No thanks,” said Harry quickly. “I don’t like it much.”

“Well, take these anyway,” said Romilda, thrusting a

box into his hands. “Chocolate Cauldrons, they’ve got

firewhisky in them. My gran sent them to me, but I

don’t like them.”

“Oh — right — thanks a lot,” said Harry, who could

not think what else to say. “Er — I’m just going over

here with …”

He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing

away feebly.

“Told you,” said Hermione succinctly. “Sooner you ask

someone, sooner they’ll all leave you alone and you

can —”

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But her face suddenly turned blank; she had just

spotted Ron and Lavender, who were entwined in the

same armchair.

“Well, good night, Harry,” said Hermione, though it

was only seven o’clock in the evening, and she left for

the girls’ dormitory without another word.

Harry went to bed comforting himself that there was

only one more day of lessons to struggle through,

plus Slughorn’s party, after which he and Ron would

depart together for the Burrow. It now seemed

impossible that Ron and Hermione would make up

with each other before the holidays began, but

perhaps, somehow, the break would give them time to

calm down, think better of their behavior. …

But his hopes were not high, and they sank still lower

after enduring a Transfiguration lesson with them

both next day. They had just embarked upon the

immensely difficult topic of human Transfiguration;

working in front of mirrors, they were supposed to be

changing the color of their own eyebrows. Hermione

laughed unkindly at Ron’s disastrous first attempt,

during which he somehow managed to give himself a

spectacular handlebar mustache; Ron retaliated by

doing a cruel but accurate impression of Hermione

jumping up and down in her seat every time Professor

McGonagall asked a question, which Lavender and

Parvati found deeply amusing and which reduced

Hermione to the verge of tears again. She raced out of

the classroom on the bell, leaving half her things

behind; Harry, deciding that her need was greater

than Ron’s just now, scooped up her remaining

possessions and followed her.

He finally tracked her down as she emerged from a

girls’ bathroom on the floor below. She was

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accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her

vaguely on the back.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” said Luna. “Did you know one of

your eyebrows is bright yellow?”

“Hi, Luna. Hermione, you left your stuff. …”

He held out her books.

“Oh yes,” said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her

things and turning away quickly to hide the fact that

she was wiping her eyes on her pencil case. “Thank

you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going. …”

And she hurried off, without giving Harry any time to

offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could

not think of any.

“She’s a bit upset,” said Luna. “I thought at first it

was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be

Hermione. She said something about that Ron

Weasley. …”

“Yeah, they’ve had a row,” said Harry.

“He says very funny things sometimes, doesn’t he?”

said Luna, as they set off down the corridor together.

“But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year.”

“I s’pose,” said Harry. Luna was demonstrating her

usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; he

had never met anyone quite like her. “So have you

had a good term?”

“Oh, it’s been all right,” said Luna. “A bit lonely

without the D.A. Ginny’s been nice, though. She

stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling

me ‘Loony’ the other day —”

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“How would you like to come to Slughorn’s party with me tonight?”

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could

stop them; he heard himself say them as though it

were a stranger speaking.

Luna turned her protuberant eyes upon him in

surprise.

“Slughorn’s party? With you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “We’re supposed to bring guests,

so I thought you might like … I mean …” He was keen

to make his intentions perfectly clear. “I mean, just as

friends, you know. But if you don’t want to …”

He was already half hoping that she didn’t want to.

“Oh, no, I’d love to go with you as friends!” said Luna,

beaming as he had never seen her beam before.

“Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before, as a friend!

Is that why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party?

Should I do mine too?”

“No,” said Harry firmly, “that was a mistake. I’ll get

Hermione to put it right for me. So, I’ll meet you in

the entrance hall at eight o’clock then.”

“AHA!” screamed a voice from overhead and both of

them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had

just passed right underneath Peeves, who was

hanging upside down from a chandelier and grinning

maliciously at them.

“Potty asked Loony to go to the party! Potty lurves

Loony! Potty luuuuurves Looooooony!”

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And he zoomed away, cackling and shrieking, “Potty loves Loony!”

“Nice to keep these things private,” said Harry. And

sure enough, in no time at all the whole school

seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna

Lovegood to Slughorn’s party.

“You could’ve taken anyone!” said Ron in disbelief

over dinner. “Anyone! And you chose Loony

Lovegood?”

“Don’t call her that, Ron,” snapped Ginny, pausing

behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I’m really

glad you’re taking her, Harry, she’s so excited.”

And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean.

Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was

taking Luna to the party, but could not quite manage

it. A long way along the table, Hermione was sitting

alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron

looking at her furtively.

“You could say sorry,” suggested Harry bluntly.

“What, and get attacked by another flock of

canaries?” muttered Ron.

“What did you have to imitate her for?”

“She laughed at my mustache!”

“So did I, it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had

just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in

between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms

around Ron’s neck.

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“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati who, like him, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two

friends.

“Hi,” said Harry. “How’re you? You’re staying at

Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to

leave.”

“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,”

said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them

out, but as there hasn’t been anything since … Oh,

hi, Hermione!”

Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she

was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in

Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that

Hermione was beaming back, if possible even more

brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes.

“Hi, Parvati!” said Hermione, ignoring Ron and

Lavender completely. “Are you going to Slughorn’s

party tonight?”

“No invite,” said Parvati gloomily. “I’d love to go,

though, it sounds like it’s going to be really good. …

You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m meeting Cormac at eight, and we’re —”

There was a noise like a plunger being withdrawn

from a blocked sink and Ron surfaced. Hermione

acted as though she had not seen or heard anything.

“— we’re going up to the party together.”

“Cormac?” said Parvati. “Cormac McLaggen, you

mean?”

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“That’s right,” said Hermione sweetly. “The one who almost” — she put a great deal of emphasis on the

word — “became Gryffindor Keeper.”

“Are you going out with him, then?” asked Parvati,

wide-eyed.

“Oh — yes — didn’t you know?” said Hermione, with a

most un-Hermione-ish giggle.

“No!” said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece

of gossip. “Wow, you like your Quidditch players,

don’t you? First Krum, then McLaggen …”

“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione

corrected her, still smiling. “Well, see you … Got to go

and get ready for the party. …”

She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads

together to discuss this new development, with

everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and

all they had ever guessed about Hermione. Ron

looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was

left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls

would sink to get revenge.

When he arrived in the entrance hall at eight o’clock

that night, he found an unusually large number of

girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring

at him resentfully as he approached Luna. She was

wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were

attracting a certain amount of giggles from the

onlookers, but otherwise she looked quite nice. Harry

was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish

earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her

Spectrespecs.

“Hi,” he said. “Shall we get going then?”

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“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Where is the party?”

“Slughorn’s office,” said Harry, leading her up the

marble staircase away from all the staring and

muttering. “Did you hear, there’s supposed to be a

vampire coming?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna.

“I — what?” said Harry, disconcerted. “You mean the

Minister of Magic?”

“Yes, he’s a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly.

“Father wrote a very long article about it when

Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but

he was forced not to publish by somebody from the

Ministry. Obviously, they didn’t want the truth to get

out!”

Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus

Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna

repeating her father’s bizarre views as though they

were fact, did not reply; they were already

approaching Slughorn’s office and the sounds of

laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing

louder with every step they took.

Whether it had been built that way, or because he

had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn’s

office was much larger than the usual teacher’s

study. The ceiling and walls had been draped with

emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, so that it

looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The

room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red

light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the

center of the ceiling in which real fairies were

fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. Loud singing

accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued

from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over

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several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves were negotiating their way

squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by

the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so

that they looked like little roving tables.

“Harry, m’boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as

Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door.

“Come in, come in, so many people I’d like you to

meet!”

Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match

his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry’s arm so tightly he

might have been hoping to Disapparate with him,

Slughorn led him purposefully into the party; Harry

seized Luna’s hand and dragged her along with him.

“Harry, I’d like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old

student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life

Amongst the Vampires — and, of course, his friend

Sanguini.”

Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man,

grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it enthusiastically;

the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated

with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He

looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing

close to him, looking curious and excited.

“Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple,

peering shortsightedly up into Harry’s face. “I was

saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day,

‘ Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we

have all been waiting?’ ”

“Er,” said Harry, “were you?”

“Just as modest as Horace described!” said Worple.

“But seriously” — his manner changed; it became

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suddenly businesslike — “I would be delighted to

write it myself — people are craving to know more

about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to

grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour

sessions, why, we could have the book finished within

months. And all with very little effort on your part, I

assure you — ask Sanguini here if it isn’t quite —

Sanguini, stay here!” added Worple, suddenly stern,

for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby

group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye. “Here,

have a pasty,” said Worple, seizing one from a passing

elf and stuffing it into Sanguini’s hand before turning

his attention back to Harry.

“My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no

idea —”

“I’m definitely not interested,” said Harry firmly, “and

I’ve just seen a friend of mine, sorry.”

He pulled Luna after him into the crowd; he had

indeed just seen a long mane of brown hair disappear

between what looked like two members of the Weird

Sisters.

“Hermione! Hermione!”

“Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna!”

“What’s happened to you?” asked Harry, for Hermione

looked distinctly disheveled, rather as though she had

just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil’s Snare.

“Oh, I’ve just escaped — I mean, I’ve just left

Cormac,” she said. “Under the mistletoe,” she added

in explanation, as Harry continued to look

questioningly at her.

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“Serves you right for coming with him,” he told her severely.

“I thought he’d annoy Ron most,” said Hermione

dispassionately. “I debated for a while about

Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole —”

“You considered Smith?” said Harry, revolted.

“Yes, I did, and I’m starting to wish I’d chosen him,

McLaggen makes Grawp look a gentleman. Let’s go

this way, we’ll be able to see him coming, he’s so tall.

…”

The three of them made their way over to the other

side of the room, scooping up goblets of mead on the

way, realizing too late that Professor Trelawney was

standing there alone.

“Hello,” said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney.

“Good evening, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney,

focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Harry could

smell cooking sherry again. “I haven’t seen you in my

classes lately. …”

“No, I’ve got Firenze this year,” said Luna.

“Oh, of course,” said Professor Trelawney with an

angry, drunken titter. “Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think

of him. You would have thought, would you not, that

now I am returned to the school Professor

Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no

… we share classes. … It’s an insult, frankly, an

insult. Do you know …”

Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have

recognized Harry. Under cover of her furious

criticisms of Firenze, Harry drew closer to Hermione

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and said, “Let’s get something straight. Are you

planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper

tryouts?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Do you really think

I’d stoop that low?”

Harry looked at her shrewdly. “Hermione, if you can

ask out McLaggen —”

“There’s a difference,” said Hermione with dignity.

“I’ve got no plans to tell Ron anything about what

might, or might not, have happened at Keeper

tryouts.”

“Good,” said Harry fervently. “Because he’ll just fall

apart again, and we’ll lose the next match —”

“Quidditch!” said Hermione angrily. “Is that all boys

care about? Cormac hasn’t asked me one single

question about myself, no, I’ve just been treated to ‘A

Hundred Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen’

nonstop ever since — oh no, here he comes!”

She moved so fast it was as though she had

Disapparated; one moment she was there, the next,

she had squeezed between two guffawing witches and

vanished.

“Seen Hermione?” asked McLaggen, forcing his way

through the throng a minute later.

“No, sorry,” said Harry, and he turned quickly to join

in Luna’s conversation, forgetting for a split second to

whom she was talking.

“Harry Potter!” said Professor Trelawney in deep,

vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time.

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“Oh, hello,” said Harry unenthusiastically.

“My dear boy!” she said in a very carrying whisper.

“The rumors! The stories! ‘The Chosen One’! Of

course, I have known for a very long time. … The

omens were never good, Harry. … But why have you

not returned to Divination? For you, of all people, the

subject is of the utmost importance!”

“Ah, Sybill, we all think our subject’s most

important!” said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared

at Professor Trelawney’s other side, his face very red,

his velvet hat a little askew, a glass of mead in one

hand and an enormous mince pie in the other. “But I

don’t think I’ve ever known such a natural at

Potions!” said Slughorn, regarding Harry with a fond,

if bloodshot, eye. “Instinctive, you know — like his

mother! I’ve only ever taught a few with this kind of

ability, I can tell you that, Sybill — why even Severus

—”

And to Harry’s horror, Slughorn threw out an arm

and seemed to scoop Snape out of thin air toward

them.

“Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!”

hiccuped Slughorn happily. “I was just talking about

Harry’s exceptional potion-making! Some credit must

go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!”

Trapped, with Slughorn’s arm around his shoulders,

Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his

black eyes narrowed.

“Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to

teach Potter anything at all.”

“Well, then, it’s natural ability!” shouted Slughorn.

“You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson,

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Draught of Living Death — never had a student

produce finer on a first attempt, I don’t think even

you, Severus —”

“Really?” said Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into

Harry, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he

wanted was for Snape to start investigating the

source of his newfound brilliance at Potions.

“Remind me what other subjects you’re taking,

Harry?” asked Slughorn.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms,

Transfiguration, Herbology …”

“All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror,” said

Snape, with the faintest sneer.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’d like to do,” said Harry

defiantly.

“And a great one you’ll make too!” boomed Slughorn.

“I don’t think you should be an Auror, Harry,” said

Luna unexpectedly. Everybody looked at her. “The

Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought

everyone knew that. They’re working to bring down

the Ministry of Magic from within using a

combination of Dark Magic and gum disease.”

Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started

to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just

for this. Emerging from his goblet, coughing, sopping

wet but still grinning, he saw something calculated to

raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy being

dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch.

“Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver

and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his

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bulging eyes, “I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to

your party and to have been delayed in setting out.

Did you issue him with an invitation?”

Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch’s grip, looking

furious.

“All right, I wasn’t invited!” he said angrily. “I was

trying to gatecrash, happy?”

“No, I’m not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds

with the glee on his face. “You’re in trouble, you are!

Didn’t the headmaster say that nighttime prowling’s

out, unless you’ve got permission, didn’t he, eh?”

“That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,” said

Slughorn, waving a hand. “It’s Christmas, and it’s not

a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once,

we’ll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.”

Filch’s expression of outraged disappointment was

perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered,

watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally

unhappy? And why was Snape looking at Malfoy as

though both angry and … was it possible? … a little

afraid?

But almost before Harry had registered what he had

seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering

under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into

a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity,

and Snape’s face was smoothly inscrutable again.

“It’s nothing, nothing,” said Slughorn, waving away

Malfoy’s thanks. “I did know your grandfather, after

all. …”

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“He always spoke very highly of you, sir,” said Malfoy quickly. “Said you were the best potion-maker he’d

ever known. …”

Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that

intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to

Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did,

after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had

seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy

had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly

grayish tinge to his skin.

“I’d like a word with you, Draco,” said Snape

suddenly.

“Oh, now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccuping again,

“it’s Christmas, don’t be too hard —”

“I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard,

or otherwise, to be,” said Snape curtly. “Follow me,

Draco.”

They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking

resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute,

then said, “I’ll be back in a bit, Luna — er —

bathroom.”

“All right,” she said cheerfully, and he thought he

heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume

the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor

Trelawney, who seemed sincerely interested.

It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his

Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over

himself, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was

more difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry

ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by

the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn’s

office behind him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to

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his office in the dungeons … or perhaps he was

escorting him back to the Slytherin common room. …

Harry pressed his ear against door after door as he

dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of

excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the

last classroom in the corridor and heard voices.

“… cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are

expelled —”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?”

“I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both

clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of

having a hand in it.”

“Who suspects me?” said Malfoy angrily. “For the last

time, I didn’t do it, okay? That Bell girl must’ve had

an enemy no one knows about — don’t look at me like

that! I know what you’re doing, I’m not stupid, but it

won’t work — I can stop you!”

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, “Ah

… Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency,

I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from

your master, Draco?”

“I’m not trying to conceal anything from him, I just

don’t want you butting in!”

Harry pressed his ear still more closely against the

keyhole. … What had happened to make Malfoy speak

to Snape like this — Snape, toward whom he had

always shown respect, even liking?

“So that is why you have been avoiding me this term?

You have feared my interference? You realize that,

had anybody else failed to come to my office when I

had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco —”

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“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!”

jeered Malfoy.

There was another pause. Then Snape said, “You

know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of

those things.”

“You’d better stop telling me to come to your office

then!”

“Listen to me,” said Snape, his voice so low now that

Harry had to push his ear very hard against the

keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to

your mother I would protect you. I made the

Unbreakable Vow, Draco —”

“Looks like you’ll have to break it, then, because I

don’t need your protection! It’s my job, he gave it to

me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to

work, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it

would!”

“What is your plan?”

“It’s none of your business!”

“If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist

you —”

“I’ve got all the assistance I need, thanks, I’m not

alone!”

“You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish

in the extreme, wandering the corridors without

lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —

”

“I would’ve had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you

hadn’t put them in detention!”

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“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy’s voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle

intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts

O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a

little harder than they are doing at pres —”

“What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against

the Dark Arts — it’s all just a joke, isn’t it, an act?

Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts

—”

“It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said

Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all

these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen

to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at

night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing

your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —”

“They’re not the only ones, I’ve got other people on my

side, better people!”

“Then why not confide in me, and I can —”

“I know what you’re up to! You want to steal my

glory!”

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly,

“You are speaking like a child. I quite understand

that your father’s capture and imprisonment has

upset you, but —”

Harry had barely a second’s warning; he heard

Malfoy’s footsteps on the other side of the door and

flung himself out of the way just as it burst open;

Malfoy was striding away down the corridor, past the

open door of Slughorn’s office, around the distant

corner, and out of sight.

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Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched

down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom.

His expression unfathomable, he returned to the

party. Harry remained on the floor, hidden beneath

the cloak, his mind racing.

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A VERY FROSTY CHRISTMAS

“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely

offering to help him?”

“If you ask that once more,” said Harry, “I’m going to

stick this sprout —”

“I’m only checking!” said Ron. They were standing

alone at the Burrow’s kitchen sink, peeling a

mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was

drifting past the window in front of them.

“Yes, Snape was offering to help him!” said Harry. “He

said he’d promised Malfoy’s mother to protect him,

that he’d made an Unbreakable Oath or something —

”

“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned.

“Nah, he can’t have. … Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it

mean?”

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“Well, you can’t break an Unbreakable Vow. …”

“I’d worked that much out for myself, funnily enough.

What happens if you break it, then?”

“You die,” said Ron simply. “Fred and George tried to

get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly

did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything

when Dad found us. He went mental,” said Ron, with

a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. “Only time I’ve ever

seen Dad as angry as Mum. Fred reckons his left

buttock has never been the same since.”

“Yeah, well, passing over Fred’s left buttock —”

“I beg your pardon?” said Fred’s voice as the twins

entered the kitchen.

“Aaah, George, look at this. They’re using knives and

everything. Bless them.”

“I’ll be seventeen in two and a bit months’ time,” said

Ron grumpily, “and then I’ll be able to do it by magic!”

“But meanwhile,” said George, sitting down at the

kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, “we can

enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a

— whoops-a-daisy!”

“You made me do that!” said Ron angrily, sucking his

cut thumb. “You wait, when I’m seventeen —”

“I’m sure you’ll dazzle us all with hitherto

unsuspected magical skills,” yawned Fred.

“And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills,

Ronald,” said George, “what is this we hear from

Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless

our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?”

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Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. “Mind your own

business.”

“What a snappy retort,” said Fred. “I really don’t know

how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know

was … how did it happen?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Did she have an accident or something?”

“What?”

“Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain

damage? Careful, now!”

Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron

throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into

a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand.

“Ron!” she said furiously. “Don’t you ever let me see

you throwing knives again!”

“I won’t,” said Ron, “let you see,” he added under his

breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain.

“Fred, George, I’m sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving

tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two.”

“No problem,” said George.

“Then, as Charlie isn’t coming home, that just leaves

Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with

Ginny —”

“— that’ll make Ginny’s Christmas —” muttered Fred.

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“— everyone should be comfortable. Well, they’ll have a bed, anyway,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly

harassed.

“Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?”

asked Fred.

Mrs. Weasley turned away before she answered. “No,

he’s busy, I expect, at the Ministry.”

“Or he’s the world’s biggest prat,” said Fred, as Mrs.

Weasley left the kitchen. “One of the two. Well, let’s

get going, then, George.”

“What are you two up to?” asked Ron. “Can’t you help

us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand

and then we’ll be free too!”

“No, I don’t think we can do that,” said Fred seriously.

“It’s very character-building stuff, learning to peel

sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how

difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs —”

“— and if you want people to help you, Ron,” added

George, throwing the paper airplane at him, “I

wouldn’t chuck knives at them. Just a little hint.

We’re off to the village, there’s a very pretty girl

working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks

are something marvelous … almost like real magic.

…”

“Gits,” said Ron darkly, watching Fred and George

setting off across the snowy yard. “Would’ve only

taken them ten seconds and then we could’ve gone

too.”

“I couldn’t,” said Harry. “I promised Dumbledore I

wouldn’t wander off while I’m staying here.”

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“Oh yeah,” said Ron. He peeled a few more sprouts

and then said, “Are you going to tell Dumbledore what

you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?”

“Yep,” said Harry. “I’m going to tell anyone who can

put a stop to it, and Dumbledore’s top of the list. I

might have another word with your dad too.”

“Pity you didn’t hear what Malfoy’s actually doing,

though.”

“I couldn’t have done, could I? That was the whole

point, he was refusing to tell Snape.”

There was silence for a moment or two, then Ron

said, “ ’Course, you know what they’ll all say? Dad

and Dumbledore and all of them? They’ll say Snape

isn’t really trying to help Malfoy, he was just trying to

find out what Malfoy’s up to.”

“They didn’t hear him,” said Harry flatly. “No one’s

that good an actor, not even Snape.”

“Yeah … I’m just saying, though,” said Ron.

Harry turned to face him, frowning. “You think I’m

right, though?”

“Yeah, I do!” said Ron hastily. “Seriously, I do! But

they’re all convinced Snape’s in the Order, aren’t

they?”

Harry said nothing. It had already occurred to him

that this would be the most likely objection to his new

evidence; he could hear Hermione now: Obviously,

Harry, he was pretending to offer help so he could trick

Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing. …

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This was pure imagination, however, as he had had

no opportunity to tell Hermione what he had

overheard. She had disappeared from Slughorn’s

parry before he returned to it, or so he had been

informed by an irate McLaggen, and she had already

gone to bed by the time he returned to the common

room. As he and Ron had left for the Burrow early the

next day, he had barely had time to wish her a happy

Christmas and to tell her that he had some very

important news when they got back from the

holidays. He was not entirely sure that she had heard

him, though; Ron and Lavender had been saying a

thoroughly nonverbal good-bye just behind him at the

time.

Still, even Hermione would not be able to deny one

thing: Malfoy was definitely up to something, and

Snape knew it, so Harry felt fully justified in saying “I

told you so,” which he had done several times to Ron

already.

Harry did not get the chance to speak to Mr. Weasley,

who was working very long hours at the Ministry,

until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their

guests were sitting in the living room, which Ginny

had decorated so lavishly that it was rather like

sitting in a paper-chain explosion. Fred, George,

Harry, and Ron were the only ones who knew that the

angel on top of the tree was actually a garden gnome

that had bitten Fred on the ankle as he pulled up

carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, painted gold,

stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings

glued to its back, it glowered down at them all, the

ugliest angel Harry had ever seen, with a large bald

head like a potato and rather hairy feet.

They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas

broadcast by Mrs. Weasley’s favorite singer, Celestina

Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large

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wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find

Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the

corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her

wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grew

louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy

number called “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,”

Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap

with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert

looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile,

Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged-

looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring

into its depths as though he could not hear

Celestina’s voice.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron,

And if you do it right,

I’ll boil you up some hot strong love

To keep you warm tonight.

“We danced to this when we were eighteen!” said Mrs.

Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. “Do you

remember, Arthur?”

“Mphf?” said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been

nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. “Oh yes …

marvelous tune …”

With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked

around at Harry, who was sitting next to him.

“Sorry about this,” he said, jerking his head toward

the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. “Be

over soon.”

“No problem,” said Harry, grinning. “Has it been busy

at the Ministry?”

“Very,” said Mr. Weasley. “I wouldn’t mind if we were

getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we’ve made

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in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them is a genuine Death Eater — only don’t repeat that,

Harry,” he added quickly, looking much more awake

all of a sudden.

“They’re not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?”

asked Harry.

“I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Weasley. “I know

Dumbledore’s tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour

about Stan. … I mean, anybody who has actually

interviewed him agrees that he’s about as much a

Death Eater as this satsuma … but the top levels

want to look as though they’re making some progress,

and ‘three arrests’ sounds better than ‘three mistaken

arrests and releases’… but again, this is all top

secret. …”

“I won’t say anything,” said Harry. He hesitated for a

moment, wondering how best to embark on what he

wanted to say; as he marshaled his thoughts,

Celestina Warbeck began a ballad called “You

Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me.”

“Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station

when we were setting off for school?”

“I checked, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley at once. “I went

and searched the Malfoys’ house. There was nothing,

either broken or whole, that shouldn’t have been

there.”

“Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that you’d looked

… but this is something different. … Well, something

more …”

And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard

between Malfoy and Snape. As Harry spoke, he saw

Lupin’s head turn a little toward him, taking in every

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word. When he had finished, there was silence, except for Celestina’s crooning.

Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone?

It’s left me for a spell …

“Has it occurred to you, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley,

“that Snape was simply pretending — ?”

“Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out

what Malfoy’s up to?” said Harry quickly. “Yeah, I

thought you’d say that. But how do we know?”

“It isn’t our business to know,” said Lupin

unexpectedly. He had turned his back on the fire now

and faced Harry across Mr. Weasley. “It’s

Dumbledore’s business. Dumbledore trusts Severus,

and that ought to be good enough for all of us.”

“But,” said Harry, “just say — just say Dumbledore’s

wrong about Snape —”

“People have said it, many times. It comes down to

whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgment. I

do; therefore, I trust Severus.”

“But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry.

“He says it himself. And you” — he looked Lupin

straight in the eye — “do you honestly like Snape?”

“I neither like nor dislike Severus,” said Lupin. “No,

Harry, I am speaking the truth,” he added, as Harry

pulled a skeptical expression. “We shall never be

bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened

between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too

much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during

the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the

Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it

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perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon.”

“But he ‘accidentally’ let it slip that you’re a werewolf,

so you had to leave!” said Harry angrily.

Lupin shrugged. “The news would have leaked out

anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he

could have wreaked much worse damage on me by

tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I

must be grateful.”

“Maybe he didn’t dare mess with the potion with

Dumbledore watching him!” said Harry.

“You are determined to hate him, Harry,” said Lupin

with a faint smile. “And I understand; with James as

your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have

inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell

Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but

do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do

not even expect him to be surprised by what you tell

him. It might have been on Dumbledore’s orders that

Severus questioned Draco.”

… and now you’ve torn it quite apart

I’ll thank you to give back my heart!

Celestina ended her song on a very long, high-pitched

note and loud applause issued out of the wireless,

which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically.

“Eez eet over?” said Fleur loudly. “Thank goodness,

what an ’orrible —”

“Shall we have a nightcap, then?” asked Mr. Weasley

loudly, leaping to his feet. “Who wants eggnog?”

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“What have you been up to lately?” Harry asked

Lupin, as Mr. Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog,

and everybody else stretched and broke into

conversation.

“Oh, I’ve been underground,” said Lupin. “Almost

literally. That’s why I haven’t been able to write,

Harry; sending letters to you would have been

something of a giveaway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals,” said

Lupin. “Werewolves,” he added, at Harry’s look of

incomprehension. “Nearly all of them are on

Voldemort’s side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here

I was … ready-made.”

He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for

he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not

complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it

better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining

their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having

tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they

have shunned normal society and live on the margins,

stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat.”

“How come they like Voldemort?”

“They think that, under his rule, they will have a

better life,” said Lupin. “And it is hard to argue with

Greyback out there. …”

“Who’s Greyback?”

“You haven’t heard of him?” Lupin’s hands closed

convulsively in his lap. “Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps,

the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as

his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many

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people as possible; he wants to create enough

werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has

promised him prey in return for his services.

Greyback specializes in children. … Bite them young,

he says, and raise them away from their parents,

raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has

threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and

daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good

results.”

Lupin paused and then said, “It was Greyback who

bit me.”

“What?” said Harry, astonished. “When — when you

were a kid, you mean?”

“Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for

a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had

attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he

had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to

transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full

moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring

that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And

this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the

werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular

brand of reasoned argument is making much

headway against Greyback’s insistence that we

werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge

ourselves on normal people.”

“But you are normal!” said Harry fiercely. “You’ve just

got a — a problem —”

Lupin burst out laughing. “Sometimes you remind me

a lot of James. He called it my ‘furry little problem’ in

company. Many people were under the impression

that I owned a badly behaved rabbit.”

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He accepted a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful.

Harry, meanwhile, felt a rush of excitement: This last

mention of his father had reminded him that there

was something he had been looking forward to asking

Lupin.

“Have you ever heard of someone called the Half-

Blood Prince?”

“The Half-Blood what?”

“Prince,” said Harry, watching him closely for signs of

recognition.

“There are no Wizarding princes,” said Lupin, now

smiling. “Is this a title you’re thinking of adopting? I

should have thought being ‘the Chosen One’ would be

enough.”

“It’s nothing to do with me!” said Harry indignantly.

“The Half-Blood Prince is someone who used to go to

Hogwarts, I’ve got his old Potions book. He wrote

spells all over it, spells he invented. One of them was

Levicorpus —”

“Oh, that one had a great vogue during my time at

Hogwarts,” said Lupin reminiscently. “There were a

few months in my fifth year when you couldn’t move

for being hoisted into the air by your ankle.”

“My dad used it,” said Harry. “I saw him in the

Pensieve, he used it on Snape.”

He tried to sound casual, as though this was a

throwaway comment of no real importance, but he

was not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupin’s

smile was a little too understanding.

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“Yes,” he said, “but he wasn’t the only one. As I say, it was very popular. … You know how these spells come

and go. …”

“But it sounds like it was invented while you were at

school,” Harry persisted.

“Not necessarily,” said Lupin. “Jinxes go in and out of

fashion like everything else.”

He looked into Harry’s face and then said quietly,

“James was a pureblood, Harry, and I promise you,

he never asked us to call him ‘Prince.’ ”

Abandoning pretense, Harry said, “And it wasn’t

Sirius? Or you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Oh.” Harry stared into the fire. “I just thought —

well, he’s helped me out a lot in Potions classes, the

Prince has.”

“How old is this book, Harry?”

“I dunno, I’ve never checked.”

“Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when

the Prince was at Hogwarts,” said Lupin.

Shortly after this, Fleur decided to imitate Celestina

singing “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” which

was taken by everyone, once they had glimpsed Mrs.

Weasley’s expression, to be the cue to go to bed.

Harry and Ron climbed all the way up to Ron’s attic

bedroom, where a camp bed had been added for

Harry.

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Ron fell asleep almost immediately, but Harry delved into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced

Potion-Making before getting into bed. There he turned

its pages, searching, until he finally found, at the

front of the book, the date that it had been published.

It was nearly fifty years old. Neither his father, nor his

father’s friends, had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago.

Feeling disappointed, Harry threw the book back into

his trunk, turned off the lamp, and rolled over,

thinking of werewolves and Snape, Stan Shunpike

and the Half-Blood Prince, and finally falling into an

uneasy sleep full of creeping shadows and the cries of

bitten children. …

“She’s got to be joking. …”

Harry woke with a start to find a bulging stocking

lying over the end of his bed. He put on his glasses

and looked around; the tiny window was almost

completely obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron

was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what

appeared to be a thick gold chain.

“What’s that?” asked Harry.

“It’s from Lavender,” said Ron, sounding revolted.

“She can’t honestly think I’d wear …”

Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of

laughter. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters

were the words:

My Sweetheart

“Nice,” he said. “Classy. You should definitely wear it

in front of Fred and George.”

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“If you tell them,” said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, “I — I — I’ll —”

“Stutter at me?” said Harry, grinning. “Come on,

would I?”

“How could she think I’d like something like that,

though?” Ron demanded of thin air, looking rather

shocked.

“Well, think back,” said Harry. “Have you ever let it

slip that you’d like to go out in public with the words

‘My Sweetheart’ round your neck?”

“Well … we don’t really talk much,” said Ron. “It’s

mainly …”

“Snogging,” said Harry.

“Well, yeah,” said Ron. He hesitated a moment, then

said, “Is Hermione really going out with McLaggen?”

“I dunno,” said Harry. “They were at Slughorn’s party

together, but I don’t think it went that well.”

Ron looked slightly more cheerful as he delved deeper

into his stocking.

Harry’s presents included a sweater with a large

Golden Snitch worked onto the front, hand-knitted by

Mrs. Weasley, a large box of Weasleys’ Wizard

Wheezes products from the twins, and a slightly

damp, moldy-smelling package that came with a label

reading TO MASTER, FROM KREACHER.

Harry stared at it. “D’you reckon this is safe to open?”

he asked.

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“Can’t be anything dangerous, all our mail’s still being searched at the Ministry,” replied Ron, though

he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously.

“I didn’t think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people

usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?”

asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously.

“Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let’s wait and see

what it is before you start feeling guilty.”

A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt

out of his camp bed; the package contained a large

number of maggots.

“Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very

thoughtful.”

“I’d rather have them than that necklace,” said Harry,

which sobered Ron up at once.

Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all

sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur

(on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted

to waste one) and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was

sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat

glittering with what looked like tiny starlike

diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.

“Fred and George gave them to me! Aren’t they

beautiful?”

“Well, we find we appreciate you more and more,

Mum, now we’re washing our own socks,” said

George, waving an airy hand. “Parsnips, Remus?”

“Harry, you’ve got a maggot in your hair,” said Ginny

cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out;

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Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had

nothing to do with the maggot.

“ ’Ow ’orrible,” said Fleur, with an affected little

shudder.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Ron. “Gravy, Fleur?”

In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy

boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared

up in the air and returned meekly to the boat.

“You are as bad as zat Tonks,” said Fleur to Ron,

when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. “She is

always knocking —”

“I invited dear Tonks to come along today,” said Mrs.

Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary

force and glaring at Fleur. “But she wouldn’t come.

Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?”

“No, I haven’t been in contact with anybody very

much,” said Lupin. “But Tonks has got her own

family to go to, hasn’t she?”

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Maybe. I got the

impression she was planning to spend Christmas

alone, actually.”

She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all

his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law

instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur,

who was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own

fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-

lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question

he had with regard to Tonks, and who better to ask

than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses?

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“Tonks’s Patronus has changed its form,” he told him.

“Snape said so anyway. I didn’t know that could

happen. Why would your Patronus change?”

Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and

swallowing before saying slowly, “Sometimes … a

great shock … an emotional upheaval …”

“It looked big, and it had four legs,” said Harry,

struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice.

“Hey … it couldn’t be — ?”

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen

from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart

and she was staring out of the kitchen window.

“Arthur — it’s Percy!”

“What?”

Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly

at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look.

There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding

across the snowy yard, his horn-rimmed glasses

glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone.

“Arthur, he’s — he’s with the Minister!”

And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the

Daily Prophet was following along in Percy’s wake,

limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his

black cloak flecked with snow. Before any of them

could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley

could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back

door opened and there stood Percy.

There was a moment’s painful silence. Then Percy

said rather stiffly, “Merry Christmas, Mother.”

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“Oh, Percy!” said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms.

Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on

his walking stick and smiling as he observed this

affecting scene.

“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, when Mrs.

Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping

her eyes. “Percy and I were in the vicinity — working,

you know — and he couldn’t resist dropping in and

seeing you all.”

But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of

the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and

awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else’s

heads. Mr. Weasley, Fred, and George were all

observing him, stony-faced.

“Please, come in, sit down, Minister!” fluttered Mrs.

Weasley, straightening her hat. “Have a little purkey,

or some tooding. … I mean —”

“No, no, my dear Molly,” said Scrimgeour. Harry

guessed that he had checked her name with Percy

before they entered the house. “I don’t want to

intrude, wouldn’t be here at all if Percy hadn’t wanted

to see you all so badly. …”

“Oh, Perce!” said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up

to kiss him.

“… We’ve only looked in for five minutes, so I’ll have a

stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy.

No, no, I assure you I don’t want to butt in! Well, if

anybody cared to show me your charming garden …

Ah, that young man’s finished, why doesn’t he take a

stroll with me?”

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The atmosphere around the table changed

perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to

Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour s pretense

that he did not know Harry’s name convincing, or find

it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the

Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and

George also had clean plates.

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence.

He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour’s talk that they

had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look

up his family, this must be the real reason that they

had come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry

alone.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who

had half risen from his chair. “Fine,” he added, as Mr.

Weasley opened his mouth to speak.

“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let

Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We’ll just

take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I’ll be

off. Carry on, everyone!”

Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys’

overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping

slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of

the Auror office; he looked tough and battle-scarred,

very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat.

“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden

fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the

indistinguishable plants. “Charming.”

Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was

watching him.

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“I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know

that?”

“No,” said Harry truthfully.

“Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has

been very protective of you,” said Scrimgeour.

“Natural, of course, natural, after what you’ve been

through. … Especially what happened at the Ministry

…”

He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did

not oblige, so he went on, “I have been hoping for an

occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but

Dumbledore has — most understandably, as I say —

prevented this.”

Still, Harry said nothing, waiting.

“The rumors that have flown around!” said

Scrimgeour. “Well, of course, we both know how these

stories get distorted … all these whispers of a

prophecy … of you being ‘the Chosen One’…”

They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the

reason Scrimgeour was here.

“… I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these

matters with you?”

Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie

or not. He looked at the little gnome prints all around

the flowerbeds, and the scuffed-up patch that marked

the spot where Fred had caught the gnome now

wearing the tutu at the top of the Christmas tree.

Finally, he decided on the truth … or a bit of it.

“Yeah, we’ve discussed it.”

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“Have you, have you …” said Scrimgeour. Harry could see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting

at him, so he pretended to be very interested in a

gnome that had just poked its head out from

underneath a frozen rhododendron. “And what has

Dumbledore told you, Harry?”

“Sorry, but that’s between us,” said Harry. He kept

his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour’s

tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, “Oh, of

course, if it’s a question of confidences, I wouldn’t

want you to divulge … no, no … and in any case, does

it really matter whether you are ‘the Chosen One’ or

not?”

Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds

before responding. “I don’t really know what you

mean, Minister.”

“Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously,”

said Scrimgeour with a laugh. “But to the Wizarding

community at large … it’s all perception, isn’t it? It’s

what people believe that’s important.”

Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where

they were heading, but he was not going to help

Scrimgeour get there. The gnome under the

rhododendron was now digging for worms at its roots,

and Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it.

“People believe you are ‘the Chosen One,’ you see,”

said Scrimgeour. “They think you quite the hero —

which, of course, you are, Harry, chosen or not! How

many times have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

Named now? Well, anyway,” he pressed on, without

waiting for a reply, “the point is, you are a symbol of

hope for many, Harry. The idea that there is

somebody out there who might be able, who might

even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-

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Named — well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I can’t help but feel that, once you realize this, you

might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand

alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost.”

The gnome had just managed to get hold of a worm. It

was now tugging very hard on it, trying to get it out of

the frozen ground. Harry was silent so long that

Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the gnome,

“Funny little chaps, aren’t they? But what say you,

Harry?”

“I don’t exactly understand what you want,” said

Harry slowly. “ ‘Stand alongside the Ministry’ … What

does that mean?”

“Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you,” said

Scrimgeour. “If you were to be seen popping in and

out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance,

that would give the right impression. And of course,

while you were there, you would have ample

opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my

successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores

Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition

to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very

easily. …”

Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach: So

Dolores Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she?

“So basically,” he said, as though he just wanted to

clarify a few points, “you’d like to give the impression

that I’m working for the Ministry?”

“It would give everyone a lift to think you were more

involved, Harry,” said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved

that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. “ ‘The Chosen

One,’ you know … It’s all about giving people hope,

the feeling that exciting things are happening. …”

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“But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,”

said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly,

“won’t that seem as though I approve of what the

Ministry’s up to?”

“Well,” said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, “well, yes,

that’s partly why we’d like —”

“No, I don’t think that’ll work,” said Harry pleasantly.

“You see, I don’t like some of the things the Ministry’s

doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance.”

Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his

expression hardened instantly. “I would not expect

you to understand,” he said, and he was not as

successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry

had been. “These are dangerous times, and certain

measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old

—”

“Dumbledore’s a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn’t

think Stan should be in Azkaban either,” said Harry.

“You’re making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want

to make me a mascot.”

They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally

Scrimgeour said, with no pretense at warmth, “I see.

You prefer — like your hero, Dumbledore — to

disassociate yourself from the Ministry?”

“I don’t want to be used,” said Harry.

“Some would say it’s your duty to be used by the

Ministry!”

“Yeah, and others might say it’s your duty to check

that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck

them in prison,” said Harry, his temper rising now.

“You’re doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it

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right, you people, do you? Either we’ve got Fudge, pretending everything’s lovely while people get

murdered right under his nose, or we’ve got you,

chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to

pretend you’ve got ‘the Chosen One’ working for you!”

“So you’re not ‘the Chosen One’?” said Scrimgeour.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” said

Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly.

“It was tactless —”

“No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only

honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care

whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you

convince everyone you’re winning the war against

Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister. …”

He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the

back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores

Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I

must not tell lies.

“I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I

was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The

Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.”

They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath

their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate

his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning

against the bottommost branches of the

rhododendron bush.

“What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour

brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from

Hogwarts?”

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“No idea,” said Harry.

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” said

Scrimgeour, “would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Harry.

“Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out

by other means.”

“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem

cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have

learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at

Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister

anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave

Dumbledore alone, if I were you.”

There was a long pause.

“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good

job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard

behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s man

through and through, aren’t you, Potter?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “Glad we straightened that

out.”

And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he

strode back toward the house.

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A SLUGGISH MEMORY

Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year,

Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen

fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged

this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return

students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs.

Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley,

Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs.

Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting.

Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she

had been crying on and off ever since Percy had

stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his

glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which

Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit).

“Don’t cry, Mum,” said Ginny, patting her on the back

as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. “It’s okay.

…”

“Yeah, don’t worry about us,” said Ron, permitting his

mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, “or

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about Percy. He’s such a prat, it’s not really a loss, is it?”

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she

enfolded Harry in her arms.

“Promise me you’ll look after yourself. … Stay out of

trouble. …”

“I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like a quiet

life, you know me.”

She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. “Be good,

then, all of you. …”

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted

“Hogwarts!” He had one last fleeting view of the

Weasleys’ kitchen and Mrs. Weasley’s tearful face

before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he

caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms,

which were whipped out of sight before he could get a

proper look; then he was slowing down, finally

stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor

McGonagall’s office. She barely glanced up from her

work as he clambered out over the grate.

“Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the

carpet.”

“No, Professor.”

Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair

as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had

arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall’s

office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced

out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun

was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper

snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In the

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distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in

front of his cabin.

“Baubles,” said Ron confidently, when they reached

the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than

usual and winced at his loud voice.

“No,” she said.

“What d’you mean, ‘no’?”

“There is a new password,” she said. “And please

don’t shout.”

“But we’ve been away, how’re we supposed to — ?”

“Harry! Ginny!”

Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced

and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves.

“I got back a couple of hours ago, I’ve just been down

to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings,” she

said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus

Scrim —”

“I’ve got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione,

neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she

had heard him. “Oh, hang on — password.

Abstinence. ”

“Precisely,” said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and

swung forward to reveal the portrait hole.

“What’s up with her?” asked Harry.

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“Overindulged over Christmas, apparently,” said

Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the

packed common room. “She and her friend Violet

drank their way through all the wine in that picture of

drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway

…”

She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then

pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore’s

writing on it.

“Great,” said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover

that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled

for the following night. “I’ve got loads to tell him —

and you. Let’s sit down —”

But at that moment there was a loud squeal of “Won-

Won!” and Lavender Brown came hurtling out of

nowhere and flung herself into Ron’s arms. Several

onlookers sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh

and said, “There’s a table over here. … Coming,

Ginny?”

“No, thanks, I said I’d meet Dean,” said Ginny,

though Harry could not help noticing that she did not

sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and Lavender

locked in a kind of vertical wrestling match, Harry led

Hermione over to the spare table.

“So how was your Christmas?”

“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “Nothing special. How was it

at Won-Won’s?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” said Harry. “Look,

Hermione, can’t you — ?”

“No, I can’t,” she said flatly. “So don’t even ask.”

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“I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —”

“It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-

year-old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this

important news you wanted to tell me?”

She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so

Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all

that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape.

When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a

moment and then said, “Don’t you think — ?”

“— he was pretending to offer help so that he could

trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?”

“Well, yes,” said Hermione.

“Ron’s dad and Lupin think so,” Harry said

grudgingly. “But this definitely proves Malfoy’s

planning something, you can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t,” she answered slowly.

“And he’s acting on Voldemort’s orders, just like I

said!”

“Hmm … did either of them actually mention

Voldemort’s name?”

Harry frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure …

Snape definitely said ‘your master,’ and who else

would that be?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “Maybe

his father?”

She stared across the room, apparently lost in

thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron.

“How’s Lupin?”

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“Not great,” said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin’s mission among the werewolves and the

difficulties he was facing. “Have you heard of this

Fenrir Greyback?”

“Yes, I have!” said Hermione, sounding startled. “And

so have you, Harry!”

“When, History of Magic? You know full well I never

listened …”

“No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened

Borgin with him!” said Hermione. “Back in Knockturn

Alley, don’t you remember? He told Borgin that

Greyback was an old family friend and that he’d be

checking up on Borgin’s progress!”

Harry gaped at her. “I forgot! But this proves Malfoy’s

a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with

Greyback and telling him what to do?”

“It is pretty suspicious,” breathed Hermione. “Unless

…”

“Oh, come on,” said Harry in exasperation, “you can’t

get round this one!”

“Well … there is the possibility it was an empty

threat.”

“You’re unbelievable, you are,” said Harry, shaking

his head. “We’ll see who’s right. … You’ll be eating

your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh

yeah, I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. …”

And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both

of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione,

like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put

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Harry through the previous year, they had a great

deal of nerve asking him for help now.

The new term started next morning with a pleasant

surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been

pinned to the common room notice boards overnight.

APPARITION LESSONS

If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn

seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are

eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons

from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please

sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12

Galleons.

Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling

around the notice and taking it in turns to write their

names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out his

quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up

behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and

trilled, “Guess who, Won-Won?” Harry turned to see

Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having

no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to

his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little

way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and

his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione

sped up to walk with Neville.

“So — Apparition,” said Ron, his tone making it

perfectly plain that Harry was not to mention what

had just happened. “Should be a laugh, eh?”

“I dunno,” said Harry. “Maybe it’s better when you do

it yourself, I didn’t enjoy it much when Dumbledore

took me along for the ride.”

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“I forgot you’d already done it. … I’d better pass my test first time,” said Ron, looking anxious. “Fred and

George did.”

“Charlie failed, though, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but Charlie’s bigger than me” — Ron held his

arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla —

“so Fred and George didn’t go on about it much … not

to his face anyway …”

“When can we take the actual test?”

“Soon as we’re seventeen. That’s only March for me!”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be able to Apparate in here,

not in the castle …”

“Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could

Apparate if I wanted.”

Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect

of Apparition. All that day there was much talk about

the forthcoming lessons; a great deal of store was set

by being able to vanish and reappear at will.

“How cool will it be when we can just —” Seamus

clicked his fingers to indicate disappearance. “Me

cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I

can do it back … He’ll never have another peaceful

moment. …”

Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his

wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of

producing the fountain of pure water that was the

object of today’s Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike

jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked

Professor Flitwick flat on his face.

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“Harry’s already Apparated,” Ron told a slightly

abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried

himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus

lines: “I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a

stick. ” “Dum — er — someone took him. Side-Along-

Apparition, you know.”

“Whoa!” whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and

Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what

Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was

besieged with requests from the other sixth years to

describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them

seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them

how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering

detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when

he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return

a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his

lesson with Dumbledore.

The lamps in Dumbledore’s office were lit, the

portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently

in their frames, and the Pensieve was ready upon the

desk once more. Dumbledore’s hands lay on either

side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-

looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all

and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time,

what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did

not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know

eventually and there was, in any case, another

subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could

say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore

spoke.

“I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over

Christmas?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “He’s not very happy with me.”

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“No,” sighed Dumbledore. “He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our

anguish, Harry, but battle on.”

Harry grinned.

“He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that

the Ministry’s doing a wonderful job.”

Dumbledore smiled.

“It was Fudge’s idea originally, you know. During his

last days in office, when he was trying desperately to

cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you,

hoping that you would give him your support —”

“After everything Fudge did last year?” said Harry

angrily. “After Umbridge?”

“I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the

idea did not die when he left office. Within hours of

Scrimgeour’s appointment we met and he demanded

that I arrange a meeting with you —”

“So that’s why you argued!” Harry blurted out. “It was

in the Daily Prophet. ”

“The Prophet is bound to report the truth

occasionally,” said Dumbledore, “if only accidentally.

Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that

Rufus found a way to corner you at last.”

“He accused me of being ‘Dumbledore’s man through

and through.’ ”

“How very rude of him.”

“I told him I was.”

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Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then

closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let

out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry’s intense

embarrassment, he suddenly realized that

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes looked rather watery,

and stared hastily at his own knees. When

Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite

steady.

“I am very touched, Harry.”

“Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when

you’re not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, still looking

fixedly at his knees.

“Yes, he is very nosy about that,” said Dumbledore,

now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to

look up again. “He has even attempted to have me

followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It

wasn’t kind. I have already been forced to jinx

Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret.”

“So they still don’t know where you go?” asked Harry,

hoping for more information on this intriguing

subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top

of his half-moon spectacles.

“No, they don’t, and the time is not quite right for you

to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless

there’s anything else — ?”

“There is, actually, sir,” said Harry. “It’s about Malfoy

and Snape.”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor

Slughorn’s party … well, I followed them, actually. …”

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Dumbledore listened to Harry’s story with an

impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not

speak for a few moments, then said, “Thank you for

telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it

out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great

importance.”

“Not of great importance?” repeated Harry

incredulously. “Professor, did you understand — ?”

“Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary

brainpower, I understood everything you told me,”

said Dumbledore, a little sharply. “I think you might

even consider the possibility that I understood more

than you did. Again, I am glad that you have confided

in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told

me anything that causes me disquiet.”

Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore.

What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore

had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy

was doing, in which case he had already heard

everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or

was he really worried by what he had heard, but

pretending not to be?

“So, sir,” said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite,

calm voice, “you definitely still trust — ?”

“I have been tolerant enough to answer that question

already,” said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very

tolerant anymore. “My answer has not changed.”

“I should think not,” said a snide voice; Phineas

Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep.

Dumbledore ignored him.

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“And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this

evening.”

Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if

he refused to permit the change of subject, if he

insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As

though he had read Harry’s mind, Dumbledore shook

his head.

“Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the

best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has

to say is much more important than anything the

other might have to contribute!”

“I don’t think what you’ve got to say is unimportant,

sir,” said Harry stiffly.

“Well, you are quite right, because it is not,” said

Dumbledore briskly. “I have two more memories to

show you this evening, both obtained with enormous

difficulty, and the second of them is, I think, the most

important I have collected.”

Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry

at the reception his confidences had received, but

could not see what was to be gained by arguing

further.

“So,” said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, “we meet

this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom

we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years

at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was

to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my

company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn,

warned him against continued thievery when he

arrived at school.

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“Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand

robes, who lined up with the other first years to be

sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the

moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head,”

continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand

toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat

sat, ancient and unmoving. “How soon Riddle learned

that the famous founder of the House could talk to

snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening.

The knowledge can only have excited him and

increased his sense of self-importance.

“However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow

Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their

common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He

showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at

all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking

orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy

from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival.

He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge.

Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him.”

“Didn’t you tell them, sir, what he’d been like when

you met him at the orphanage?” asked Harry.

“No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of

remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he

had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a

fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance.”

Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry,

who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was

Dumbledore’s tendency to trust people in spite of

overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it!

But then Harry remembered something. …

“But you didn’t really trust him, sir, did you? He told

me … the Riddle who came out of that diary said,

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‘Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.’ ”

“Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he

was trustworthy,” said Dumbledore. “I had, as I have

already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon

him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a

great deal from my observations at first. He was very

guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill

of discovering his true identity he had told me a little

too much. He was careful never to reveal as much

again, but he could not take back what he had let slip

in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in

me. However, he had the sense never to try and

charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues.

“As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a

group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want

of a better term, although as I have already indicated,

Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them.

This group had a kind of dark glamour within the

castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the

weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some

shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a

leader who could show them more refined forms of

cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of

the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became

the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.

“Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected

in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at

Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty

incidents to which they were never satisfactorily

linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the

opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in

the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly

accused of that crime.

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“I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, placing his withered

hand on the Pensieve. “Few who knew him then are

prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified.

What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts,

after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few

who could be tricked into speaking, after searching

old records and questioning Muggle and wizard

witnesses alike.

“Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that

Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is

understandable, of course; he had grown up in an

orphanage and naturally wished to know how he

came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain

for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in

the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old

school records, even in the books of Wizarding

history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father

had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was

then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the

identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his

investigations into his previously despised mother’s

family — the woman whom, you will remember, he

had thought could not be a witch if she had

succumbed to the shameful human weakness of

death.

“All he had to go upon was the single name ‘Marvolo,’

which he knew from those who ran the orphanage

had been his mother’s father’s name. Finally, after

painstaking research through old books of Wizarding

families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin’s

surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he

left the orphanage to which he returned annually and

set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if

you will stand …”

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Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again

holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling,

pearly memory.

“I was very lucky to collect this,” he said, as he

poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. “As you

will understand when we have experienced it. Shall

we?”

Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed

obediently until his face sank through the surface of

the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling

through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty

stone floor in almost total darkness.

It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by

which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The

Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy

than anywhere Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was

thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy

and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of

crusted pots. The only light came from a single

guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair

and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes

nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the

fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he

was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the

door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his

right hand and a short knife in his left.

The door creaked open. There on the threshold,

holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry

recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and

handsome — the teenage Voldemort.

Voldemort’s eyes moved slowly around the hovel and

then found the man in the armchair. For a few

seconds they looked at each other, then the man

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staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!”

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife

held aloft.

“Stop. ”

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into

the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He

stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they

contemplated each other. The man broke it.

“You speak it?”

“Yes, I speak it, ” said Riddle. He moved forward into

the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind

him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful

admiration for Voldemort’s complete lack of fear. His

face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps,

disappointment.

“Where is Marvolo?” he asked.

“Dead, ” said the other. “Died years ago, didn’t he?”

Riddle frowned.

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m Morfin, ain’t I?”

“Marvolo’s son?”

“ ’ Course I am, then …”

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Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo’s

black-stoned ring on his right hand.

“I thought you was that Muggle, ” whispered Morfin.

“You look mighty like that Muggle. ”

“What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that

Muggle what lives in the big house over the way, ” said

Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor

between them. “You look right like him. Riddle. But

he’s older now, in ’e? He’s older’n you, now I think on

it. …”

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still

clutching the edge of the table for support. “He come

back, see, ” he added stupidly.

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising

his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and

said, “Riddle came back?”

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!”

said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. “Robbed us,

mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh,

where’s Slytherin’s locket?”

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working

himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and

shouted, “Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And

who’re you, coming here and asking questions about

all that? It’s over, innit. … It’s over. …”

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort

moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness

fell, extinguishing Voldemort’s lamp and Morfin’s

candle, extinguishing everything. …

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Dumbledore’s fingers closed tightly around Harry’s arm and they were soaring back into the present

again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore’s office

seemed to dazzle Harry’s eyes after that impenetrable

darkness.

“Is that all?” said Harry at once. “Why did it go dark,

what happened?”

“Because Morfin could not remember anything from

that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry

back into his seat. “When he awoke next morning, he

was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo’s ring had

gone.

“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid

was running along the High Street, screaming that

there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of

the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and

father.

“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I

am aware, they do not know to this day how the

Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra curse does not

usually leave any sign of damage. … The exception

sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to

Harry’s scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew

at once that this was a wizard’s murder. They also

knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the

valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had

already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the

murdered people.

“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not

need to question him, to use Veritaserum or

Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot,

giving details only the murderer could know. He was

proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been

awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over

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his wand, which was proved at once to have been

used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to

be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that

disturbed him was the fact that his father’s ring had

disappeared. ‘He’ll kill me for losing it,’ he told his

captors over and over again. ‘He’ll kill me for losing

his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever said

again. He lived out the remainder of his life in

Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo’s last

heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside

the other poor souls who have expired within its

walls.”

“So Voldemort stole Morfin’s wand and used it?” said

Harry, sitting up straight.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no

memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly

sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle,

took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to ‘the

big house over the way.’ There he murdered the

Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother,

and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents,

thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line

and revenging himself upon the father who never

wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel,

performed the complex bit of magic that would

implant a false memory in his uncle’s mind, laid

Morfin’s wand beside its unconscious owner,

pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed.”

“And Morfin never realized he hadn’t done it?”

“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full

and boastful confession.”

“But he had this real memory in him all the time!”

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“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why

should anybody delve further into Morfin’s mind

when he had already confessed to the crime?

However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the

last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting

to discover as much as I could about Voldemort’s

past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I

saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure

Morfin’s release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry

reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.”

“But how come the Ministry didn’t realize that

Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked

angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn’t he? I

thought they could detect underage magic!”

“You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not

the perpetrator: You will remember that you were

blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was,

in fact, cast by —”

“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled.

“So if you’re underage and you do magic inside an

adult witch or wizard’s house, the Ministry won’t

know?”

“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed

the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the

look of great indignation on Harry’s face. “They rely

on witch and wizard parents to enforce their

offspring’s obedience while within their walls.”

“Well, that’s rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what

happened here, look what happened to Morfin!”

“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he

did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders

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he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part. …”

Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another

crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once,

remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the

most important one he had collected. Harry noticed

that the contents proved difficult to empty into the

Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did

memories go bad?

“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he

had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back

before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then

…”

And Harry fell again through the silver surface,

landing this time right in front of a man he recognized

at once.

It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was

so used to him bald that he found the sight of

Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite

disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his

head thatched, though there was already a shiny

Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache,

less massive than it was these days, was gingery-

blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn

Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly

embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of

strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he

was sitting well back in a comfortable winged

armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine,

the other searching through a box of crystalized

pineapple.

Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside

him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn’s

office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around

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Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at

once. His was the most handsome face and he looked

the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay

negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt,

Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo’s gold-and-

black ring; he had already killed his father.

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is

retiring?” he asked.

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said

Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger

at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by

winking. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get

your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half

the staff, you are.”

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him

admiring looks.

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you

shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who

matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way,

you’re quite right, it is my favorite —”

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd

happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a

thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but

the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside

him. Then Slughorn’s voice rang out through the

mist, unnaturally loudly, “You’ll go wrong, boy, mark

my words. ”

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and

yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody

look as though anything unusual had just happened.

Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden

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clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven

o’clock.

“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said

Slughorn. “You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be

in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow

or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and

carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys

filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry

could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be

last in the room with Slughorn.

“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around

and finding him still present. “You don’t want to be

caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect …”

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. …”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about … about

Horcruxes?”

And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled

the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or

Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely

beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice boomed out again,

just as it had done before.

“I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t

tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t

let me catch you mentioning them again!”

“Well, that’s that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside

Harry. “Time to go.”

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And Harry’s feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore’s desk.

“That’s all there is?” said Harry blankly.

Dumbledore had said that this was the most

important memory of all, but he could not see what

was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and

the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was

odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have

happened except that Voldemort had asked a

question and failed to get an answer.

“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore,

reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has

been tampered with.”

“Tampered with?” repeated Harry, sitting back down

too.

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn

has meddled with his own recollections.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he

remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to

rework the memory to show himself in a better light,

obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to

see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done,

and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true

memory is still there beneath the alterations.

“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework,

Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor

Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will

undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information

of all.”

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Harry stared at him.

“But surely, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as

respectful as possible, “you don’t need me — you

could use Legilimency … or Veritaserum. …”

“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who

will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is

much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor

Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has

not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever

since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a

recollection.

“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the

truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do

much more harm than good; I do not wish him to

leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like

the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one

person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It

is most important that we secure the true memory,

Harry. … How important, we will only know when we

have seen the real thing. So, good luck … and good

night.”

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry

got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.”

As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly

heard Phineas Nigellus say, “I can’t see why the boy

should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Phineas,” replied

Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical

cry.

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BIRTHDAY SURPRISES

The next day Harry confided in both Ron and

Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him,

though separately, for Hermione still refused to

remain in Ron’s presence longer than it took to give

him a contemptuous look.

Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any

trouble with Slughorn at all.

“He loves you,” he said over breakfast, waving an airy

forkful of fried egg. “Won’t refuse you anything, will

he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after

class this afternoon and ask him.”

Hermione, however, took a gloomier view. “He must

be determined to hide what really happened if

Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she said in a

low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy

courtyard at break. “Horcruxes … Horcruxes … I’ve

never even heard of them. …”

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“You haven’t?” Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a

clue as to what Horcruxes were.

“They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why

would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I

think it’s going to be difficult to get the information,

Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you

approach Slughorn, think out a strategy. …”

“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions

this afternoon. …”

“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you’d better do it,”

she said, flaring up at once. “After all, when has Won-

Won’s judgment ever been faulty?”

“Hermione, can’t you — ?”

“No!” she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving

Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.

Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these

days, seeing as Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to

share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron

around the table so that she was close to Ernie, and

ignored both Harry and Ron.

“What’ve you done?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking

at Hermione’s haughty profile.

But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling

for silence from the front of the room.

“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots

of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s

Third Law … who can tell me — ? But Miss Granger

can, of course!”

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Hermione recited at top speed: “Golpalott’s-Third-

Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-

will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-

for-each-of-the-separate-components.”

“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for

Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as

true …”

Harry was going to have to take Slughorn’s word for it

that Golpalott’s Third Law was true, because he had

not understood any of it. Nobody apart from

Hermione seemed to be following what Slughorn said

next either.

“… which means, of course, that assuming we have

achieved correct identification of the potion’s

ingredients by Scarpin’s Revelaspell, our primary aim

is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes

to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find

that added component that will, by an almost

alchemical process, transform these disparate

elements —”

Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half

open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced

Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no

longer rely on Hermione to help him out of trouble

when he failed to grasp what was going on.

“… and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to

come and take one of these phials from my desk. You

are to create an antidote for the poison within it

before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t

forget your protective gloves!”

Hermione had left her stool and was halfway toward

Slughorn’s desk before the rest of the class had

realized it was time to move, and by the time Harry,

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Ron, and Ernie returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and

was kindling a fire underneath it.

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you

much with this, Harry,” she said brightly as she

straightened up. “You have to understand the

principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!”

Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken

from Slughorn’s desk, which was a garish shade of

pink, tipped it into his cauldron, and lit a fire

underneath it. He did not have the faintest idea what

he was supposed to do next. He glanced around at

Ron, who was now standing there looking rather

gormless, having copied everything Harry had done.

“You sure the Prince hasn’t got any tips?” Ron

muttered to Harry.

Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-

Making and turned to the chapter on antidotes. There

was Golpalott’s Third Law, stated word for word as

Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating

note in the Prince’s hand to explain what it meant.

Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no

difficulty understanding it.

“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.

Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically

over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy

the spell she was doing because she was now so good

at nonverbal incantations that she did not need to say

the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was

muttering, “Specialis Revelio!” over his cauldron,

which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron

hastened to imitate him.

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It took Harry only five minutes to realize that his reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was

crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered

hopefully into his cauldron on his first circuit of the

dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he

usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head

hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs

overwhelmed him. Hermione’s expression could not

have been any smugger; she had loathed being

outperformed in every Potions class. She was now

decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of

her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to

avoid watching this irritating sight than anything

else, Harry bent over the Half-Blood Prince’s book and

turned a few pages with unnecessary force.

And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of

antidotes:

Just shove a bezoar down their throats.

Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn’t he

once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn’t Snape

mentioned them in their first-ever Potions lesson? “A

stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will

protect from most poisons. ”

It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and

had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not

have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate

measures. He hastened toward the store cupboard

and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn

horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at

the very back, a small cardboard box on which had

been scribbled the word bezoars.

He opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two

minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen

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shriveled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than real stones. Harry seized one, put the

box back in the cupboard, and hurried back to his

cauldron.

“Time’s … UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let’s

see how you’ve done! Blaise … what have you got for

me?”

Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining

the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task,

although Hermione was trying to cram a few more

ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached

her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely

trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing

from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the

bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s

potion and passed on to Ron’s with a grimace. He did

not linger over Ron’s cauldron, but backed away

swiftly, retching slightly.

“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to

show me?”

Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his

palm.

Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds.

Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going

to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and

roared with laughter.

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar

and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh,

you’re like your mother. … Well, I can’t fault you. … A

bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these

potions!”

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Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote,

comprising fifty-two ingredients, including a chunk of

her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn,

who had eyes for nobody but Harry.

“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you,

Harry?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker

needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could

reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same

intuitive grasp of potion-making, it’s undoubtedly

from Lily he gets it. … Yes, Harry, yes, if you’ve got a

bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick …

although as they don’t work on everything, and are

pretty rare, it’s still worth knowing how to mix

antidotes. …”

The only person in the room looking angrier than

Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see,

had spilled something that looked like cat-sick over

himself. Before either of them could express their fury

that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any

work, however, the bell rang.

“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten

points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”

Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the

front of the dungeon.

Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount

of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione

wished him luck as they left; both looked rather

annoyed. At last Harry and Slughorn were the only

two left in the room.

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“Come on, now, Harry, you’ll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold

clasps shut on his dragon-skin briefcase.

“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of

Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away. …”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about … about

Horcruxes?”

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in

upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely,

“What did you say?”

“I asked whether you know anything about

Horcruxes, sir. You see —”

“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered

Slughorn. His voice had changed completely. It was

not genial anymore, but shocked, terrified. He

fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a

handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow.

“Dumbledore’s shown you that — that memory. Well?

Hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was

best not to lie.

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing

at his white face. “Of course … well, if you’ve seen

that memory, Harry, you’ll know that I don’t know

anything — anything” — he repeated the word

forcefully — “about Horcruxes.”

He seized his dragon-skin briefcase, stuffed his

handkerchief back into his pocket, and marched to

the dungeon door.

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“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory —”

“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong,

weren’t you? WRONG!”

He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say

another word, slammed the dungeon door behind

him.

Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic

when Harry told them of this disastrous interview.

Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had

triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was

resentful that Harry hadn’t slipped him a bezoar too.

“It would’ve just looked stupid if we’d both done it!”

said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him

up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn’t I? Oh,

will you get a grip!” he added in exasperation, as Ron

winced at the sound of the name.

Infuriated by his failure and by Ron’s and Hermione’s

attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over

what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for

the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he

had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best

to lull him into a false sense of security before

returning to the attack.

When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the

Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate

treatment of him, and appeared to have put the

matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to

one of his little evening parties, determined to accept

this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch

practice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation

arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny:

Neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as

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far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn

was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply

determined to give Harry no additional opportunities

to question him.

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione

for the first time in living memory. She was so

shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at

Harry for his trick with the bezoar.

“I haven’t found one single explanation of what

Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I’ve

been right through the restricted section and even in

the most horrible books, where they tell you how to

brew the most gruesome potions — nothing! All I

could find was this, in the introduction to Magick

Moste Evile — listen — ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of

magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give

direction. …’ I mean, why mention it then?” she said

impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a

ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it

back into her bag.

The snow melted around the school as February

arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness.

Purplish-gray clouds hung low over the castle and a

constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery

and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth

years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled

for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons

would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead

of in the grounds.

When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron

had come down with Lavender), they found that the

tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high

windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly

above them as they assembled in front of Professors

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McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout — the

Heads of Houses — and a small wizard whom Harry

took to be the Apparition instructor from the Ministry.

He was oddly colorless, with transparent eyelashes,

wispy hair, and an insubstantial air, as though a

single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry

wondered whether constant disappearances and

reappearances had somehow diminished his

substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for

anyone wishing to vanish.

“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all

the students had arrived and the Heads of Houses

had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and

I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the

next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for

your Apparition Tests in this time —”

“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor

McGonagall.

Everybody looked around. Malfoy had flushed a dull

pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from

Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having

a whispered argument. Harry glanced quickly at

Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry

strongly suspected that this was less because of

Malfoy’s rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had

reprimanded one of his House.

“— by which time, many of you may be ready to take

your tests,” Twycross continued, as though there had

been no interruption.

“As you may know, it is usually impossible to

Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The

headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely

within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable

you to practice. May I emphasize that you will not be

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able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try.

“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so

that you have a clear five feet of space in front of

you.”

There was a great scrambling and jostling as people

separated, banged into each other, and ordered

others out of their space. The Heads of Houses moved

among the students, marshaling them into position

and breaking up arguments.

“Harry, where are you going?” demanded Hermione.

But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly

through the crowd, past the place where Professor

Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a

few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the

front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivying the

Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie

Macmillan, he managed to position himself right at

the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who

was taking advantage of the general upheaval to

continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet

away and looking mutinous.

“I don’t know how much longer, all right?” Malfoy

shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind

him. “It’s taking longer than I thought it would.”

Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to

second-guess what he was going to say. “Look, it’s

none of your business what I’m doing, Crabbe, you

and Goyle just do as you’re told and keep a lookout!”

“I tell my friends what I’m up to, if I want them to

keep a lookout for me,” Harry said, just loud enough

for Malfoy to hear him.

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Malfoy spun around on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at that precise moment the four Heads

of House shouted, “Quiet!” and silence fell again.

Malfoy turned slowly to face the front again.

“Thank you,” said Twycross. “Now then …”

He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops

instantly appeared on the floor in front of every

student.

“The important things to remember when Apparating

are the three D’s!” said Twycross. “Destination,

Determination, Deliberation!

“Step one: Fix your mind firmly upon the desired

destination, ” said Twycross. “In this case, the interior

of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that

destination now.”

Everybody looked around furtively to check that

everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily

did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular

patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried

hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible,

as he couldn’t stop puzzling over what Malfoy was

doing that needed lookouts.

“Step two,” said Twycross, “focus your determination

to occupy the visualized space! Let your yearning to

enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your

body!”

Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to

his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop

so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as

though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg.

Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze

to his own hoop.

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“Step three,” called Twycross, “and only when I give the command … Turn on the spot, feeling your way

into nothingness, moving with deliberation! On my

command, now … one —”

Harry glanced around again; lots of people were

looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate

so quickly.

“— two —”

Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he

had already forgotten what the three D’s stood for.

“— THREE!”

Harry spun on the spot, lost balance, and nearly fell

over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was

suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on

his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had

done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and

looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of

Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Twycross dryly, who

did not seem to have expected anything better.

“Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original

positions. …”

The second attempt was no better than the first. The

third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did

anything exciting happen. There was a horrible

screech of pain and everybody looked around,

terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in

her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away

where she had started.

The Heads of House converged on her; there was a

great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared

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to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified.

“Splinching, or the separation of random body parts,”

said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, “occurs when

the mind is insufficiently determined. You must

concentrate continuously upon your destination, and

move, without haste, but with deliberation … thus.”

Twycross stepped forward, turned gracefully on the

spot with his arms outstretched, and vanished in a

swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall.

“Remember the three D’s,” he said, “and try again …

one — two — three —”

But an hour later, Susan’s Splinching was still the

most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross

did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his

neck, he merely said, “Until next Saturday,

everybody, and do not forget: Destination.

Determination. Deliberation. ”

With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops,

and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor

McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began

moving toward the entrance hall.

“How did you do?” asked Ron, hurrying toward Harry.

“I think I felt something the last time I tried — a kind

of tingling in my feet.”

“I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,” said

a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past,

smirking.

“I didn’t feel anything,” said Harry, ignoring this

interruption. “But I don’t care about that now —”

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“What d’you mean, you don’t care? Don’t you want to learn to Apparate?” said Ron incredulously.

“I’m not fussed, really, I prefer flying,” said Harry,

glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was,

and speeding up as they came into the entrance hall.

“Look, hurry up, will you, there’s something I want to

do. …”

Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to the Gryffindor

Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by

Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor

shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they

set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply

turned back and took one of their trusted shortcuts.

Within five minutes, they were climbing through the

portrait hole.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing, then?”

asked Ron, panting slightly.

“Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common

room and led the way through the door to the boys’

staircase.

Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty. He

flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it,

while Ron watched impatiently.

“Harry …”

“Malfoy’s using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was

arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know —

aha.”

He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank

parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped

with the tip of his wand.

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“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good … or Malfoy is anyway.”

At once, the Marauder’s Map appeared on the

parchment’s surface. Here was a detailed plan of

every one of the castle’s floors and, moving around it,

the tiny, labeled black dots that signified each of the

castle’s occupants.

“Help me find Malfoy,” said Harry urgently.

He laid the map upon his bed, and he and Ron leaned

over it, searching.

“There!” said Ron, after a minute or so. “He’s in the

Slytherin common room, look … with Parkinson and

Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle …”

Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but

rallied almost at once.

“Well, I’m keeping an eye on him from now on,” he

said firmly. “And the moment I see him lurking

somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch

outside, it’ll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and

off to find out what he’s —”

He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing

with him a strong smell of singed material, and began

rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.

Despite his determination to catch Malfoy out, Harry

had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks.

Although he consulted the map as often as he could,

sometimes making unnecessary visits to the

bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not

once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, he

spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle

on their own more often than usual, sometimes

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remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them,

but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was

most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that

Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but

could not see how he could be doing it, given the very

high level of security now operating within the castle.

He could only suppose that he was missing Malfoy

amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the

map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle

appeared to be going their different ways when they

were usually inseparable, these things happened as

people got older — Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected

sadly, were living proof.

February moved toward March with no change in the

weather except that it became windy as well as wet.

To general indignation, a sign went up on all common

room notice boards that the next trip into Hogsmeade

had been canceled. Ron was furious.

“It was on my birthday!” he said. “I was looking

forward to that!”

“Not a big surprise, though, is it?” said Harry. “Not

after what happened to Katie.”

She had still not returned from St. Mungo’s. What

was more, further disappearances had been reported

in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of

students at Hogwarts.

“But now all I’ve got to look forward to is stupid

Apparition!” said Ron grumpily. “Big birthday treat …”

Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult

as ever, though a few more people had managed to

Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high

and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling toward

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Wilkie Twycross and his three D’s, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which

were Dogbreath and Dunghead.

“Happy birthday, Ron,” said Harry, when they were

woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean

leaving noisily for breakfast. “Have a present.”

He threw the package across onto Ron’s bed, where it

joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed,

have been delivered by house-elves in the night.

“Cheers,” said Ron drowsily and, as he ripped off the

paper, Harry got out of bed, opened his own trunk,

and began rummaging in it for the Marauder’s Map,

which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the

contents of his trunk before he found it hiding

beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still

keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis.

“Right,” he murmured, taking it back to bed with him,

tapping it quietly and murmuring, “I solemnly swear

that I am up to no good, ” so that Neville, who was

passing the foot of his bed at the time, would not

hear.

“Nice one, Harry!” said Ron enthusiastically, waving

the new pair of Quidditch Keeper’s gloves Harry had

given him.

“No problem,” said Harry absentmindedly, as he

searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy.

“Hey … I don’t think he’s in his bed. …”

Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping

presents, every now and then letting out an

exclamation of pleasure.

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“Seriously good haul this year!” he announced,

holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols

around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of

hands. “See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I

think I’ll come of age next year too. …”

“Cool,” muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance

before peering more closely at the map. Where was

Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table

in the Great Hall, eating breakfast. … He was

nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study. …

He wasn’t in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital

wing. …

“Want one?” said Ron thickly, holding out a box of

Chocolate Cauldrons.

“No thanks,” said Harry, looking up. “Malfoy’s gone

again!”

“Can’t have done,” said Ron, stuffing a second

Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get

dressed. “Come on, if you don’t hurry up, you’ll have

to Apparate on an empty stomach. … Might make it

easier, I suppose …” Ron looked thoughtfully at the

box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and

helped himself to a third.

Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered,

“Mischief managed,” though it hadn’t been, and got

dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an

explanation for Malfoy’s periodic disappearances, but

he simply could not think what it could be. The best

way of finding out would be to tail him, but even with

the Invisibility Cloak this was an impractical idea:

Harry had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework,

and Apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around

school all day without his absence being remarked

upon.

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“Ready?” he said to Ron.

He was halfway to the dormitory door when he

realized that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on

his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window

with a strangely unfocused look on his face.

“Ron? Breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Harry stared at him.

“I thought you just said — ?”

“Well, all right, I’ll come down with you,” sighed Ron,

“but I don’t want to eat.”

Harry scrutinized him suspiciously.

“You’ve just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons,

haven’t you?”

“It’s not that,” Ron sighed again. “You … you wouldn’t

understand.”

“Fair enough,” said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he

turned to open the door.

“Harry!” said Ron suddenly.

“What?”

“Harry, I can’t stand it!”

“You can’t stand what?” asked Harry, now starting to

feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and

looked as though he was about to be sick.

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“I can’t stop thinking about her!” said Ron hoarsely.

Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and

was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might

be, but if Ron started calling Lavender “Lav-Lav,” he

would have to put his foot down.

“Why does that stop you having breakfast?” Harry

asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into

the proceedings.

“I don’t think she knows I exist,” said Ron with a

desperate gesture.

“She definitely knows you exist,” said Harry,

bewildered. “She keeps snogging you, doesn’t she?”

Ron blinked. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who are you talking about?” said Harry, with an

increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of

the conversation.

“Romilda Vane,” said Ron softly, and his whole face

seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a

ray of purest sunlight.

They stared at each other for almost a whole minute,

before Harry said, “This is a joke, right? You’re

joking.”

“I think … Harry, I think I love her,” said Ron in a

strangled voice.

“Okay,” said Harry, walking up to Ron to get a better

look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion,

“okay… Say that again with a straight face.”

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“I love her,” repeated Ron breathlessly. “Have you seen her hair, it’s all black and shiny and silky … and

her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her —”

“This is really funny and everything,” said Harry

impatiently, “but joke’s over, all right? Drop it.”

He turned to leave; he had got two steps toward the

door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear.

Staggering, he looked around. Ron’s fist was drawn

right back; his face was contorted with rage; he was

about to strike again.

Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his

pocket and the incantation sprang to mind without

conscious thought: Levicorpus!

Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upward once

more; he dangled helplessly, upside down, his robes

hanging off him.

“What was that for?” Harry bellowed.

“You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!”

shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the

face as all the blood rushed to his head.

“This is insane!” said Harry. “What’s got into — ?”

And then he saw the box lying open on Ron’s bed,

and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding

troll.

“Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?”

“They were a birthday present!” shouted Ron,

revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free.

“I offered you one, didn’t I?”

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“You just picked them up off the floor, didn’t you?”

“They’d fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!”

“They didn’t fall off your bed, you prat, don’t you

understand? They were mine, I chucked them out of

my trunk when I was looking for the map, they’re the

Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before

Christmas, and they’re all spiked with love potion!”

But only one word of this seemed to have registered

with Ron.

“Romilda?” he repeated. “Did you say Romilda? Harry

— do you know her? Can you introduce me?”

Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now

looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong

desire to laugh. A part of him — the part closest to

his throbbing right ear — was quite keen on the idea

of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until

the effects of the potion wore off. … But on the other

hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not

been himself when he had attacked, and Harry

thought that he would deserve another punching if he

permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda

Vane.

“Yeah, I’ll introduce you,” said Harry, thinking fast.

“I’m going to let you down now, okay?”

He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did

hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet

again, grinning.

“She’ll be in Slughorn’s office,” said Harry confidently,

leading the way to the door.

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“Why will she be in there?” asked Ron anxiously,

hurrying to keep up.

“Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,” said

Harry, inventing wildly.

“Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?” said

Ron eagerly.

“Great idea,” said Harry.

Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a

complication Harry had not foreseen.

“You’re late, Won-Won!” she pouted. “I’ve got you a

birthday —”

“Leave me alone,” said Ron impatiently. “Harry’s going

to introduce me to Romilda Vane.”

And without another word to her, he pushed his way

out of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an

apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned

out simply amused, because she looked more

offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut

behind them.

Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might

be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the

first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing gown and

matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed.

“Harry,” he mumbled. “This is very early for a call. … I

generally sleep late on a Saturday. …”

“Professor, I’m really sorry to disturb you,” said Harry

as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe,

attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, “but

my friend Ron’s swallowed a love potion by mistake.

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You couldn’t make him an antidote, could you? I’d

take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we’re not supposed

to have anything from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and,

you know … awkward questions …”

“I’d have thought you could have whipped him up a

remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?” asked

Slughorn.

“Er,” said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that

Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt

to force his way into the room, “well, I’ve never mixed

an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get

it right, Ron might’ve done something serious —”

Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, “I can’t

see her, Harry — is he hiding her?”

“Was this potion within date?” asked Slughorn, now

eyeing Ron with professional interest. “They can

strengthen, you know, the longer they’re kept.”

“That would explain a lot,” panted Harry, now

positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from

knocking Slughorn over. “It’s his birthday, Professor,”

he added imploringly.

“Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,” said Slughorn,

relenting. “I’ve got the necessary here in my bag, it’s

not a difficult antidote. …”

Ron burst through the door into Slughorn’s

overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasseled

footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry

around the neck, and muttered, “She didn’t see that,

did she?”

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“She’s not here yet,” said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of

this and that to a small crystal bottle.

“That’s good,” said Ron fervently. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome,” said Slughorn smoothly, handing

Ron a glass of clear liquid. “Now drink that up, it’s a

tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives,

you know.”

“Brilliant,” said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the

antidote down noisily.

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron

beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged

and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of

utmost horror.

“Back to normal, then?” said Harry, grinning.

Slughorn chuckled. “Thanks a lot, Professor.”

“Don’t mention it, m’boy, don’t mention it,” said

Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair,

looking devastated. “Pick-me-up, that’s what he

needs,” Slughorn continued, now bustling over to a

table loaded with drinks. “I’ve got butterbeer, I’ve got

wine, I’ve got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead

… hmm … meant to give that to Dumbledore for

Christmas … ah, well …” He shrugged. “He can’t miss

what he’s never had! Why don’t we open it now and

celebrate Mr. Weasley’s birthday? Nothing like a fine

spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love.

…”

He chortled again, and Harry joined in. This was the

first time he had found himself almost alone with

Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract

the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just

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keep Slughorn in a good mood … perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead …

“There you are then,” said Slughorn, handing Harry

and Ron a glass of mead each before raising his own.

“Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph —”

“Ron —” whispered Harry.

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the

toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth

and swallowed it.

There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat,

in which Harry knew there was something terribly

wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not.

“— and may you have many more —”

“Ron!”

Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his

chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking

uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth,

and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.

“Professor!” Harry bellowed. “Do something!”

But Slughorn seemed paralyzed by shock. Ron

twitched and choked: His skin was turning blue.

“What — but —” spluttered Slughorn.

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted toward

Slughorn’s open potion kit, pulling out jars and

pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron’s gargling

breath filled the room. Then he found it — the

shriveled kidneylike stone Slughorn had taken from

him in Potions.

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He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his

jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a

great shudder, a rattling gasp, and his body became

limp and still.

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ELF TAILS

“So, all in all, not one of Ron’s better birthdays?” said

Fred.

It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the

windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron’s was the only

occupied bed. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were

sitting around him; they had spent all day waiting

outside the double doors, trying to see inside

whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey

had only let them enter at eight o’clock. Fred and

George had arrived at ten past.

“This isn’t how we imagined handing over our

present,” said George grimly, putting down a large

wrapped gift on Ron’s bedside cabinet and sitting

beside Ginny.

“Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was

conscious,” said Fred.

“There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise

him —” said George.

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“You were in Hogsmeade?” asked Ginny, looking up.

“We were thinking of buying Zonko’s,” said Fred

gloomily. “A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat

lot of good it’ll do us if you lot aren’t allowed out at

weekends to buy our stuff anymore. … But never

mind that now.”

He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron’s

pale face.

“How exactly did it happen, Harry?”

Harry retold the story he had already recounted, it felt

like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall,

to Madam Pomfrey, to Hermione, and to Ginny.

“… and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his

breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help,

McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they

brought Ron up here. They reckon he’ll be all right.

Madam Pomfrey says he’ll have to stay here a week or

so … keep taking essence of rue …”

“Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar,” said

George in a low voice.

“Lucky there was one in the room,” said Harry, who

kept turning cold at the thought of what would have

happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the

little stone.

Hermione gave an almost inaudible sniff. She had

been exceptionally quiet all day. Having hurtled,

white-faced, up to Harry outside the hospital wing

and demanded to know what had happened, she had

taken almost no part in Harry and Ginny’s obsessive

discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but

merely stood beside them, clench-jawed and

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frightened-looking, until at last they had been allowed in to see him.

“Do Mum and Dad know?” Fred asked Ginny.

“They’ve already seen him, they arrived an hour ago

— they’re in Dumbledore’s office now, but they’ll be

back soon. …”

There was a pause while they all watched Ron

mumble a little in his sleep.

“So the poison was in the drink?” said Fred quietly.

“Yes,” said Harry at once; he could think of nothing

else and was glad for the opportunity to start

discussing it again. “Slughorn poured it out —”

“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron’s

glass without you seeing?”

“Probably,” said Harry, “but why would Slughorn

want to poison Ron?”

“No idea,” said Fred, frowning. “You don’t think he

could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning

to get you?”

“Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?” asked

Ginny.

“I dunno,” said Fred, “but there must be loads of

people who’d like to poison Harry, mustn’t there? ‘The

Chosen One’ and all that?”

“So you think Slughorn’s a Death Eater?” said Ginny.

“Anything’s possible,” said Fred darkly.

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“He could be under the Imperius Curse,” said George.

“Or he could be innocent,” said Ginny. “The poison

could have been in the bottle, in which case it was

probably meant for Slughorn himself.”

“Who’d want to kill Slughorn?”

“Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on

his side,” said Harry. “Slughorn was in hiding for a

year before he came to Hogwarts. And …” He thought

of the memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to

extract from Slughorn. “And maybe Voldemort wants

him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be

valuable to Dumbledore.”

“But you said Slughorn had been planning to give

that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny

reminded him. “So the poisoner could just as easily

have been after Dumbledore.”

“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,”

said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours

and sounding as though she had a bad head cold.

“Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there

was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for

himself.”

“Er-my-nee,” croaked Ron unexpectedly from between

them.

They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after

muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely

started snoring.

The dormitory doors flew open, making them all

jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair

rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a

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crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy

dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor.

“Bin in the forest all day!” he panted. “Aragog’s worse,

I bin readin’ to him — didn’ get up ter dinner till jus’

now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ Ron!

How is he?”

“Not bad,” said Harry. “They say he’ll be okay.”

“No more than six visitors at a time!” said Madam

Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office.

“Hagrid makes six,” George pointed out.

“Oh … yes …” said Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to

have been counting Hagrid as several people due to

his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off

to clear up his muddy footprints with her wand.

“I don’ believe this,” said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his

great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. “Jus’

don’ believe it … Look at him lyin’ there. … Who’d

want ter hurt him, eh?”

“That’s just what we were discussing,” said Harry.

“We don’t know.”

“Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the

Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they?” said Hagrid

anxiously. “Firs’ Katie, now Ron …”

“I can’t see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch

team,” said George.

“Wood might’ve done the Slytherins if he could’ve got

away with it,” said Fred fairly.

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“Well, I don’t think it’s Quidditch, but I think there’s a connection between the attacks,” said Hermione

quietly.

“How d’you work that out?” asked Fred.

“Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been

fatal and weren’t, although that was pure luck. And

for another, neither the poison nor the necklace

seems to have reached the person who was supposed

to be killed. Of course,” she added broodingly, “that

makes the person behind this even more dangerous

in a way, because they don’t seem to care how many

people they finish off before they actually reach their

victim.”

Before anybody could respond to this ominous

pronouncement, the dormitory doors opened again

and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They

had done no more than satisfy themselves that Ron

would make a full recovery on their last visit to the

ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and

hugged him very tightly. “Dumbledore’s told us how

you saved him with the bezoar,” she sobbed. “Oh,

Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny … you

saved Arthur … now you’ve saved Ron …”

“Don’t be … I didn’t …” muttered Harry awkwardly.

“Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now

I stop and think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a

constricted voice. “Well, all I can say is that it was a

lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in

your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.”

Harry could not think of any reply to this and was

almost glad when Madam Pomfrey reminded them

that there were only supposed to be six visitors

around Ron’s bed; he and Hermione rose at once to

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leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family.

“It’s terrible,” growled Hagrid into his beard, as the

three of them walked back along the corridor to the

marble staircase. “All this new security, an’ kids are

still gettin’ hurt. … Dumbledore’s worried sick. … He

don’ say much, but I can tell. …”

“Hasn’t he got any ideas, Hagrid?” asked Hermione

desperately.

“I ’spect he’s got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,”

said Hagrid. “But he doesn’ know who sent that

necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they’d’ve bin

caught, wouldn’ they? Wha’ worries me,” said Hagrid,

lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder

(Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for

Peeves), “is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids

are bein’ attacked. Chamber o’ Secrets all over again,

isn’ it? There’ll be panic, more parents takin’ their

kids outta school, an’ nex’ thing yeh know the board

o’ governors …”

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired

woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a

hoarse whisper, “… the board o’ governors’ll be talkin’

about shuttin’ us up fer good.”

“Surely not?” said Hermione, looking worried.

“Gotta see it from their point o’ view,” said Hagrid

heavily. “I mean, it’s always bin a bit of a risk sendin’

a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents,

don’ yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all

locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha’s

diff’rent. ’S’no wonder Dumbledore’s angry with Sn —

”

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Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty

expression on what was visible of his face above his

tangled black beard.

“What?” said Harry quickly. “Dumbledore’s angry with

Snape?”

“I never said tha’,” said Hagrid, though his look of

panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. “Look at

the time, it’s gettin’ on fer midnight, I need ter —”

“Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?”

Harry asked loudly.

“Shhhh!” said Hagrid, looking both nervous and

angry. “Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d’yeh wan’

me ter lose me job? Mind, I don’ suppose yeh’d care,

would yeh, not now yeh’ve given up Care of Mag —”

“Don’t try and make me feel guilty, it won’t work!”

said Harry forcefully. “What’s Snape done?”

“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn’ta heard it at all! I — well, I

was comin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an’ I

overheard ’em talking — well, arguin’. Didn’t like ter

draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an’ tried

not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion

an’ it wasn’ easy ter block it out.”

“Well?” Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his

enormous feet uneasily.

“Well — I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took

too much fer granted an’ maybe he — Snape — didn’

wan’ ter do it anymore —”

“Do what?”

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“I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit overworked, tha’s all — anyway, Dumbledore told

him flat out he’d agreed ter do it an’ that was all there

was to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said

summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his

House, in Slytherin. Well, there’s nothin’ strange

abou’ that!” Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and

Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. “All the

Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look inter that

necklace business —”

“Yeah, but Dumbledore’s not having rows with the

rest of them, is he?” said Harry.

“Look,” Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in

his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it

snapped in two. “I know what yeh’re like abou’ Snape,

Harry, an’ I don’ want yeh ter go readin’ more inter

this than there is.”

“Look out,” said Hermione tersely.

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus

Filch looming over the wall behind them before the

man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his

jowls aquiver.

“Oho!” he wheezed. “Out of bed so late, this’ll mean

detention!”

“No it won’, Filch,” said Hagrid shortly. “They’re with

me, aren’ they?”

“And what difference does that make?” asked Filch

obnoxiously.

“I’m a ruddy teacher, aren’ I, yeh sneakin’ Squib!”

said Hagrid, firing up at once.

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There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was

twisting herself sinuously around Filch’s skinny

ankles.

“Get goin’,” said Hagrid out of the corner of his

mouth.

Harry did not need telling twice; he and Hermione

both hurried off; Hagrid’s and Filch’s raised voices

echoed behind them as they ran. They passed Peeves

near the turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was

streaking happily toward the source of the yelling,

cackling and calling,

When there’s strife and when there’s trouble

Call on Peevsie, he’ll make double!

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be

woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to

clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty

common room. It did not seem that people knew

about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: He had been

interrogated enough that day. Hermione bade him

good night and set off for the girls’ dormitory. Harry,

however, remained behind, taking a seat beside the

fire and looking down into the dying embers.

So Dumbledore had argued with Snape. In spite of all

he had told Harry, in spite of his insistence that he

trusted Snape completely, he had lost his temper with

him. … He did not think that Snape had tried hard

enough to investigate the Slytherins … or, perhaps, to

investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy?

Was it because Dumbledore did not want Harry to do

anything foolish, to take matters into his own hands,

that he had pretended there was nothing in Harry’s

suspicions? That seemed likely. It might even be that

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Dumbledore did not want anything to distract Harry from their lessons, or from procuring that memory

from Slughorn. Perhaps Dumbledore did not think it

right to confide suspicions about his staff to sixteen-

year-olds. …

“There you are, Potter!”

Harry jumped to his feet in shock, his wand at the

ready. He had been quite convinced that the common

room was empty; he had not been at all prepared for

a hulking figure to rise suddenly out of a distant

chair. A closer look showed him that it was Cormac

McLaggen.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” said

McLaggen, disregarding Harry’s drawn wand.

“Must’ve fallen asleep. Look, I saw them taking

Weasley up to the hospital wing earlier. Didn’t look

like he’ll be fit for next week’s match.”

It took Harry a few moments to realize what

McLaggen was talking about.

“Oh … right … Quidditch,” he said, putting his wand

back into the belt of his jeans and running a hand

wearily through his hair. “Yeah … he might not make

it.”

“Well, then, I’ll be playing Keeper, won’t I?” said

McLaggen.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, I suppose so. …”

He could not think of an argument against it; after

all, McLaggen had certainly performed second-best in

the trials.

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“Excellent,” said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. “So when’s practice?”

“What? Oh … there’s one tomorrow evening.”

“Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk

beforehand. I’ve got some ideas on strategy you might

find useful.”

“Right,” said Harry unenthusiastically. “Well, I’ll hear

them tomorrow, then. I’m pretty tired now … see you

…”

The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly

next day, but it did not cause the sensation that

Katie’s attack had done. People seemed to think that

it might have been an accident, given that he had

been in the Potions master’s room at the time, and

that as he had been given an antidote immediately

there was no real harm done. In fact, the Gryffindors

were generally much more interested in the upcoming

Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them

wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on

the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his

commentary during the opening match against

Slytherin.

Harry, however, had never been less interested in

Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with

Draco Malfoy. Still checking the Marauder’s Map

whenever he got a chance, he sometimes made

detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had

not yet detected him doing anything out of the

ordinary. And still there were those inexplicable times

when Malfoy simply vanished from the map. …

But Harry did not get a lot of time to consider the

problem, what with Quidditch practice, homework,

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and the fact that he was now being dogged wherever he went by Cormac McLaggen and Lavender Brown.

He could not decide which of them was more

annoying. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of

hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper

for the team than Ron, and that now that Harry was

seeing him play regularly he would surely come

around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen

to criticize the other players and provide Harry with

detailed training schemes, so that more than once

Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain.

Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Harry to

discuss Ron, which Harry found almost more wearing

than McLaggen’s Quidditch lectures. At first,

Lavender had been very annoyed that nobody had

thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing

— “I mean, I am his girlfriend!” — but unfortunately

she had now decided to forgive Harry this lapse of

memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats

with him about Ron’s feelings, a most uncomfortable

experience that Harry would have happily forgone.

“Look, why don’t you talk to Ron about all this?”

Harry asked, after a particularly long interrogation

from Lavender that took in everything from precisely

what Ron had said about her new dress robes to

whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his

relationship with Lavender to be “serious.”

“Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and

see him!” said Lavender fretfully.

“Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron

perfectly alert every time he had been up to the

hospital wing, both highly interested in the news of

Dumbledore and Snape’s row and keen to abuse

McLaggen as much as possible.

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“Is Hermione Granger still visiting him?” Lavender demanded suddenly.

“Yeah, I think so. Well, they’re friends, aren’t they?”

said Harry uncomfortably.

“Friends, don’t make me laugh,” said Lavender

scornfully. “She didn’t talk to him for weeks after he

started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to

make up with him now he’s all interesting. …”

“Would you call getting poisoned being interesting?”

asked Harry. “Anyway — sorry, got to go — there’s

McLaggen coming for a talk about Quidditch,” said

Harry hurriedly, and he dashed sideways through a

door pretending to be solid wall and sprinted down

the shortcut that would take him off to Potions where,

thankfully, neither Lavender nor McLaggen could

follow him.

On the morning of the Quidditch match against

Hufflepuff, Harry dropped in on the hospital wing

before heading down to the pitch. Ron was very

agitated; Madam Pomfrey would not let him go down

to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him.

“So how’s McLaggen shaping up?” he asked Harry

nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already

asked the same question twice.

“I’ve told you,” said Harry patiently, “he could be

world-class and I wouldn’t want to keep him. He

keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he

could play every position better than the rest of us. I

can’t wait to be shot of him. And speaking of getting

shot of people,” Harry added, getting to his feet and

picking up his Firebolt, “will you stop pretending to

be asleep when Lavender comes to see you? She’s

driving me mad as well.”

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“Oh,” said Ron, looking sheepish. “Yeah. All right.”

“If you don’t want to go out with her anymore, just tell

her,” said Harry.

“Yeah … well … it’s not that easy, is it?” said Ron. He

paused. “Hermione going to look in before the

match?” he added casually.

“No, she’s already gone down to the pitch with

Ginny.”

“Oh,” said Ron, looking rather glum. “Right. Well,

good luck. Hope you hammer McLag — I mean,

Smith.”

“I’ll try,” said Harry, shouldering his broom. “See you

after the match.”

He hurried down through the deserted corridors; the

whole school was outside, either already seated in the

stadium or heading down toward it. He was looking

out of the windows he passed, trying to gauge how

much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead

made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking

toward him, accompanied by two girls, both of whom

looked sulky and resentful.

Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave

a short, humorless laugh and continued walking.

“Where’re you going?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah, I’m really going to tell you, because it’s your

business, Potter,” sneered Malfoy. “You’d better hurry

up, they’ll be waiting for ‘the Chosen Captain’ — ‘the

Boy Who Scored’ — whatever they call you these

days.”

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One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and

she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the

corner and vanishing from view.

Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them

disappear. This was infuriating; he was already

cutting it fine to get to the match on time and yet

there was Malfoy, skulking off while the rest of the

school was absent: Harry’s best chance yet of

discovering what Malfoy was up to. The silent seconds

trickled past, and Harry remained where he was,

frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had

vanished. …

“Where have you been?” demanded Ginny, as Harry

sprinted into the changing rooms. The whole team

was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the

Beaters, were both hitting their clubs nervously

against their legs.

“I met Malfoy,” Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his

scarlet robes over his head.

“So?”

“So I wanted to know how come he’s up at the castle

with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is

down here. …”

“Does it matter right now?”

“Well, I’m not likely to find out, am I?” said Harry,

seizing his Firebolt and pushing his glasses straight.

“Come on then!”

And without another word, he marched out onto the

pitch to deafening cheers and boos.

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There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright

sunlight.

“Tricky conditions!” McLaggen said bracingly to the

team. “Coote, Peakes, you’ll want to fly out of the sun,

so they don’t see you coming —”

“I’m the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them

instructions,” said Harry angrily. “Just get up by the

goal posts!”

Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to

Coote and Peakes.

“Make sure you do fly out of the sun,” he told them

grudgingly.

He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and

then, on Madam Hooch’s whistle, kicked off and rose

into the air, higher than the rest of his team,

streaking around the pitch in search of the Snitch. If

he could catch it good and early, there might be a

chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the

Marauder’s Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing.

…

“And that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle,” said

a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. “He did the

commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley

flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked

like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I

expect he regrets that now he’s playing them — oh,

look, he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I

do like her, she’s very nice. …”

Harry stared down at the commentator’s podium.

Surely nobody in their right mind would have let

Luna Lovegood commentate? But even from above

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there was no mistaking that long, dirty-blonde hair, nor the necklace of butterbeer corks. … Beside Luna,

Professor McGonagall was looking slightly

uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having

second thoughts about this appointment.

“… but now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the

Quaffle from her, I can’t remember his name, it’s

something like Bibble — no, Buggins —”

“It’s Cadwallader!” said Professor McGonagall loudly

from beside Luna. The crowd laughed.

Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign

of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen

had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the

Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he

had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his

right ear.

“McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you’re

supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!”

bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper.

“You’re not setting a great example!” McLaggen

shouted back, red-faced and furious.

“And Harry Potter’s now having an argument with his

Keeper,” said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs

and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered.

“I don’t think that’ll help him find the Snitch, but

maybe it’s a clever ruse. …”

Swearing angrily, Harry spun round and set off

around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some

sign of the tiny, winged golden ball.

Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the

red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to

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cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making things level, but Luna did not seem to have noticed;

she appeared singularly uninterested in such

mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to

draw the crowd’s attention to such things as

interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that

Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain

possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute,

was suffering from something called “Loser’s Lurgy.”

“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” barked Professor

McGonagall into Luna’s megaphone.

“Is it, already?” said Luna vaguely. “Oh, look! The

Gryffindor Keeper’s got hold of one of the Beater’s

bats.”

Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough,

McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had

pulled Peakes’s bat from him and appeared to be

demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an

oncoming Cadwallader.

“Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goal

posts!” roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as

McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and

mishit it.

A blinding, sickening pain … a flash of light … distant

screams … and the sensation of falling down a long

tunnel …

And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a

remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking

up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light

onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head

awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking,

freckly, red-haired person.

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“Nice of you to drop in,” said Ron, grinning.

Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: He was

in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo

streaked with crimson. The match must have finished

hours ago … as had any hope of cornering Malfoy.

Harry’s head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand

and felt a stiff turban of bandages.

“What happened?”

“Cracked skull,” said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up

and pushing him back against his pillows. “Nothing to

worry about, I mended it at once, but I’m keeping you

in overnight. You shouldn’t overexert yourself for a

few hours.”

“I don’t want to stay here overnight,” said Harry

angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. “I

want to find McLaggen and kill him.”

“I’m afraid that would come under the heading of

‘overexertion,’ ” said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him

firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a

threatening manner. “You will stay here until I

discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster.”

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back

into his pillows, fuming.

“D’you know how much we lost by?” he asked Ron

through clenched teeth.

“Well, yeah I do,” said Ron apologetically. “Final score

was three hundred and twenty to sixty.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry savagely. “Really brilliant!

When I get hold of McLaggen —”

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“You don’t want to get hold of him, he’s the size of a troll,” said Ron reasonably. “Personally, I think there’s

a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing

of the Prince’s. Anyway, the rest of the team might’ve

dealt with him before you get out of here, they’re not

happy. …”

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Ron’s

voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled

that McLaggen had messed up so badly. Harry lay

there, staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling,

his recently mended skull not hurting, precisely, but

feeling slightly tender underneath all the bandaging.

“I could hear the match commentary from here,” said

Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. “I hope

Luna always commentates from now on. … Loser’s

Lurgy …”

But Harry was still too angry to see much humor in

the situation, and after a while Ron’s snorts subsided.

“Ginny came in to visit while you were unconscious,”

he said, after a long pause, and Harry’s imagination

zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in

which Ginny, weeping over his lifeless form, confessed

her feelings of deep attraction to him while Ron gave

them his blessing. … “She reckons you only just

arrived on time for the match. How come? You left

here early enough.”

“Oh …” said Harry, as the scene in his mind’s eye

imploded. “Yeah … well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off

with a couple of girls who didn’t look like they wanted

to be with him, and that’s the second time he’s made

sure he isn’t down on the Quidditch pitch with the

rest of the school; he skipped the last match too,

remember?” Harry sighed. “Wish I’d followed him

now, the match was such a fiasco. …”

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“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron sharply. “You couldn’t have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy,

you’re the Captain!”

“I want to know what he’s up to,” said Harry. “And

don’t tell me it’s all in my head, not after what I

overheard between him and Snape —”

“I never said it was all in your head,” said Ron,

hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning

at Harry, “but there’s no rule saying only one person

at a time can be plotting anything in this place! You’re

getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean,

thinking about missing a match just to follow him …”

“I want to catch him at it!” said Harry in frustration.

“I mean, where’s he going when he disappears off the

map?”

“I dunno … Hogsmeade?” suggested Ron, yawning.

“I’ve never seen him going along any of the secret

passageways on the map. I thought they were being

watched now anyway?”

“Well then, I dunno,” said Ron.

Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the

circle of lamplight above him, thinking. …

If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour’s power, he would

have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but

unfortunately Harry did not have an office full of

Aurors at his command. … He thought fleetingly of

trying to set something up with the D.A., but there

again was the problem that people would be missed

from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full

schedules. …

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There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron’s bed.

After a while Madam Pomfrey came out of her office,

this time wearing a thick dressing gown. It was

easiest to feign sleep; Harry rolled over onto his side

and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as

she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she

returned to her office; he heard the door click behind

her and knew that she was off to bed.

This was, Harry reflected in the darkness, the third

time that he had been brought to the hospital wing

because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen

off his broom due to the presence of dementors

around the pitch, and the time before that, all the

bones had been removed from his arm by the

incurably inept Professor Lockhart. … That had been

his most painful injury by far … he remembered the

agony of regrowing an armful of bones in one night, a

discomfort not eased by the arrival of an unexpected

visitor in the middle of the —

Harry sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his

bandage turban askew. He had the solution at last:

There was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could

he have forgotten, why hadn’t he thought of it before?

But the question was, how to call him? What did you

do?

Quietly, tentatively, Harry spoke into the darkness.

“Kreacher?”

There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of

scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron

awoke with a yelp.

“What’s going — ?”

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Harry pointed his wand hastily at the door of Madam Pomfrey’s office and muttered, “Muffliato!” so that she

would not come running. Then he scrambled to the

end of his bed for a better look at what was going on.

Two house-elves were rolling around on the floor in

the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken

maroon jumper and several woolly hats, the other, a

filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth.

Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the

Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling

elves.

“I was watching that, Potty!” he told Harry

indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting

out a loud cackle. “Look at the ickle creatures

squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy —”

“Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of

Dobby, no he won’t, or Dobby will shut Kreacher’s

mouth for him!” cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice.

“— kicky, scratchy!” cried Peeves happily, now pelting

bits of chalk at the elves to enrage them further.

“Tweaky, pokey!”

“Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh

yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of

Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher’s mistress

say — ?”

Exactly what Kreacher’s mistress would have said

they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank

his knobbly little fist into Kreacher’s mouth and

knocked out half of his teeth. Harry and Ron both

leapt out of their beds and wrenched the two elves

apart, though they continued to try and kick and

punch each other, egged on by Peeves, who swooped

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around the lamp squealing, “Stick your fingers up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —”

Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, “Langlock!”

Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped

from the room making obscene gestures but unable to

speak, owing to the fact that his tongue had just

glued itself to the roof of his mouth.

“Nice one,” said Ron appreciatively, lifting Dobby into

the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made

contact with Kreacher. “That was another Prince hex,

wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, twisting Kreacher’s wizened arm

into a half nelson. “Right — I’m forbidding you to fight

each other! Well, Kreacher, you’re forbidden to fight

Dobby. Dobby, I know I’m not allowed to give you

orders —”

“Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he

likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants

him to do!” said Dobby, tears now streaming down his

shriveled little face onto his jumper.

“Okay then,” said Harry, and he and Ron both

released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not

continue fighting.

“Master called me?” croaked Kreacher, sinking into a

bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished

him a painful death.

“Yeah, I did,” said Harry, glancing toward Madam

Pomfrey’s office door to check that the Muffliato spell

was still working; there was no sign that she had

heard any of the commotion. “I’ve got a job for you.”

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“Kreacher will do whatever Master wants,” said

Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched

his gnarled toes, “because Kreacher has no choice,

but Kreacher is ashamed to have such a master, yes

—”

“Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, his

tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. “Dobby

would be honored to help Harry Potter!”

“Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of

you,” said Harry. “Okay then … I want you to tail

Draco Malfoy.”

Ignoring the look of mingled surprise and

exasperation on Ron’s face, Harry went on, “I want to

know where he’s going, who he’s meeting, and what

he’s doing. I want you to follow him around the

clock.”

“Yes, Harry Potter!” said Dobby at once, his great eyes

shining with excitement. “And if Dobby does it wrong,

Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry

Potter!”

“There won’t be any need for that,” said Harry hastily.

“Master wants me to follow the youngest of the

Malfoys?” croaked Kreacher. “Master wants me to spy

upon the pure-blood great-nephew of my old

mistress?”

“That’s the one,” said Harry, foreseeing a great danger

and determining to prevent it immediately. “And

you’re forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show

him what you’re up to, or to talk to him at all, or to

write him messages or … or to contact him in any

way. Got it?”

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He thought he could see Kreacher struggling to see a loophole in the instructions he had just been given

and waited. After a moment or two, and to Harry’s

great satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and

said, with bitter resentment, “Master thinks of

everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though

Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the

Malfoy boy, oh yes. …”

“That’s settled, then,” said Harry. “I’ll want regular

reports, but make sure I’m not surrounded by people

when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are okay. And

don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just stick to

Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters.”

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LORD VOLDEMORT’S REQUEST

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on

Monday morning, restored to full health by the

ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to

enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and

poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was

friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them

down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that

Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature

in Harry’s chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the

air hopefully.

“What did they row about?” he asked, trying to sound

casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor

that was deserted but for a very small girl who had

been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She

looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth

years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was

carrying.

“It’s all right!” said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward

to help her. “Here …”

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She tapped the broken scales with her wand and

said, “Reparo. ” The girl did not say thank you, but

remained rooted to the spot as they passed and

watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.

“I swear they’re getting smaller,” he said.

“Never mind her,” said Harry, a little impatiently.

“What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?”

“Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that

Bludger at you,” said Hermione.

“It must’ve looked funny,” said Ron reasonably.

“It didn’t look funny at all!” said Hermione hotly. “It

looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn’t caught

Harry he could have been very badly hurt!”

“Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to

split up over it,” said Harry, still trying to sound

casual. “Or are they still together?”

“Yes, they are — but why are you so interested?”

asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look.

“I just don’t want my Quidditch team messed up

again!” he said hastily, but Hermione continued to

look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a

voice behind them called, “Harry!” giving him an

excuse to turn his back on her.

“Oh, hi, Luna.”

“I went to the hospital wing to find you,” said Luna,

rummaging in her bag. “But they said you’d left. …”

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large

spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what

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looked like cat litter into Ron’s hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she

handed to Harry.

“… I’ve been told to give you this.”

It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry

recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson

with Dumbledore.

“Tonight,” he told Ron and Hermione, once he had

unrolled it.

“Nice commentary last match!” said Ron to Luna as

she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the

cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” she said.

“Everyone says I was dreadful.”

“No, I’m serious!” said Ron earnestly. “I can’t

remember enjoying commentary more! What is this,

by the way?” he added, holding the onionlike object

up to eye level.

“Oh, it’s a Gurdyroot,” she said, stuffing the cat litter

and the toadstool back into her bag. “You can keep it

if you like, I’ve got a few of them. They’re really

excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.”

And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still

clutching the Gurdyroot.

“You know, she’s grown on me, Luna,” he said, as

they set off again for the Great Hall. “I know she’s

insane, but it’s in a good —”

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He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown

was standing at the foot of the marble staircase

looking thunderous.

“Hi,” said Ron nervously.

“C’mon,” Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped

past, though not before they had heard Lavender say,

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting out today?

And why was she with you?”

Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he

appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though

he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them

exchange a word all the time they were together.

Hermione was acting as though she was quite

oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an

inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she

seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that

evening in the common room she even consented to

look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry’s

Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely

refusing to do up to this point, because she had

known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work.

“Thanks a lot, Hermione,” said Harry, giving her a

hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and

saw that it was nearly eight o’clock. “Listen, I’ve got to

hurry or I’ll be late for Dumbledore. …”

She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of

his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning,

Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to

the headmaster’s office. The gargoyle leapt aside at

the mention of toffee éclairs, and Harry took the spiral

staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door

just as a clock within chimed eight.

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“Enter,” called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from

inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.

“Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as

she blinked at him through her magnifying

spectacles. “So this is the reason I am to be thrown

unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!”

“My dear Sybill,” said Dumbledore in a slightly

exasperated voice, “there is no question of throwing

you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does

have an appointment, and I really don’t think there is

any more to be said —”

“Very well,” said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply

wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping

nag, so be it. … Perhaps I shall find a school where

my talents are better appreciated. …”

She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the

spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway

down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over

one of her trailing shawls.

“Please close the door and sit down, Harry,” said

Dumbledore, sounding rather tired.

Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in

front of Dumbledore’s desk that the Pensieve lay

between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal

bottles full of swirling memory.

“Professor Trelawney still isn’t happy Firenze is

teaching, then?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Divination is turning out to

be much more trouble than I could have foreseen,

never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask

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Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave.

Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she

would be in outside the castle. She does not know —

and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her —

that she made the prophecy about you and

Voldemort, you see.”

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But

never mind my staffing problems. We have much

more important matters to discuss. Firstly — have

you managed the task I set you at the end of our

previous lesson?”

“Ah,” said Harry, brought up short. What with

Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being

poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his

determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up

to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory

Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor

Slughorn. “Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it

at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn’t give it

to me.”

There was a little silence.

“I see,” said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry

over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving

Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed.

“And you feel that you have exerted your very best

efforts in this matter, do you? That you have

exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you

have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your

quest to retrieve the memory?”

“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next.

His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly

seemed embarrassingly feeble. “Well … the day Ron

swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to

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Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —”

“And did that work?” asked Dumbledore.

“Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —”

“— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying

to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing

else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it

became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a

full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you

returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it

clear to you how very important that memory is.

Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is

the most crucial memory of all and that we will be

wasting our time without it.”

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of

Harry’s head all the way down his body. Dumbledore

had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry,

but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold

disappointment was worse than anything.

“Sir,” he said, a little desperately, “it isn’t that I wasn’t

bothered or anything, I’ve just had other — other

things …”

“Other things on your mind,” Dumbledore finished

the sentence for him. “I see.”

Silence fell between them again, the most

uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced

with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on,

punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the

portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore’s head.

Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had

shrunk a little since he had entered the room. When

he could stand it no longer he said, “Professor

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Dumbledore, I’m really sorry. I should have done

more. … I should have realized you wouldn’t have

asked me to do it if it wasn’t really important.”

“Thank you for saying that, Harry,” said Dumbledore

quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this

matter higher priority from now on? There will be

little point in our meeting after tonight unless we

have that memory.”

“I’ll do it, sir, I’ll get it from him,” he said earnestly.

“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” said

Dumbledore more kindly, “but continue with our

story where we left off. You remember where that

was?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry quickly. “Voldemort killed his

father and his grandparents and made it look as

though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to

Hogwarts and he asked … he asked Professor

Slughorn about Horcruxes,” he mumbled

shamefacedly.

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Now, you will

remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of

these meetings of ours that we would be entering the

realms of guesswork and speculation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you

reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as

to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?”

Harry nodded.

“But now, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “now things

become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find

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evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost

impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce

about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether

there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could

give us a full account of his life since he left

Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I

would like to share with you.” Dumbledore indicated

the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the

Pensieve. “I shall then be glad of your opinion as to

whether the conclusions I have drawn from them

seem likely.”

The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this

highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed

that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux

memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as

Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the

light and examined it.

“I hope you are not tired of diving into other people’s

memories, for they are curious recollections, these

two,” he said. “This first one came from a very old

house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what

Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord

Voldemort left Hogwarts.

“He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as

you might have expected, top grades in every

examination he had taken. All around him, his

classmates were deciding which jobs they were to

pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody

expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect,

Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to

the School. I know that several teachers, Professor

Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the

Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put

him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all

offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was

working at Borgin and Burkes.”

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“At Borgin and Burkes?” Harry repeated, stunned.

“At Borgin and Burkes,” repeated Dumbledore calmly.

“I think you will see what attractions the place held

for him when we have entered Hokey’s memory. But

this was not Voldemort’s first choice of job. Hardly

anyone knew of it at the time — I was one of the few

in whom the then headmaster confided — but

Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and

asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a

teacher.”

“He wanted to stay here? Why?” asked Harry, more

amazed still.

“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided

none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore.

“Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I

believe, more attached to this school than he has ever

been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been

happiest; the first and only place he had felt at

home.”

Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for

this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.

“Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic.

Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of

its secrets than most of the students who pass

through the place, but he may have felt that there

were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.

“And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great

power and influence over young witches and wizards.

Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor

Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best

terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a

teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that

Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at

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Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin

to build himself an army.”

“But he didn’t get the job, sir?”

“No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was

too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a

few years, if he still wished to teach.”

“How did you feel about that, sir?” asked Harry

hesitantly.

“Deeply uneasy,” said Dumbledore. “I had advised

Armando against the appointment — I did not give

the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was

very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty.

But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this

school, and especially not in a position of power.”

“Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he

want to teach?”

Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before

Dumbledore gave it.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at

the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea

Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly

fifty years.

“So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all

the staff who had admired him said what a waste it

was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a

shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant.

Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given

particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place

like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you

know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful

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properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and

he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing

this.”

“I’ll bet he was,” said Harry, unable to contain

himself.

“Well, quite,” said Dumbledore, with a faint smile.

“And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf,

who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the

name of Hepzibah Smith.”

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork

flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the

Pensieve, saying as he did so, “After you, Harry.”

Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the

rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his

face touched them. He tumbled through dark

nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of

an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger

wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all

around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake.

She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and

dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a

large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-

elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight

satin slippers.

“Hurry up, Hokey!” said Hepzibah imperiously. “He

said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to

and he’s never been late yet!”

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf

straightened up. The top of the elf’s head barely

reached the seat of Hepzibah’s chair, and her papery

skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet

she wore draped like a toga.

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“How do I look?” said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.

“Lovely, madam,” squeaked Hokey.

Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey’s

contract that she must lie through her teeth when

asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked

a long way from lovely in his opinion.

A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf

jumped.

“Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” cried Hepzibah and

the elf scurried out of the room, which was so

crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how

anybody could navigate their way across it without

knocking over at least a dozen things: There were

cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of

gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial

globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass

containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross

between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a

tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in

recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a

black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had

been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all

of this suited him; he looked more handsome than

ever. He picked his way through the cramped room

with an air that showed he had visited many times

before and bowed low over Hepzibah’s fat little hand,

brushing it with his lips.

“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a

bunch of roses from nowhere.

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“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” squealed old Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an

empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table.

“You do spoil this old lady, Tom. … Sit down, sit

down. … Where’s Hokey? Ah …”

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room

carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her

mistress’s elbow.

“Help yourself, Tom,” said Hepzibah, “I know how you

love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They

overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred

times. …”

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah

simpered.

“Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?” she

asked, batting her lashes.

“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for

the goblin-made armor,” said Voldemort. “Five

hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —”

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here

for my trinkets!” pouted Hepzibah.

“I am ordered here because of them,” said Voldemort

quietly. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who

must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire

—”

“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” said Hepzibah, waving a

little hand. “I’ve something to show you that I’ve never

shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will

you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d

never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and

I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you,

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Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.”

“I’d be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me,”

said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another

girlish giggle.

“I had Hokey bring it out for me. … Hokey, where are

you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. …

In fact, bring both, while you’re at it. …”

“Here, madam,” squeaked the house-elf, and Harry

saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other,

moving across the room as if of their own volition,

though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over

her head as she wended her way between tables,

pouffes, and footstools.

“Now,” said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from

the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open

the topmost one, “I think you’ll like this, Tom. … Oh,

if my family knew I was showing you. … They can’t

wait to get their hands on this!”

She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get

a better view and saw what looked like a small golden

cup with two finely wrought handles.

“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it

up, have a good look!” whispered Hepzibah, and

Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and

lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken

wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his

dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously

mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes

were fixed upon Voldemort’s handsome features.

“A badger,” murmured Voldemort, examining the

engraving upon the cup. “Then this was … ?”

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“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud

creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow

cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended?

This has been handed down in the family for years

and years. Lovely, isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s

supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them

thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here. …”

She hooked the cup back off Voldemort’s long

forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent

upon settling it carefully back into position to notice

the shadow that crossed Voldemort’s face as the cup

was taken away.

“Now then,” said Hepzibah happily, “where’s Hokey?

Oh yes, there you are — take that away now, Hokey.”

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah

turned her attention to the much flatter box in her

lap.

“I think you’ll like this even more, Tom,” she

whispered. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see.

… Of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought

it from him, and I daresay he’d love to get it back

when I’m gone. …”

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open

the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a

heavy golden locket.

Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation

this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it.

“Slytherin’s mark,” he said quietly, as the light played

upon an ornate, serpentine S.

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“That’s right!” said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed.

“I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let

it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for

my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a

ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it,

but had no idea of its true value —”

There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort’s eyes

flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his

knuckles whiten on the locket’s chain.

“— I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you

are. … Pretty, isn’t it? And again, all kinds of powers

attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe. …”

She reached out to take the locket back. For a

moment, Harry thought Voldemort was not going to

let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers

and was back in its red velvet cushion.

“So there you are, Tom, dear, and I hope you enjoyed

that!”

She looked him full in the face and for the first time,

Harry saw her foolish smile falter.

“Are you all right, dear?”

“Oh yes,” said Voldemort quietly. “Yes, I’m very well.

…”

“I thought — but a trick of the light, I suppose —”

said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed

that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in

Voldemort’s eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and

lock them up again. … The usual enchantments …”

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“Time to leave, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, and as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes,

Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the

elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and

back to Dumbledore’s office.

“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,”

said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating

that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf

was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her

mistress’s evening cocoa by accident.”

“No way!” said Harry angrily.

“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore.

“Certainly, there are many similarities between this

death and that of the Riddles. In both cases,

somebody else took the blame, someone who had a

clear memory of having caused the death —”

“Hokey confessed?”

“She remembered putting something in her mistress’s

cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal

and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was

concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being

old and confused —”

“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with

Morfin!”

“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore.

“And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was

predisposed to suspect Hokey —”

“— because she was a house-elf,” said Harry. He had

rarely felt more in sympathy with the society

Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W.

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“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she

admitted to having tampered with the drink, and

nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As

in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and

managed to extract this memory, her life was almost

over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing

except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the

cup and the locket.

“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah’s family

had realized that two of her greatest treasures were

missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for

she had many hiding places, having always guarded

her collection most jealously. But before they were

sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were

both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin

and Burkes, the young man who had visited

Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had

resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no

idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as

anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last

that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long

time.

“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don’t mind, Harry, I

want to pause once more to draw your attention to

certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed

another murder; whether it was his first since he

killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was.

This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for

revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous

trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him.

Just as he had once robbed the other children at his

orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin’s

ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah’s cup and

locket.”

“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad. … Risking

everything, throwing away his job, just for those …”

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“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said

Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due

course exactly what those objects meant to him,

Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to

imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully

his.”

“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the

cup as well?”

“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts’s founders,”

said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull

toward the school and that he could not resist an

object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were

other reasons, I think. … I hope to be able to

demonstrate them to you in due course.

“And now for the very last recollection I have to show

you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor

Slughorn’s memory for us. Ten years separates

Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which

we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing.

…”

Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore

emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.

“Whose memory is it?” he asked.

“Mine,” said Dumbledore.

And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the

shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had

just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his

perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore,

who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing

beside Harry, though both hands were whole and

undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less

lined. The one difference between the present-day

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office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in

the dark and building up on the outside ledge.

The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for

something, and sure enough, moments after their

arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said,

“Enter.”

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had

entered the room. His features were not those Harry

had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron

almost two years ago: They were not as snakelike, the

eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike,

and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It

was as though his features had been burned and

blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the

whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody

look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that

Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a

long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the

snow glistening on his shoulders.

The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of

surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by

appointment.

“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won’t

you sit down?”

“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to

which Dumbledore had gestured — the very seat, by

the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the

present. “I heard that you had become headmaster,”

he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder

than it had been. “A worthy choice.”

“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“May I offer you a drink?”

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“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have

come a long way.”

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet

where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was

full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of

wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the

seat behind his desk.

“So, Tom … to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped

his wine.

“They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These

days, I am known as —”

“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore,

smiling pleasantly. “But to me, I’m afraid, you will

always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things

about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite

forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.”

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort,

whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless,

Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly:

Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen

name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the

terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that

Voldemort took it as such.

“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said

Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered

why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave

school.”

“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling, “to a wizard

such as myself, there can be nothing more important

than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young

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minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the

attraction of teaching too.”

“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why

you — who are so often asked for advice by the

Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered

the post of Minister —”

“Three times at the last count, actually,” said

Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as

a career. Again, something we have in common, I

think.”

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took

another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the

silence that stretched between them now, but waited,

with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to

talk first.

“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later,

perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected … but I have

returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once

told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to

ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to

teach. I think you must know that I have seen and

done much since I left this place. I could show and

tell your students things they can gain from no other

wizard.”

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his

own goblet for a while before speaking.

“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done

much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of

your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I

should be sorry to believe half of them.”

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Voldemort’s expression remained impassive as he

said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite,

spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.”

“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do

you?” asked Dumbledore delicately.

“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to

burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the

boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have

ever been pushed —”

“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him

quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain … forgive me

… woefully ignorant.”

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut

leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of

rage.

“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I

have seen in the world has supported your famous

pronouncements that love is more powerful than my

kind of magic, Dumbledore.”

“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,”

suggested Dumbledore.

“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh

researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort.

“Will you let me return? Will you let me share my

knowledge with your students? I place myself and my

talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will

become of those whom you command? What will

happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor

has it — the Death Eaters?”

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Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected

Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort’s

eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.

“My friends,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “will

carry on without me, I am sure.”

“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,”

said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that

they are more in the order of servants.”

“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort.

“Then if I were to go to the Hog’s Head tonight, I

would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier,

Mulciber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted

friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy

night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to

secure a teaching post.”

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore’s detailed

knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was

even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied

almost at once.

“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.”

“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said

Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom …”

Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew

himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together

in a very characteristic gesture.

“Let us speak openly. Why have you come here

tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job

we both know you do not want?”

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Voldemort looked coldly surprised. “A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very

much.”

“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do

not want to teach any more than you wanted to when

you were eighteen. What is it you’re after, Tom? Why

not try an open request for once?”

Voldemort sneered. “If you do not want to give me a

job —”

“Of course I don’t,” said Dumbledore. “And I don’t

think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless,

you came here, you asked, you must have had a

purpose.”

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle

than ever, his features thick with rage. “This is your

final word?”

“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing.

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”

“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness

filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could

frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you

to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I

could, Tom. … I wish I could. …”

For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a

pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort’s hand

had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but

then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned

away, the door was closing, and he was gone.

Harry felt Dumbledore’s hand close over his arm

again and moments later, they were standing together

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on almost the same spot, but there was no snow

building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore’s

hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.

“Why?” said Harry at once, looking up into

Dumbledore’s face. “Why did he come back? Did you

ever find out?”

“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than

that.”

“What ideas, sir?”

“I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that

memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore.

“When you have that last piece of the jigsaw,

everything will, I hope, be clear … to both of us.”

Harry was still burning with curiosity and even

though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was

holding it open for him, he did not move at once.

“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job

again, sir? He didn’t say. …”

“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the

Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of

our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never

been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post

to Lord Voldemort.”

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THE UNKNOWABLE ROOM

Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to

how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the

true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain

wave occurred and he was reduced to doing what he

did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring

over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would

have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he

had done so many times before.

“You won’t find anything in there,” said Hermione

firmly, late on Sunday evening.

“Don’t start, Hermione,” said Harry. “If it hadn’t been

for the Prince, Ron wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

“He would if you’d just listened to Snape in our first

year,” said Hermione dismissively.

Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation

(“Sectumsempra!”) scrawled in a margin above the

intriguing words “For Enemies,” and was itching to

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try it out, but thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the

corner of the page.

They were sitting beside the fire in the common room;

the only other people awake were fellow sixth years.

There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier

when they had come back from dinner to find a new

sign on the notice board that announced the date for

their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen

on or before the first test date, the twenty-first of

April, had the option of signing up for additional

practice sessions, which would take place (heavily

supervised) in Hogsmeade.

Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still

not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be

ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved

Apparition twice, was a little more confident, but

Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four

months, could not take the test whether ready or not.

“At least you can Apparate, though!” said Ron tensely.

“You’ll have no trouble come July!”

“I’ve only done it once,” Harry reminded him; he had

finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside

his hoop during their previous lesson.

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about

Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a

viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and

Hermione had already completed. Harry fully

expected to receive low marks on his, because he had

disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle

dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn’s memory

was the most important thing to him now.

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“I’m telling you, the stupid Prince isn’t going to be able to help you with this, Harry!” said Hermione,

more loudly. “There’s only one way to force someone

to do what you want, and that’s the Imperius Curse,

which is illegal —”

“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” said Harry, not looking

up from the book. “That’s why I’m looking for

something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum

won’t do it, but there might be something else, a

potion or a spell. …”

“You’re going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione.

“Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says.

That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where

other people can’t. It’s not a question of slipping him

a potion, anyone could do that —”

“How d’you spell ‘belligerent’?” said Ron, shaking his

quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It

can’t be B — U — M —”

“No, it isn’t,” said Hermione, pulling Ron’s essay

toward her. “And ‘augury’ doesn’t begin O — R — G

either. What kind of quill are you using?”

“It’s one of Fred and George’s Spell-Check ones … but

I think the charm must be wearing off. …”

“Yes, it must,” said Hermione, pointing at the title of

his essay, “because we were asked how we’d deal with

dementors, not ‘Dugbogs,’ and I don’t remember you

changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”

“Ah no!” said Ron, staring horror-struck at the

parchment. “Don’t say I’ll have to write the whole

thing out again!”

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“It’s okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.

“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back in his

chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t

let Lavender hear you saying that.”

“I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will …

then she’ll ditch me …”

“Why don’t you ditch her if you want to finish it?”

asked Harry.

“You haven’t ever chucked anyone, have you?” said

Ron. “You and Cho just —”

“Sort of fell apart, yeah,” said Harry

“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender,”

said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently

tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of

her wand, so that they corrected themselves on the

page. “But the more I hint I want to finish it, the

tighter she holds on. It’s like going out with the giant

squid.”

“There,” said Hermione, some twenty minutes later,

handing back Ron’s essay.

“Thanks a million,” said Ron. “Can I borrow your quill

for the conclusion?”

Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half-

Blood Prince’s notes so far, looked around; the three

of them were now the only ones left in the common

room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing

Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the

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crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione’s quill.

Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince’s book,

yawning, when —

Crack.

Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all

over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said,

“Kreacher!”

The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own

gnarled toes.

“Master said he wanted regular reports on what the

Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give —”

Crack.

Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat

askew.

“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he

squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And

Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to

see Harry Potter so they can make their reports

together!”

“What is this?” asked Hermione, still looking shocked

by these sudden appearances. “What’s going on,

Harry?”

Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not

told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to

tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy

subject with her.

“Well … they’ve been following Malfoy for me,” he

said.

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“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher.

“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said

Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.

Hermione looked indignant.

“You haven’t slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you

didn’t tell him not to —”

“No, of course I didn’t,” said Harry quickly. “Dobby,

you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found

out anything?” he hastened to ask, before Hermione

could intervene again.

“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his

pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features

recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners

are those of —”

“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily.

“A bad boy who — who —”

He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the

toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though

about to dive into it; Harry, to whom this was not

entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle

and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby

struggled, then went limp.

“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still

finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters. …”

Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy

and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should

know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a

house-elf!”

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“Yeah, we don’t need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let’s fast forward

to where he’s actually been going.”

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said,

“Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a

dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in

a variety of —”

“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across

Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn’t

have?”

“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orblike

eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is

breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is

still keen to avoid detection. He has been making

regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of

other students, who keep watch for him while he

enters —”

“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking

himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion-

Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. “That’s

where he’s been sneaking off to! That’s where he’s

doing … whatever he’s doing! And I bet that’s why

he’s been disappearing off the map — come to think

of it, I’ve never seen the Room of Requirement on

there!”

“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was

there,” said Ron.

“I think it’ll be part of the magic of the room,” said

Hermione. “If you need it to be Unplottable, it will be.”

“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at

what Malfoy’s doing?” said Harry eagerly.

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“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby.

“No, it’s not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our

headquarters there last year, so I’ll be able to get in

and spy on him, no problem.”

“But I don’t think you will, Harry,” said Hermione

slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were

using the room, didn’t he, because that stupid

Marietta had blabbed. He needed the room to become

the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don’t

know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in

there, so you don’t know what to ask it to transform

into.”

“There’ll be a way around that,” said Harry

dismissively. “You’ve done brilliantly, Dobby.”

“Kreacher’s done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but

far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge,

bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The

Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will

pretend he cannot hear —”

“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher

made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You’d

better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.”

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby

happily, and he too vanished.

“How good’s this?” said Harry enthusiastically,

turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room

was elf-free again. “We know where Malfoy’s going!

We’ve got him cornered now!”

“Yeah, it’s great,” said Ron glumly, who was

attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that

had recently been an almost completed essay.

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Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning

the ink off with her wand.

“But what’s all this about him going up there with a

‘variety of students’?” said Hermione. “How many

people are in on it? You wouldn’t think he’d trust lots

of them to know what he’s doing. …”

“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “I heard

him telling Crabbe it wasn’t Crabbe’s business what

he was doing … so what’s he telling all these … all

these …”

Harry’s voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire.

“God, I’ve been stupid,” he said quietly. “It’s obvious,

isn’t it? There was a great vat of it down in the

dungeon. … He could’ve nicked some any time during

that lesson. …”

“Nicked what?” said Ron.

“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice

Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions

lesson. … There aren’t a whole variety of students

standing guard for Malfoy … it’s just Crabbe and

Goyle as usual. … Yeah, it all fits!” said Harry,

jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire.

“They’re stupid enough to do what they’re told even if

he won’t tell them what he’s up to … but he doesn’t

want them to be seen lurking around outside the

Room of Requirement, so he’s got them taking

Polyjuice to make them look like other people. …

Those two girls I saw him with when he missed

Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”

“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed

voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired — ?”

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“Yeah, of course!” said Harry loudly, staring at her.

“Of course! Malfoy must’ve been inside the room at

the time, so she — what am I talking about? — he

dropped the scales to tell Malfoy not to come out,

because there was someone there! And there was that

girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We’ve been

walking past him all the time and not realizing it!”

“He’s got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?”

guffawed Ron. “Blimey … No wonder they don’t look

too happy these days. … I’m surprised they don’t tell

him to stuff it. …”

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they, if he’s shown them

his Dark Mark?” said Harry.

“Hmmm … the Dark Mark we don’t know exists,” said

Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron’s dried essay

before it could come to any more harm and handing it

to him.

“We’ll see,” said Harry confidently.

“Yes, we will,” Hermione said, getting to her feet and

stretching. “But, Harry, before you get all excited, I

still don’t think you’ll be able to get into the Room of

Requirement without knowing what’s there first. And

I don’t think you should forget” — she heaved her bag

onto her shoulder and gave him a very serious look —

“that what you’re supposed to be concentrating on is

getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night.”

Harry watched her go, feeling slightly disgruntled.

Once the door to the girls’ dormitories had closed

behind her he rounded on Ron.

“What d’you think?”

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“Wish I could Disapparate like a house-elf,” said Ron, staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. “I’d

have that Apparition Test in the bag.”

Harry did not sleep well that night. He lay awake for

what felt like hours, wondering how Malfoy was using

the Room of Requirement and what he, Harry, would

see when he went in there the following day, for

whatever Hermione said, Harry was sure that if

Malfoy had been able to see the headquarters of the

D.A., he would be able to see Malfoy’s … what could it

be? A meeting place? A hideout? A storeroom? A

workshop? Harry’s mind worked feverishly and his

dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were broken and

disturbed by images of Malfoy, who turned into

Slughorn, who turned into Snape. …

Harry was in a state of great anticipation over

breakfast the following morning; he had a free period

before Defense Against the Dark Arts and was

determined to spend it trying to get into the Room of

Requirement. Hermione was rather ostentatiously

showing no interest in his whispered plans for forcing

entry into the room, which irritated Harry, because he

thought she might be a lot of help if she wanted to.

“Look,” he said quietly, leaning forward and putting a

hand on the Daily Prophet, which she had just

removed from a post owl, to stop her from opening it

and vanishing behind it. “I haven’t forgotten about

Slughorn, but I haven’t got a clue how to get that

memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why

shouldn’t I find out what Malfoy’s doing?”

“I’ve already told you, you need to persuade

Slughorn,” said Hermione. “It’s not a question of

tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could

have done it in a second. Instead of messing around

outside the Room of Requirement” — she jerked the

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Prophet out from under Harry’s hand and unfolded it to look at the front page — “you should go and find

Slughorn and start appealing to his better nature.”

“Anyone we know — ?” asked Ron, as Hermione

scanned the headlines.

“Yes!” said Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to

gag on their breakfast. “But it’s all right, he’s not

dead — it’s Mundungus, he’s been arrested and sent

to Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an

Inferius during an attempted burglary … and

someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished. … Oh,

and how horrible, a nine-year-old boy has been

arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think

he was under the Imperius Curse. …”

They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione set

off immediately for Ancient Runes; Ron for the

common room, where he still had to finish his

conclusion on Snape’s dementor essay; and Harry for

the corridor on the seventh floor and the stretch of

wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy

teaching trolls to do ballet.

Harry slipped on his Invisibility Cloak once he had

found an empty passage, but he need not have

bothered. When he reached his destination he found

it deserted. Harry was not sure whether his chances

of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy

inside it or out, but at least his first attempt was not

going to be complicated by the presence of Crabbe or

Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl.

He closed his eyes as he approached the place where

the Room of Requirement’s door was concealed. He

knew what he had to do; he had become most

accomplished at it last year. Concentrating with all

his might he thought, I need to see what Malfoy’s

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doing in here. … I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. … I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. …

Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart

pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and

faced it —

But he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely

blank wall.

He moved forward and gave it an experimental push.

The stone remained solid and unyielding.

“Okay,” said Harry aloud. “Okay … I thought the

wrong thing. …”

He pondered for a moment then set off again, eyes

closed, concentrating as hard as he could.

I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming

secretly. … I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps

coming secretly. …

After three walks past, he opened his eyes

expectantly.

There was no door.

“Oh, come off it,” he told the wall irritably. “That was

a clear instruction. … Fine …”

He thought hard for several minutes before striding

off once more.

I need you to become the place you become for Draco

Malfoy. …

He did not immediately open his eyes when he had

finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as

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though he might hear the door pop into existence. He heard nothing, however, except the distant twittering

of birds outside. He opened his eyes.

There was still no door.

Harry swore. Someone screamed. He looked around to

see a gaggle of first years running back around the

corner, apparently under the impression that they

had just encountered a particularly foulmouthed

ghost.

Harry tried every variation of “I need to see what

Draco Malfoy is doing inside you” that he could think

of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced

to concede that Hermione might have had a point:

The room simply did not want to open for him.

Frustrated and annoyed, he set off for Defense

Against the Dark Arts, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak

and stuffing it into his bag as he went.

“Late again, Potter,” said Snape coldly, as Harry

hurried into the candlelit classroom. “Ten points from

Gryffindor.”

Harry scowled at Snape as he flung himself into the

seat beside Ron; half the class was still on its feet,

taking out books and organizing their things; he

could not be much later than any of them.

“Before we start, I want your dementor essays,” said

Snape, waving his wand carelessly, so that twenty-

five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and

landed in a neat pile on his desk. “And I hope for your

sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure

on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all

open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?”

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“Sir,” said Seamus, “I’ve been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost?

Because there was something in the paper about an

Inferius —”

“No, there wasn’t,” said Snape in a bored voice.

“But sir, I heard people talking —”

“If you had actually read the article in question, Mr.

Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called

Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the

name of Mundungus Fletcher.”

“I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same

side,” muttered Harry to Ron and Hermione.

“Shouldn’t he be upset Mundungus has been arrest

—”

“But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject,”

said Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the

room, his black eyes fixed on Harry “Let us ask Potter

how we would tell the difference between an Inferius

and a ghost.”

The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily

tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the

night that they had gone to visit Slughorn.

“Er — well — ghosts are transparent —” he said.

“Oh, very good,” interrupted Snape, his lip curling.

“Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical

education have not been wasted on you, Potter.

‘ Ghosts are transparent. ’ ”

Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several

other people were smirking. Harry took a deep breath

and continued calmly, though his insides were

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boiling, “Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren’t they? So they’d be solid —”

“A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered

Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been

reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it

is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s

bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by

now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the

earth … and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us,

transparent. ”

“Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re

trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come

face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to

be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re

not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the

imprint of a departed soul?’ ”

There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by

the look Snape gave the class.

“Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I

would expect nothing more sophisticated from you,

Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate

half an inch across a room.”

“No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as

he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point,

you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!”

“Now open your books to page two hundred and

thirteen,” said Snape, smirking a little, “and read the

first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse. …”

Ron was very subdued all through the class. When

the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender

caught up with Ron and Harry (Hermione

mysteriously melted out of sight as she approached)

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and abused Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron’s

Apparition, but this seemed to merely irritate Ron,

and he shook her off by making a detour into the

boys’ bathroom with Harry.

“Snape’s right, though, isn’t he?” said Ron, after

staring into a cracked mirror for a minute or two. “I

dunno whether it’s worth me taking the test. I just

can’t get the hang of Apparition.”

“You might as well do the extra practice sessions in

Hogsmeade and see where they get you,” said Harry

reasonably. “It’ll be more interesting than trying to get

into a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you’re still not —

you know — as good as you’d like to be, you can

postpone the test, do it with me over the summ —

Myrtle, this is the boys’ bathroom!”

The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a

cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair,

staring at them through thick, white, round glasses.

“Oh,” she said glumly. “It’s you two.”

“Who were you expecting?” said Ron, looking at her in

the mirror.

“Nobody,” said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on

her chin. “He said he’d come back and see me, but

then you said you’d pop in and visit me too” — she

gave Harry a reproachful look — “and I haven’t seen

you for months and months. I’ve learned not to expect

too much from boys.”

“I thought you lived in that girls’ bathroom?” said

Harry, who had been careful to give the place a wide

berth for some years now.

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“I do,” she said, with a sulky little shrug, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t visit other places. I came and

saw you in your bath once, remember?”

“Vividly,” said Harry.

“But I thought he liked me,” she said plaintively.

“Maybe if you two left, he’d come back again. … We

had lots in common. … I’m sure he felt it. …”

And she looked hopefully toward the door.

“When you say you had lots in common,” said Ron,

sounding rather amused now, “d’you mean he lives in

an S-bend too?”

“No,” said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly

around the old tiled bathroom. “I mean he’s sensitive,

people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn’t

got anybody to talk to, and he’s not afraid to show his

feelings and cry!”

“There’s been a boy in here crying?” said Harry

curiously. “A young boy?”

“Never you mind!” said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes

fixed on Ron, who was now definitely grinning. “I

promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I’ll take his

secret to the —”

“— not the grave, surely?” said Ron with a snort. “The

sewers, maybe …”

Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the

toilet, causing water to slop over the sides and onto

the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put fresh

heart into Ron.

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“You’re right,” he said, swinging his schoolbag back over his shoulder, “I’ll do the practice sessions in

Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test.”

And so the following weekend, Ron joined Hermione

and the rest of the sixth years who would turn

seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight. Harry

felt rather jealous watching them all get ready to go

into the village; he missed making trips there, and it

was a particularly fine spring day, one of the first

clear skies they had seen in a long time. However, he

had decided to use the time to attempt another

assault on the Room of Requirement.

“You’d do better,” said Hermione, when he confided

this plan to Ron and her in the entrance hall, “to go

straight to Slughorn’s office and try and get that

memory from him.”

“I’ve been trying!” said Harry crossly, which was

perfectly true. He had lagged behind after every

Potions lesson that week in an attempt to corner

Slughorn, but the Potions master always left the

dungeon so fast that Harry had not been able to catch

him. Twice, Harry had gone to his office and knocked,

but received no reply, though on the second occasion

he was sure he had heard the quickly stifled sounds

of an old gramophone.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Hermione! He can tell

I’ve been trying to get him on his own again, and he’s

not going to let it happen!”

“Well, you’ve just got to keep at it, haven’t you?”

The short queue of people waiting to file past Filch,

who was doing his usual prodding act with the

Secrecy Sensor, moved forward a few steps and Harry

did not answer in case he was overheard by the

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caretaker. He wished Ron and Hermione both luck,

then turned and climbed the marble staircase again,

determined, whatever Hermione said, to devote an

hour or two to the Room of Requirement.

Once out of sight of the entrance hall, Harry pulled

the Marauder’s Map and his Invisibility Cloak from

his bag. Having concealed himself, he tapped the

map, murmured, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no

good, ” and scanned it carefully.

As it was Sunday morning, nearly all the students

were inside their various common rooms, the

Gryffindors in one tower, the Ravenclaws in another,

the Slytherins in the dungeons, and the Hufflepuffs in

the basement near the kitchens. Here and there a

stray person meandered around the library or up a

corridor. … There were a few people out in the

grounds … and there, alone in the seventh-floor

corridor, was Gregory Goyle. There was no sign of the

Room of Requirement, but Harry was not worried

about that; if Goyle was standing guard outside it, the

room was open, whether the map was aware of it or

not. He therefore sprinted up the stairs, slowing down

only when he reached the corner into the corridor,

when he began to creep, very slowly, toward the very

same little girl, clutching her heavy brass scales, that

Hermione had so kindly helped a fortnight before. He

waited until he was right behind her before bending

very low and whispering, “Hello … you’re very pretty,

aren’t you?”

Goyle gave a high-pitched scream of terror, threw the

scales up into the air, and sprinted away, vanishing

from sight long before the sound of the scales

smashing had stopped echoing around the corridor.

Laughing, Harry turned to contemplate the blank wall

behind which, he was sure, Draco Malfoy was now

standing frozen, aware that someone unwelcome was

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out there, but not daring to make an appearance. It gave Harry a most agreeable feeling of power as he

tried to remember what form of words he had not yet

tried.

Yet this hopeful mood did not last long. Half an hour

later, having tried many more variations of his

request to see what Malfoy was up to, the wall was

just as doorless as ever. Harry felt frustrated beyond

belief; Malfoy might be just feet away from him, and

there was still not the tiniest shred of evidence as to

what he was doing in there. Losing his patience

completely, Harry ran at the wall and kicked it.

“OUCH!”

He thought he might have broken his toe; as he

clutched it and hopped on one foot, the Invisibility

Cloak slipped off him.

“Harry?”

He spun around, one-legged, and toppled over. There,

to his utter astonishment, was Tonks, walking toward

him as though she frequently strolled up this

corridor.

“What’re you doing here?” he said, scrambling to his

feet again; why did she always have to find him lying

on the floor?

“I came to see Dumbledore,” said Tonks.

Harry thought she looked terrible: thinner than

usual, her mouse-colored hair lank.

“His office isn’t here,” said Harry, “it’s round the other

side of the castle, behind the gargoyle —”

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“I know,” said Tonks. “He’s not there. Apparently he’s gone away again.”

“Has he?” said Harry, putting his bruised foot gingerly

back on the floor. “Hey — you don’t know where he

goes, I suppose?”

“No,” said Tonks.

“What did you want to see him about?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Tonks, picking,

apparently unconsciously, at the sleeve of her robe. “I

just thought he might know what’s going on. … I’ve

heard rumors … people getting hurt …”

“Yeah, I know, it’s all been in the papers,” said Harry.

“That little kid trying to kill his —”

“The Prophet’s often behind the times,” said Tonks,

who didn’t seem to be listening to him. “You haven’t

had any letters from anyone in the Order recently?”

“No one from the Order writes to me anymore,” said

Harry, “not since Sirius —”

He saw that her eyes had filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. “I mean … I miss

him, as well. …”

“What?” said Tonks blankly, as though she had not

heard him. “Well … I’ll see you around, Harry …”

And she turned abruptly and walked back down the

corridor, leaving Harry to stare after her. After a

minute or so, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak on again

and resumed his efforts to get into the Room of

Requirement, but his heart was not in it. Finally, a

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hollow feeling in his stomach and the knowledge that Ron and Hermione would soon be back for lunch

made him abandon the attempt and leave the corridor

to Malfoy who, hopefully, would be too afraid to leave

for some hours to come.

He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall,

already halfway through an early lunch.

“I did it — well, kind of!” Ron told Harry

enthusiastically when he caught sight of him. “I was

supposed to be Apparating to outside Madam

Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and I overshot it a bit, ended up

near Scrivenshaft’s, but at least I moved!”

“Good one,” said Harry. “How’d you do, Hermione?”

“Oh, she was perfect, obviously,” said Ron, before

Hermione could answer. “Perfect deliberation,

divination, and desperation or whatever the hell it is

— we all went for a quick drink in the Three

Broomsticks after and you should’ve heard Twycross

going on about her — I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t

pop the question soon —”

“And what about you?” asked Hermione, ignoring

Ron. “Have you been up at the Room of Requirement

all this time?”

“Yep,” said Harry. “And guess who I ran into up

there? Tonks!”

“Tonks?” repeated Ron and Hermione together,

looking surprised.

“Yeah, she said she’d come to visit Dumbledore. …”

“If you ask me,” said Ron once Harry had finished

describing his conversation with Tonks, “she’s

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cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what

happened at the Ministry.”

“It’s a bit odd,” said Hermione, who for some reason

looked very concerned. “She’s supposed to be

guarding the school, why’s she suddenly abandoning

her post to come and see Dumbledore when he’s not

even here?”

“I had a thought,” said Harry tentatively. He felt

strange about voicing it; this was much more

Hermione’s territory than his. “You don’t think she

can have been … you know … in love with Sirius?”

Hermione stared at him.

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly

crying when I mentioned his name … and her

Patronus is a big four-legged thing now. … I wondered

whether it hadn’t become … you know … him.”

“It’s a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still

don’t know why she’d be bursting into the castle to

see Dumbledore, if that’s really why she was here. …”

“Goes back to what I said, doesn’t it?” said Ron, who

was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth.

“She’s gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he

said wisely to Harry, “they’re easily upset.”

“And yet,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “I

doubt you’d find a woman who sulked for half an

hour because Madam Rosmerta didn’t laugh at their

joke about the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus

mimbletonia. ”

Ron scowled.

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AFTER THE BURIAL

Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear

over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching

summer did not lift Harry’s mood. He had been

thwarted, both in his attempts to find out what

Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a

conversation with Slughorn that might lead,

somehow, to Slughorn handing over the memory he

had apparently suppressed for decades.

“For the last time, just forget about Malfoy,” Hermione

told Harry firmly.

They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the

courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both

clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet — Common

Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them — for

they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but

by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to

the nerves.

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Ron gave a start and tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner.

“It isn’t Lavender,” said Hermione wearily.

“Oh, good,” said Ron, relaxing.

“Harry Potter?” said the girl. “I was asked to give you

this.”

“Thanks …”

Harry’s heart sank as he took the small scroll of

parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said,

“Dumbledore said we wouldn’t be having any more

lessons until I got the memory!”

“Maybe he wants to check on how you’re doing?”

suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the

parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore’s

long, narrow, slanted writing he saw an untidy

sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of

large blotches on the parchment where the ink had

run.

Dear Harry, Ron, and Hermione,

Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him,

and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know

you’d have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if

you’d nip down for the burial later this evening. I’m

planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite

time of day. I know you’re not supposed to be out that

late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn’t ask, but I

can’t face it alone.

Hagrid

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“Look at this,” said Harry, handing the note to

Hermione.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, scanning it quickly

and passing it to Ron, who read it through looking

increasingly incredulous.

“He’s mental!” he said furiously. “That thing told its

mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help

themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down

there and cry over its horrible hairy body!”

“It’s not just that,” said Hermione. “He’s asking us to

leave the castle at night and he knows security’s a

million times tighter and how much trouble we’d be in

if we were caught.”

“We’ve been down to see him by night before,” said

Harry.

“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione.

“We’ve risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all —

Aragog’s dead. If it were a question of saving him —”

“— I’d want to go even less,” said Ron firmly. “You

didn’t meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead

will have improved him a lot.”

Harry took the note back and stared down at all the

inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick

and fast upon the parchment. …

“Harry, you can’t be thinking of going,” said

Hermione. “It’s such a pointless thing to get detention

for.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s’pose

Hagrid’ll have to bury Aragog without us.”

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“Yes, he will,” said Hermione, looking relieved. “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us

all off doing our tests. … Try and soften Slughorn up

a bit then!”

“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry

bitterly.

“Lucky,” said Ron suddenly. “Harry, that’s it — get

lucky!”

“What d’you mean?”

“Use your lucky potion!”

“Ron, that’s — that’s it!” said Hermione, sounding

stunned. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Harry stared at them both. “Felix Felicis?” he said. “I

dunno … I was sort of saving it. …”

“What for?” demanded Ron incredulously.

“What on earth is more important than this memory,

Harry?” asked Hermione.

Harry did not answer. The thought of that little golden

bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for

some time; vague and unformulated plans that

involved Ginny splitting up with Dean, and Ron

somehow being happy to see her with a new

boyfriend, had been fermenting in the depths of his

brain, unacknowledged except during dreams or the

twilight time between sleeping and waking. …

“Harry? Are you still with us?” asked Hermione.

“Wha — ? Yeah, of course,” he said, pulling himself

together. “Well … okay. If I can’t get Slughorn to talk

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this afternoon, I’ll take some Felix and have another go this evening.”

“That’s decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting

to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette.

“Destination … determination … deliberation …” she

murmured.

“Oh, stop that,” Ron begged her, “I feel sick enough as

it is — quick, hide me!”

“It isn’t Lavender!” said Hermione impatiently, as

another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard and

Ron dived behind her.

“Cool,” said Ron, peering over Hermione’s shoulder to

check. “Blimey, they don’t look happy, do they?”

“They’re the Montgomery sisters and of course they

don’t look happy, didn’t you hear what happened to

their little brother?” said Hermione.

“I’m losing track of what’s happening to everyone’s

relatives, to be honest,” said Ron.

“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The

rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death

Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in

St. Mungo’s, they couldn’t save him.”

“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely

werewolves don’t kill, they just turn you into one of

them?”

“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked

unusually grave now. “I’ve heard of it happening

when the werewolf gets carried away.”

“What was the werewolf’s name?” said Harry quickly.

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“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,”

said Hermione.

“I knew it — the maniac who likes attacking kids, the

one Lupin told me about!” said Harry angrily.

Hermione looked at him bleakly.

“Harry, you’ve got to get that memory,” she said. “It’s

all about stopping Voldemort, isn’t it? These dreadful

things that are happening are all down to him. …”

The bell rang overhead in the castle and both

Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking

terrified.

“You’ll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed

toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people

taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.”

“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look,

as Harry headed off to the dungeons.

There were only three of them in Potions that

afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy.

“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorn

genially. “Not turned seventeen yet?”

They shook their heads.

“Ah well,” said Slughorn cheerily, “as we’re so few,

we’ll do something fun. I want you all to brew me up

something amusing!”

“That sounds good, sir,” said Ernie sycophantically,

rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other

hand, did not crack a smile.

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“What do you mean, ‘something amusing’?” he said

irritably.

“Oh, surprise me,” said Slughorn airily.

Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion-Making

with a sulky expression. It could not have been

plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of

time. Undoubtedly, Harry thought, watching him over

the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the

time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of

Requirement.

Was it his imagination, or did Malfoy, like Tonks, look

thinner? Certainly he looked paler; his skin still had

that grayish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw

daylight these days. But there was no air of

smugness, excitement, or superiority; none of the

swagger that he had had on the Hogwarts Express,

when he had boasted openly of the mission he had

been given by Voldemort. … There could be only one

conclusion, in Harry’s opinion: The mission, whatever

it was, was going badly.

Cheered by this thought, Harry skimmed through his

copy of Advanced Potion-Making and found a heavily

corrected Half-Blood Prince’s version of “An Elixir to

Induce Euphoria,” which seemed not only to meet

Slughorn’s instructions, but which might (Harry’s

heart leapt as the thought struck him) put Slughorn

into such a good mood that he would be prepared to

hand over that memory if Harry could persuade him

to taste some. …

“Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful,” said

Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands

together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow

contents of Harry’s cauldron. “Euphoria, I take it? And

what’s that I smell? Mmmm … you’ve added just a

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sprig of peppermint, haven’t you? Unorthodox, but

what a stroke of inspiration, Harry, of course, that

would tend to counterbalance the occasional side

effects of excessive singing and nose-tweaking. … I

really don’t know where you get these brain waves,

my boy … unless —”

Harry pushed the Half-Blood Prince’s book deeper

into his bag with his foot.

“— it’s just your mother’s genes coming out in you!”

“Oh … yeah, maybe,” said Harry, relieved.

Ernie was looking rather grumpy; determined to

outshine Harry for once, he had most rashly invented

his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind

of purple dumpling at the bottom of his cauldron.

Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn

had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely

“passable.”

The bell rang and both Ernie and Malfoy left at once.

“Sir,” Harry began, but Slughorn immediately glanced

over his shoulder; when he saw that the room was

empty but for himself and Harry, he hurried away as

fast as he could.

“Professor — Professor, don’t you want to taste my po

— ?” called Harry desperately.

But Slughorn had gone. Disappointed, Harry emptied

the cauldron, packed up his things, left the dungeon,

and walked slowly back upstairs to the common

room.

Ron and Hermione returned in the late afternoon.

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“Harry!” cried Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole. “Harry, I passed!”

“Well done!” he said. “And Ron?”

“He — he just failed,” whispered Hermione, as Ron

came slouching into the room looking most morose.

“It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just

spotted that he’d left half an eyebrow behind. … How

did it go with Slughorn?”

“No joy,” said Harry, as Ron joined them. “Bad luck,

mate, but you’ll pass next time — we can take it

together.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Ron grumpily. “But half an

eyebrow! Like that matters!”

“I know,” said Hermione soothingly, “it does seem

really harsh. …”

They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the

Apparition examiner, and Ron looked fractionally

more cheerful by the time they set off back to the

common room, now discussing the continuing

problem of Slughorn and the memory.

“So, Harry — you going to use the Felix Felicis or

what?” Ron demanded.

“Yeah, I s’pose I’d better,” said Harry. “I don’t reckon

I’ll need all of it, not twelve hours’ worth, it can’t take

all night. … I’ll just take a mouthful. Two or three

hours should do it.”

“It’s a great feeling when you take it,” said Ron

reminiscently. “Like you can’t do anything wrong.”

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“What are you talking about?” said Hermione,

laughing. “You’ve never taken any!”

“Yeah, but I thought I had, didn’t I?” said Ron, as

though explaining the obvious. “Same difference

really …”

As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great

Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals,

they lingered for a while in the common room, the

plan being that Harry should go to Slughorn’s office

once the teacher had had time to get back there.

When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in

the Forbidden Forest, they decided the moment had

come, and after checking carefully that Neville, Dean,

and Seamus were all in the common room, sneaked

up to the boys’ dormitory.

Harry took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of

his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle.

“Well, here goes,” said Harry, and he raised the little

bottle and took a carefully measured gulp.

“What does it feel like?” whispered Hermione.

Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but

surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity

stole through him; he felt as though he could have

done anything, anything at all … and getting the

memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only

possible, but positively easy. …

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence.

“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent. Right … I’m

going down to Hagrid’s.”

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“What?” said Ron and Hermione together, looking

aghast.

“No, Harry — you’ve got to go and see Slughorn,

remember?” said Hermione.

“No,” said Harry confidently. “I’m going to Hagrid’s,

I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.”

“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant

spider?” asked Ron, looking stunned.

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of

his bag. “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you

know what I mean?”

“No,” said Ron and Hermione together, both looking

positively alarmed now.

“This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?” said Hermione

anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. “You

haven’t got another little bottle full of— I don’t know

—”

“Essence of Insanity?” suggested Ron, as Harry

swung his cloak over his shoulders.

Harry laughed, and Ron and Hermione looked even

more alarmed.

“Trust me,” he said. “I know what I’m doing … or at

least” — he strolled confidently to the door — “Felix

does.”

He pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head and set

off down the stairs, Ron and Hermione hurrying along

behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid

through the open door.

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“What were you doing up there with her?” shrieked Lavender Brown, staring right through Harry at Ron

and Hermione emerging together from the boys’

dormitories. Harry heard Ron spluttering behind him

as he darted across the room away from them.

Getting through the portrait hole was simple; as he

approached it, Ginny and Dean came through it, and

Harry was able to slip between them. As he did so, he

brushed accidentally against Ginny.

“Don’t push me, please, Dean,” she said, sounding

annoyed. “You’re always doing that, I can get through

perfectly well on my own. …”

The portrait swung closed behind Harry, but not

before he had heard Dean make an angry retort. …

His feeling of elation increasing, Harry strode off

through the castle. He did not have to creep along, for

he met nobody on his way, but this did not surprise

him in the slightest: This evening, he was the luckiest

person at Hogwarts.

Why he knew that going to Hagrid’s was the right

thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the

potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a

time: He could not see the final destination, he could

not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he

was going the right way to get that memory. When he

reached the entrance hall he saw that Filch had

forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Harry threw

it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and

grass for a moment before walking down the steps

into the dusk.

It was when he reached the bottom step that it

occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass

the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid’s. It was not

strictly on the way, but it seemed clear to Harry that

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this was a whim on which he should act, so he

directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable

patch, where he was pleased, but not altogether

surprised, to find Professor Slughorn in conversation

with Professor Sprout. Harry lurked behind a low

stone wall, feeling at peace with the world and

listening to their conversation.

“I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona,”

Slughorn was saying courteously, “most authorities

agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked

at twilight.”

“Oh, I quite agree,” said Professor Sprout warmly.

“That enough for you?”

“Plenty, plenty,” said Slughorn, who, Harry saw, was

carrying an armful of leafy plants. “This should allow

for a few leaves for each of my third years, and some

to spare if anybody over-stews them. … Well, good

evening to you, and many thanks again!”

Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering

darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and

Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Harry

stood, invisible.

Seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself,

Harry pulled off the cloak with a flourish.

“Good evening, Professor.”

“Merlin’s beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said

Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking

wary. “How did you get out of the castle?”

“I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,”

said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see

Slughorn scowl.

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“I’ll be reporting that man, he’s more concerned about litter than proper security if you ask me. … But why

are you out here, Harry?”

“Well, sir, it’s Hagrid,” said Harry, who knew that the

right thing to do just now was to tell the truth. “He’s

pretty upset. … But you won’t tell anyone, Professor?

I don’t want trouble for him. …”

Slughorn’s curiosity was evidently aroused. “Well, I

can’t promise that,” he said gruffly. “But I know that

Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I’m sure he

can’t be up to anything very dreadful. …”

“Well, it’s this giant spider, he’s had it for years. … It

lived in the forest. … It could talk and everything —”

“I heard rumors there were acromantulas in the

forest,” said Slughorn softly, looking over at the mass

of black trees. “It’s true, then?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But this one, Aragog, the first one

Hagrid ever got, it died last night. He’s devastated. He

wants company while he buries it and I said I’d go.”

“Touching, touching,” said Slughorn absentmindedly,

his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of

Hagrid’s cabin. “But acromantula venom is very

valuable … If the beast only just died it might not yet

have dried out. … Of course, I wouldn’t want to do

anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset … but if there

was any way to procure some … I mean, it’s almost

impossible to get venom from an acromantula while

it’s alive. …”

Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than

Harry now.

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“… seems an awful waste not to collect it … might get a hundred Galleons a pint. … To be frank, my salary

is not large. …”

And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done.

“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy,

“well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would

probably be really pleased. … Give Aragog a better

send-off, you know …”

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now

gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I’ll

meet you down there with a bottle or two. … We’ll

drink the poor beast’s — well — not health — but

we’ll send it off in style, anyway, once it’s buried. And

I’ll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the

occasion. …”

He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to

Hagrid’s, delighted with himself.

“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door

and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in

front of him.

“Yeah — Ron and Hermione couldn’t, though,” said

Harry. “They’re really sorry.”

“Don’ — don’ matter … He’d’ve bin touched yeh’re

here, though, Harry. …”

Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black

armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot

polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen.

Harry patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was

the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach.

“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?”

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“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let

me anywhere near their webs now Aragog’s gone.

Turns out it was on’y on his orders they didn’ eat me!

Can yeh believe that, Harry?”

The honest answer was “yes”; Harry recalled with

painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come

face-to-face with the acromantulas: They had been

quite clear that Aragog was the only thing that

stopped them from eating Hagrid.

“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!”

said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’

Aragog’s body out o’ there, I can tell yeh — they

usually eat their dead, see. … But I wanted ter give

’im a nice burial … a proper send-off …”

He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the

patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the

potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing

to do), “Professor Slughorn met me coming down

here, Hagrid.”

“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up,

alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the

evenin’, I know it, it’s my fault —”

“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he’d

like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,”

said Harry. “He’s gone to change into something more

suitable, I think … and he said he’d bring some

bottles so we can drink to Aragog’s memory. …

“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and

touched. “Tha’s — tha’s righ’ nice of him, that is, an’

not turnin’ yeh in either. I’ve never really had a lot ter

do with Horace Slughorn before. … Comin’ ter see old

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Aragog off, though, eh? Well … he’d’ve liked that, Aragog would. …”

Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have

liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of

edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the

rear window of Hagrid’s hut, where he saw the rather

horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its

back outside, its legs curled and tangled.

“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your

garden?”

“Jus’ beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought,” said

Hagrid in a choked voice. “I’ve already dug the — yeh

know — grave. Jus’ thought we’d say a few nice

things over him — happy memories, yeh know —”

His voice quivered and broke. There was a knock on

the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose

on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so.

Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles

in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat.

“Hagrid,” he said, in a deep, grave voice. “So very

sorry to hear of your loss.”

“Tha’s very nice of yeh,” said Hagrid. “Thanks a lot.

An’ thanks fer not givin’ Harry detention neither. …”

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” said Slughorn. “Sad

night, sad night … Where is the poor creature?”

“Out here,” said Hagrid in a shaking voice. “Shall we

— shall we do it, then?”

The three of them stepped out into the back garden.

The moon was glistening palely through the trees

now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from

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Hagrid’s window to illuminate Aragog’s body lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot-high

mound of freshly dug earth.

“Magnificent,” said Slughorn, approaching the

spider’s head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly

at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone,

motionless, in the moonlight. Harry thought he heard

the tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the

pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy

head.

“It’s not ev’ryone appreciates how beau’iful they are,”

said Hagrid to Slughorn’s back, tears leaking from the

corners of his crinkled eyes. “I didn’ know yeh were

int’rested in creatures like Aragog, Horace.”

“Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them,” said

Slughorn, stepping back from the body. Harry saw

the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak,

though Hagrid, mopping his eyes once more, noticed

nothing. “Now … shall we proceed to the burial?”

Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the

gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous

grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with

a rather horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry

again.

“Of course, it’s difficult for you, who knew him best,”

said Slughorn, who like Harry could reach no higher

than Hagrid’s elbow, but patted it all the same. “Why

don’t I say a few words?”

He must have got a lot of good quality venom from

Aragog, Harry thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied

smirk as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said,

in a slow, impressive voice, “Farewell, Aragog, king of

arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those

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who knew you won’t forget! Though your body will

decay, your spirit lingers on in the quiet, web-spun

places of your forest home. May your many-eyed

descendants ever flourish and your human friends

find solace for the loss they have sustained.”

“Tha’ was … tha’ was … beau’iful!” howled Hagrid,

and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying

harder than ever.

“There, there,” said Slughorn, waving his wand so

that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with

a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming

a smooth mound. “Let’s get inside and have a drink.

Get on his other side, Harry. … That’s it. … Up you

come, Hagrid … Well done …”

They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang,

who had been skulking in his basket during the

burial, now came padding softly across to them and

put his heavy head into Harry’s lap as usual.

Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had

brought.

“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry,

pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid’s

bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a

house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to

your poor friend Rupert.”

Harry saw, in his mind’s eye, the expression on

Hermione’s face if she ever heard about this abuse of

house-elves, and decided never to mention it to her.

“One for Harry …” said Slughorn, dividing a second

bottle between two mugs, “… and one for me. Well” —

he raised his mug high — “to Aragog.”

“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together.

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Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry,

however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by

Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he

merely pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug

back on the table before him.

“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid

morosely. “Tiny little thing he was when he hatched.

’Bout the size of a Pekingese.”

“Sweet,” said Slughorn.

“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school

until … well …”

Hagrid’s face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom

Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of

school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets.

Slughorn, however, did not seem to be listening; he

was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of

brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright

white hair.

“That’s never unicorn hair, Hagrid?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out

of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the

forest, yeh know …”

“But my dear chap, do you know how much that’s

worth?”

“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature

gets injured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It’s dead useful

… very strong, see.”

Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug,

his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now,

looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might

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be able to convert into a plentiful supply of oak-

matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet

smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid’s mug and his

own, and questioned him about the creatures that

lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was

able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming

expansive under the influence of the drink and

Slughorn’s flattering interest, stopped mopping his

eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of

bowtruckle husbandry.

The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this

point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that

Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry

had not yet managed to bring off the Refilling Charm

without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea

that he might not be able to do it tonight was

laughable: Indeed, Harry grinned to himself as,

unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now

swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he

pointed his wand under the table at the emptying

bottles and they immediately began to refill.

After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began

making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to

Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to —

“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his

fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he

drained it.

“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry

Otter, the Chosen Boy Who — well — something of

that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too.

Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and

pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who

pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity!

To ten Galleons a hair!”

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And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing

a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.

“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid,

slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while

Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad

was no age ter go … nor were yer mum an’ dad,

Harry…”

Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid’s

crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry’s arm and

shook it.

“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew …

terrible thing … terrible thing …”

And Odo the hero, they bore him back home

To the place that he’d known as a lad,

sang Slughorn plaintively.

They laid him to rest with his hat inside out

And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.

“… terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy

head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep,

snoring deeply.

“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can’t carry a

tune to save my life.”

“Hagrid wasn’t talking about your singing,” said Harry

quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad

dying.”

“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh

dear. Yes, that was — was terrible indeed. Terrible …

terrible …”

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He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs.

“I don’t — don’t suppose you remember it, Harry?” he

asked awkwardly.

“No — well, I was only one when they died,” said

Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in

Hagrid’s heavy snores. “But I’ve found out pretty

much what happened since. My dad died first. Did

you know that?”

“I — I didn’t,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice.

“Yeah … Voldemort murdered him and then stepped

over his body toward my mum,” said Harry.

Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem

able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry’s face.

“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry

remorselessly. “He told me she needn’t have died. He

only wanted me. She could have run.”

“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have … she

needn’t … That’s awful. …”

“It is, isn’t it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than

a whisper. “But she didn’t move. Dad was already

dead, but she didn’t want me to go too. She tried to

plead with Voldemort … but he just laughed. …”

“That’s enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a

shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough … I’m an

old man … I don’t need to hear … I don’t want to hear

…”

“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on.

“You liked her, didn’t you?”

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“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. “I don’t imagine anyone who met her

wouldn’t have liked her. … Very brave … Very funny

… It was the most horrible thing. …”

“But you won’t help her son,” said Harry. “She gave

me her life, but you won’t give me a memory.”

Hagrid’s rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry

looked steadily into Slughorn’s tear-filled eyes. The

Potions master seemed unable to look away.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “It isn’t a question …

If it were to help you, of course … but no purpose can

be served …”

“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs

information. I need information.”

He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that

Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the

morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry

leaned forward a little.

“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that

memory.”

Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead

gleamed with sweat.

“You are the Chosen One?”

“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly.

“But then … my dear boy … you’re asking a great deal

… you’re asking me, in fact, to aid you in your

attempt to destroy —”

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“You don’t want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?”

“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —”

“You’re scared he’ll find out you helped me?”

Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified.

“Be brave like my mother, Professor. …”

Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his

shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment

like an enormously overgrown baby.

“I am not proud …” he whispered through his fingers.

“I am ashamed of what — of what that memory

shows. … I think I may have done great damage that

day. …”

“You’d cancel out anything you did by giving me the

memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and

noble thing to do.”

Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn

and Harry stared at each other over the guttering

candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix

Felicis told Harry not to break it, to wait.

Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his

pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other

hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty

bottle. Still looking into Harry’s eyes, Slughorn

touched the tip of his wand to his temple and

withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory

came away too, clinging to the wand tip. Longer and

longer the memory stretched until it broke and

swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn

lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread,

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swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a

trembling hand and then passed it across the table to

Harry.

“Thank you very much, Professor.”

“You’re a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears

trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus

mustache. “And you’ve got her eyes. … Just don’t

think too badly of me once you’ve seen it. …”

And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep

sigh, and fell asleep.

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HORCRUXES

Harry could feel the Felix Felicis wearing off as he

crept back into the castle. The front door had

remained unlocked for him, but on the third floor he

met Peeves and only narrowly avoided detection by

diving sideways through one of his shortcuts. By the

time he got up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and

pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, he was not surprised

to find her in a most unhelpful mood.

“What sort of time do you call this?”

“I’m really sorry — I had to go out for something

important —”

“Well, the password changed at midnight, so you’ll

just have to sleep in the corridor, won’t you?”

“You’re joking!” said Harry. “Why did it have to

change at midnight?”

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“That’s the way it is,” said the Fat Lady. “If you’re angry, go and take it up with the headmaster, he’s the

one who’s tightened security.”

“Fantastic,” said Harry bitterly, looking around at the

hard floor. “Really brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take

it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he’s

the one who wanted me to —”

“He is here,” said a voice behind Harry. “Professor

Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago.”

Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his

head wobbling as usual upon his ruff.

“I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive,”

said Nick. “He appeared, according to the Baron, to be

in good spirits, though a little tired, of course.”

“Where is he?” said Harry, his heart leaping.

“Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy

Tower, it’s a favorite pastime of his —”

“Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!”

“Oh — in his office,” said Nick. “I believe, from what

the Baron said, that he had business to attend to

before turning in —”

“Yeah, he has,” said Harry, excitement blazing in his

chest at the prospect of telling Dumbledore he had

secured the memory. He wheeled about and sprinted

off again, ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after

him.

“Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke

me up! The password’s still ‘tapeworm’!”

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But Harry was already hurtling back along the

corridor and within minutes, he was saying “toffee

éclairs” to Dumbledore’s gargoyle, which leapt aside,

permitting Harry entrance onto the spiral staircase.

“Enter,” said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He

sounded exhausted.

Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore’s

office, looking the same as ever, but with black, star-

strewn skies beyond the windows.

“Good gracious, Harry,” said Dumbledore in surprise.

“To what do I owe this very late pleasure?”

“Sir — I’ve got it. I’ve got the memory from Slughorn.”

Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to

Dumbledore. For a moment or two, the headmaster

looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile.

“Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done

indeed! I knew you could do it!”

All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently

forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle

with Slughorn’s memory in his uninjured hand, and

strode over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve.

“And now,” said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin

upon his desk and emptying the contents of the bottle

into it. “Now, at last, we shall see. Harry, quickly …”

Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his

feet leave the office floor. … Once again he fell

through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn’s

office many years before.

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There was the much younger Slughorn, with his

thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond

mustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged

armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet

pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other

rummaging in a box of crystalized pineapple. And

there were the half-dozen teenage boys sitting around

Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them,

Marvolo’s gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.

Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle

asked, “Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is

retiring?”

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said

Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle,

though winking at the same time. “I must say, I’d like

to know where you get your information, boy, more

knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him

admiring looks.

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you

shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who

matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way,

you’re quite right, it is my favorite —”

Several of the boys tittered again.

“— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of

Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep

sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the

Ministry.”

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed

again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the

eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed

to look to him as their leader.

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“I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the

right kind of background, for one thing.”

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each

other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private

joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or

suspected, regarding their gang leader’s famous

ancestor.

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn briskly, “couldn’t be

plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock,

abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never

been wrong about a student yet.”

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s

desk chimed eleven o’clock behind him and he looked

around.

“Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better

get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I

want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same

goes for you, Avery.”

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn

heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his

empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him

made him look around; Riddle was still standing

there.

“Look sharp, Tom, you don’t want to be caught out of

bed out of hours, and you a prefect …”

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. …”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about … about

Horcruxes?”

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Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers

absentmindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass.

“Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?”

But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well

that this was not schoolwork.

“Not exactly, sir,” said Riddle. “I came across the term

while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”

“No … well … you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at

Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom,

that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” said

Slughorn.

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean,

a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me,

obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you

could — so I just thought I’d ask —”

It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy,

the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it

overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of

trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people

not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that

Riddle wanted the information very, very much;

perhaps had been working toward this moment for

weeks.

“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but

fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of

crystalized pineapple, “well, it can’t hurt to give you

an overview, of course. Just so that you understand

the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in

which a person has concealed part of their soul.”

“I don’t quite understand how that works, though,

sir,” said Riddle.

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His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn,

“and hide part of it in an object outside the body.

Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one

cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound

and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a

form …”

Slughorn’s face crumpled and Harry found himself

remembering words he had heard nearly two years

before: “I was ripped from my body, I was less than

spirit, less than the meanest ghost … but still, I was

alive. ”

“… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be

preferable.”

But Riddle’s hunger was now apparent; his

expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his

longing.

“How do you split your soul?”

“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must

understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact

and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is

against nature.”

“But how do you do it?”

“By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By

committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The

wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the

damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn

portion —”

“Encase? But how — ?”

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“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know!” said Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant

bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have

tried it — do I look like a killer?”

“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I’m sorry

… I didn’t mean to offend …”

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn

gruffly. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these

things. … Wizards of a certain caliber have always

been drawn to that aspect of magic. …”

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand,

though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one

Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul

once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to

have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance,

isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number,

wouldn’t seven — ?”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t

it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in

any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to

rip it into seven pieces …”

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing

at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly

before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting

entering into the conversation at all.

“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical,

what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic …”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly.

“But all the same, Tom … keep it quiet, what I’ve told

— that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People

wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about

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Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you

know. … Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it. …”

“I won’t say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but

not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was

full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he

had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of

happiness that did not enhance his handsome

features, but made them, somehow, less human. …

“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us

go. …”

When Harry landed back on the office floor

Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his

desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to

speak.

“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a

very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms

the theory on which I have been working, it tells me

that I am right, and also how very far there is still to

go. …”

Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the

old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits

around the walls was awake and listening in on their

conversation. A corpulent, red-nosed wizard had

actually taken out an ear trumpet.

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you

understood the significance of what we just heard. At

the same age as you are now, give or take a few

months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out

how to make himself immortal.”

“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He

made a Horcrux? And that’s why he didn’t die when

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he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden

somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?”

“A bit … or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard

Voldemort: What he particularly wanted from Horace

was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard

who created more than one Horcrux, what would

happen to the wizard so determined to evade death

that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip

his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many,

separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have

given him that information. As far as I know — as far,

I am sure, as Voldemort knew — no wizard had ever

done more than tear his soul in two.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his

thoughts, and then said, “Four years ago, I received

what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had

split his soul.”

“Where?” asked Harry “How?”

“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The

diary, Riddle’s diary, the one giving instructions on

how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Harry.

“Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out

of the diary, what you described to me was a

phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory

starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory,

sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had

fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived

inside that book. … a fragment of soul, I was almost

sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this

raised as many questions as it answered.

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“What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that

diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a

safeguard.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Harry.

“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work —

in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside

it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part

in preventing the death of its owner. But there could

be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read,

wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess

somebody else, so that Slytherin’s monster would be

unleashed again.”

“Well, he didn’t want his hard work to be wasted,”

said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was

Slytherin’s heir, because he couldn’t take credit at the

time.”

“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don’t

you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be

passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts

student, he was being remarkably blasé about that

precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The

point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn

explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe,

not to fling it into somebody else’s path and run the

risk that they might destroy it — as indeed happened:

That particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw

to that.

“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this

Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested

that he must have made — or been planning to make

— more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would

not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but

nothing else seemed to make sense.

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“Then you told me, two years later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most

illuminating and alarming statement to his Death

Eaters. ‘ I, who have gone further than anybody along

the path that leads to immortality. ’ That was what you

told me he said. ‘ Further than anybody, ’ And I thought

I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did

not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in

the plural, Harry, which I do not believe any other

wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldemort has

seemed to grow less human with the passing years,

and the transformation he has undergone seemed to

me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated

beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’

…”

“So he’s made himself impossible to kill by murdering

other people?” said Harry. “Why couldn’t he make a

Sorcerer’s Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested

in immortality?”

“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years

ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons

why, I think, a Sorcerer’s Stone would appeal less

than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.

“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it

must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker

is to maintain their immortality. Therefore, Voldemort

would be entirely dependent on the Elixir, and if it

ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was

stolen, he would die just like any other man.

Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe

that he would have found the thought of being

dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course

he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of

the horrible part-life to which he was condemned

after attacking you, but only to regain a body.

Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to

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rely on his Horcruxes: He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already

immortal, you see … or as close to immortal as any

man can be.

“But now, Harry, armed with this information, the

crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for

us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord

Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You

heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn’t it be better, make you

stronger, to have your soul in more pieces … isn’t

seven the most powerfully magical number …’ Isn’t

seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I

think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly

appeal to Lord Voldemort.”

“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Harry, horror-

struck, while several of the portraits on the walls

made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they

could be anywhere in the world — hidden — buried or

invisible —”

“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the

problem,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But firstly, no,

Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of

his soul, however maimed, resides inside his

regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived

a spectral existence for so many years during his

exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh

piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to

kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in

his body.”

“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little

desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?”

“You are forgetting … you have already destroyed one

of them. And I have destroyed another.”

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“You have?” said Harry eagerly.

“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his

blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry.

Marvolo’s ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it

too. Had it not been — forgive me the lack of seemly

modesty — for my own prodigious skill, and for

Professor Snape’s timely action when I returned to

Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived

to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not

seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of

Voldemort’s soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux.”

“But how did you find it?”

“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made

it my business to discover as much as I can about

Voldemort’s past life. I have traveled widely, visiting

those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring

hidden in the ruin of the Gaunts’ house. It seems that

once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of

his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore.

He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments,

in the shack where his ancestors had once lived

(Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, of course),

never guessing that I might one day take the trouble

to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye

open for traces of magical concealment.

“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too

heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if

we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four

Horcruxes remain.”

“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They

could be old tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion

bottles. …”

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“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord

Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard

his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have

showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies,

and he preferred objects with a powerful magical

history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority,

his determination to carve for himself a startling place

in magical history; these things suggest to me that

Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with

some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.”

“The diary wasn’t that special.”

“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that

he was the Heir of Slytherin; I am sure that

Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.”

“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Harry. “Do you think

you know what they are, sir?”

“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons

I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort

would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a

certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back

through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence

that such artifacts have disappeared around him.”

“The locket!” said Harry loudly. “Hufflepuff’s cup!”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared

to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple

of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and

four. The remaining two, assuming again that he

created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will

hazard a guess that, having secured objects from

Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down

objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four

objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have

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exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort’s imagination.

I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find

anything of Ravenclaw’s. I am confident, however,

that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe.”

Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall

behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed

within a glass case.

“Do you think that’s why he really wanted to come

back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Harry. “To try and find

something from one of the other founders?”

“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But

unfortunately, that does not advance us much

further, for he was turned away, or so I believe,

without the chance to search the school. I am forced

to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of

collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two

— he may have found three — that is the best we can

do for now.”

“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw’s or of

Gryffindor’s, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry,

counting on his fingers. “Unless he got both?”

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know

what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say

when I confess that I have been curious for a while

about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?”

“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use

animals as Horcruxes?”

“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore,

“because to confide a part of your soul to something

that can think and move for itself is obviously a very

risky business. However, if my calculations are

correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short

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of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the intention of killing you.

“He seems to have reserved the process of making

Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You

would certainly have been that. He believed that in

killing you, he was destroying the danger the

prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making

himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to

make his final Horcrux with your death.

“As we know, he failed. After an interval of some

years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle

man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn

her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the

Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord

Voldemort’s mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of

her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to

keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual

amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.”

“So,” said Harry, “the diary’s gone, the ring’s gone.

The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact,

and you think there might be a Horcrux that was

once Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor’s?”

“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,”

said Dumbledore, bowing his head.

“So … are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where

you’ve been going when you’ve been leaving the

school?”

“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a

very long time. I think … perhaps … I may be close to

finding another one. There are hopeful signs.”

“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with

you and help get rid of it?”

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Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a

moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.”

“I can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think

you have earned that right.”

Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear

words of caution and protection for once. The

headmasters and headmistresses around the walls

seemed less impressed by Dumbledore’s decision;

Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and

Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.

“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed,

sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked, ignoring the

portraits.

“A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I

believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil,

and these crucial parts of himself have been detached

for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the

point of death, he might be aware of his loss … but he

was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been

destroyed until he forced the truth out of Lucius

Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary

had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am

told that his anger was terrible to behold.”

“But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it

into Hogwarts?”

“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would

be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was

supposed to wait for Voldemort’s say-so, and he never

received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving

him the diary.

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“No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it

carefully, but he was counting too much upon

Lucius’s fear of a master who had been gone for years

and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius

did not know what the diary really was. I understand

that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause

the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was

cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius known he held a

portion of his master’s soul in his hands, he would

undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence —

but instead he went ahead and carried out the old

plan for his own ends: By planting the diary upon

Arthur Weasley’s daughter, he hoped to discredit

Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical

object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius … what with

Voldemort’s fury about the fact that he threw away

the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the

Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is

not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the

moment.”

Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if

all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be

killed?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his

Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a

maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though,

that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair,

his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will

take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like

Voldemort even without his Horcruxes.”

“But I haven’t got uncommon skill and power,” said

Harry, before he could stop himself.

“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a

power that Voldemort has never had. You can —”

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“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding,

“Big deal!”

“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who

looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry

had just refrained from saying. “Which, given

everything that has happened to you, is a great and

remarkable thing. You are still too young to

understand how unusual you are, Harry.”

“So, when the prophecy says that I’ll have ‘power the

Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means — love?” asked

Harry, feeling a little let down.

“Yes — just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never

forget that what the prophecy says is only significant

because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the

end of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the

person who would be most dangerous to him — and

in doing so, he made you the person who would be

most dangerous to him!”

“But it comes to the same —”

“No, it doesn’t!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient

now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand,

he said, “You are setting too much store by the

prophecy!”

“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy

means —”

“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would

it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything?

Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the

Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?”

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“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —”

“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave

error, and acted on Professor Trelawney’s words! If

Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he

have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of

course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for

you, would he have given you a magical protection he

could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don’t you

see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just

as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how

much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of

them realize that, one day, amongst their many

victims, there is sure to be one who rises against

them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different!

Always he was on the lookout for the one who would

challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt

into action, with the result that he not only

handpicked the man most likely to finish him, he

handed him uniquely deadly weapons!”

“But —”

“It is essential that you understand this!” said

Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the

room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake;

Harry had never seen him so agitated. “By attempting

to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the

remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and

gave him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort’s fault

that you were able to see into his thoughts, his

ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike

language in which he gives orders, and yet, Harry,

despite your privileged insight into Voldemort’s world

(which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater would

kill to have), you have never been seduced by the

Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the

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slightest desire to become one of Voldemort’s

followers!”

“Of course I haven’t!” said Harry indignantly. “He

killed my mum and dad!”

“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!”

said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can

possibly work against the lure of power like

Voldemort’s! In spite of all the temptation you have

endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart,

just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when

you stared into a mirror that reflected your heart’s

desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord

Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have

you any idea how few wizards could have seen what

you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have

known then what he was dealing with, but he did not!

“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord

Voldemort’s mind without damage to yourself, but he

cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony,

as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not think he

understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a

hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to

understand the incomparable power of a soul that is

untarnished and whole.”

“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to

sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing,

doesn’t it? I’ve got to try and kill him, or —”

“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you’ve got to!

But not because of the prophecy! Because you,

yourself, will never rest until you’ve tried! We both

know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you

had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel

about Voldemort now? Think!”

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Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in

front of him, and thought. He thought of his mother,

his father, and Sirius. He thought of Cedric Diggory.

He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Lord

Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside

his chest, searing his throat.

“I’d want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I’d

want to do it.”

“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see,

the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything!

But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you

as his equal. … In other words, you are free to choose

your way, quite free to turn your back on the

prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the

prophecy. He will continue to hunt you … which

makes it certain, really, that —”

“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,”

said Harry. “Yes.”

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been

trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference

between being dragged into the arena to face a battle

to the death and walking into the arena with your

head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that

there was little to choose between the two ways, but

Dumbledore knew — and so do I, thought Harry, with

a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents — that

there was all the difference in the world.

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SECTUMSEMPRA

Exhausted but delighted with his night’s work, Harry

told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened

during next morning’s Charms lesson (having first

cast the Muffliato spell upon those nearest them).

They were both satisfyingly impressed by the way he

had wheedled the memory out of Slughorn and

positively awed when he told them about Voldemort’s

Horcruxes and Dumbledore’s promise to take Harry

along, should he find another one.

“Wow,” said Ron, when Harry had finally finished

telling them everything; Ron was waving his wand

very vaguely in the direction of the ceiling without

paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was

doing. “Wow. You’re actually going to go with

Dumbledore … and try and destroy … wow.”

“Ron, you’re making it snow,” said Hermione

patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand

away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large

white flakes had started to fall. Lavender Brown,

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Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighboring table through very red eyes, and Hermione

immediately let go of Ron’s arm.

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in

vague surprise. “Sorry … looks like we’ve all got

horrible dandruff now. …”

He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermione’s

shoulder. Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked

immensely guilty and turned his back on her.

“We split up,” he told Harry out of the corner of his

mouth. “Last night. When she saw me coming out of

the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn’t

see you, so she thought it had just been the two of

us.”

“Ah,” said Harry. “Well — you don’t mind it’s over, do

you?”

“No,” Ron admitted. “It was pretty bad while she was

yelling, but at least I didn’t have to finish it.”

“Coward,” said Hermione, though she looked amused.

“Well, it was a bad night for romance all around.

Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry.”

Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her

eye as she told him that, but she could not possibly

know that his insides were suddenly dancing the

conga. Keeping his face as immobile and his voice as

indifferent as he could, he asked, “How come?”

“Oh, something really silly … She said he was always

trying to help her through the portrait hole, like she

couldn’t climb in herself … but they’ve been a bit

rocky for ages.”

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Harry glanced over at Dean on the other side of the classroom. He certainly looked unhappy.

“Of course, this puts you in a bit of a dilemma,

doesn’t it?” said Hermione.

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly.

“The Quidditch team,” said Hermione. “If Ginny and

Dean aren’t speaking …”

“Oh — oh yeah,” said Harry.

“Flitwick,” said Ron in a warning tone. The tiny little

Charms master was bobbing his way toward them,

and Hermione was the only one who had managed to

turn vinegar into wine; her glass flask was full of deep

crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry’s and

Ron’s were still murky brown.

“Now, now, boys,” squeaked Professor Flitwick

reproachfully. “A little less talk, a little more action …

Let me see you try. …”

Together they raised their wands, concentrating with

all their might, and pointed them at their flasks.

Harry’s vinegar turned to ice; Ron’s flask exploded.

“Yes … for homework,” said Professor Flitwick,

reemerging from under the table and pulling shards

of glass out of the top of his hat, “practice. ”

They had one of their rare joint free periods after

Charms and walked back to the common room

together. Ron seemed to be positively lighthearted

about the end of his relationship with Lavender, and

Hermione seemed cheery too, though when asked

what she was grinning about she simply said, “It’s a

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nice day.” Neither of them seemed to have noticed

that a fierce battle was raging inside Harry’s brain:

She’s Ron’s sister.

But she’s ditched Dean!

She’s still Ron’s sister.

I’m his best mate!

That’ll make it worse.

If I talked to him first —

He’d hit you.

What if I don’t care?

He’s your best mate!

Harry barely noticed that they were climbing through

the portrait hole into the sunny common room, and

only vaguely registered the small group of seventh

years clustered together there, until Hermione cried,

“Katie! You’re back! Are you okay?”

Harry stared: It was indeed Katie Bell, looking

completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant

friends.

“I’m really well!” she said happily. “They let me out of

St. Mungo’s on Monday, I had a couple of days at

home with Mum and Dad and then came back here

this morning. Leanne was just telling me about

McLaggen and the last match, Harry. …”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “well, now you’re back and Ron’s

fit, we’ll have a decent chance of thrashing

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Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the

running for the Cup. Listen, Katie …”

He had to put the question to her at once; his

curiosity even drove Ginny temporarily from his

brain. He dropped his voice as Katie’s friends started

gathering up their things; apparently they were late

for Transfiguration.

“… that necklace … can you remember who gave it to

you now?”

“No,” said Katie, shaking her head ruefully.

“Everyone’s been asking me, but I haven’t got a clue.

The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies’

in the Three Broomsticks.”

“You definitely went into the bathroom, then?” said

Hermione.

“Well, I know I pushed open the door,” said Katie, “so

I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just

behind it. After that, my memory’s a blank until

about two weeks ago in St. Mungo’s. Listen, I’d better

go, I wouldn’t put it past McGonagall to give me lines

even if it is my first day back. …”

She caught up her bag and books and hurried after

her friends, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to sit

down at a window table and ponder what she had told

them.

“So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave

Katie the necklace,” said Hermione, “to be in the

ladies’ bathroom.”

“Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman,” said

Harry. “Don’t forget, there was a cauldron full of

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Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. We know some of it got stolen. …”

In his mind’s eye, he watched a parade of Crabbes

and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls.

“I think I’m going to take another swig of Felix,” said

Harry, “and have a go at the Room of Requirement

again.”

“That would be a complete waste of potion,” said

Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of Spellman’s

Syllabary she had just taken out of her bag. “Luck

can only get you so far, Harry. The situation with

Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to

persuade him, you just needed to tweak the

circumstances a bit. Luck isn’t enough to get you

through a powerful enchantment, though. Don’t go

wasting the rest of that potion! You’ll need all the luck

you can get if Dumbledore takes you along with him

…” She dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Couldn’t we make some more?” Ron asked Harry,

ignoring Hermione. “It’d be great to have a stock of it.

… Have a look in the book …”

Harry pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out

of his bag and looked up Felix Felicis.

“Blimey, it’s seriously complicated,” he said, running

an eye down the list of ingredients. “And it takes six

months … You’ve got to let it stew. …”

“Typical,” said Ron.

Harry was about to put his book away again when he

noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning to

it, he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned “For

Enemies,” that he had marked a few weeks

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previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around

Hermione, but he was considering trying it out on

McLaggen next time he came up behind him

unawares.

The only person who was not particularly pleased to

see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas,

because he would no longer be required to fill her

place as Chaser. He took the blow stoically enough

when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging,

but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked away

that Dean and Seamus were muttering mutinously

behind his back.

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch

practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was

so pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have

Katie back at last, that they were flying extremely

well.

Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup

with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul

of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing

up and down in front of the goal posts as the Quaffle

sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at

McLaggen before being knocked out cold, kept them

all highly amused. Harry, laughing with the others,

was glad to have an innocent reason to look at Ginny;

he had received several more Bludger injuries during

practice because he had not been keeping his eyes on

the Snitch.

The battle still raged inside his head: Ginny or Ron?

Sometimes he thought that the post-Lavender Ron

might not mind too much if he asked Ginny out, but

then he remembered Ron’s expression when he had

seen her kissing Dean, and was sure that Ron would

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consider it base treachery if Harry so much as held her hand. …

Yet Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny,

laughing with her, walking back from practice with

her; however much his conscience ached, he found

himself wondering how best to get her on her own. It

would have been ideal if Slughorn had given another

of his little parties, for Ron would not be around —

but unfortunately, Slughorn seemed to have given

them up. Once or twice Harry considered asking for

Hermione’s help, but he did not think he could stand

seeing the smug look on her face; he thought he

caught it sometimes when Hermione spotted him

staring at Ginny or laughing at her jokes. And to

complicate matters, he had the nagging worry that if

he didn’t do it, somebody else was sure to ask Ginny

out soon: He and Ron were at least agreed on the fact

that she was too popular for her own good.

All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix

Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for surely

this was a case for, as Hermione put it, “tweaking the

circumstances”? The balmy days slid gently through

May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry’s shoulder

every time he saw Ginny. Harry found himself longing

for a stroke of luck that would somehow cause Ron to

realize that nothing would make him happier than his

best friend and his sister falling for each other and to

leave them alone together for longer than a few

seconds. There seemed no chance of either while the

final Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron

wanted to talk tactics with Harry all the time and had

little thought for anything else.

Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the

Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was running extremely

high throughout the school, for the match would

decide the Championship, which was still wide open.

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If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three

hundred points (a tall order, and yet Harry had never

known his team to fly better) then they would win the

Championship. If they won by less than three

hundred points, they would come second to

Ravenclaw; if they lost by a hundred points they

would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by

more than a hundred, they would be in fourth place

and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him

forget that it had been he who had captained

Gryffindor to their first bottom-of-the-table defeat in

two centuries.

The run-up to this crucial match had all the usual

features: members of rival Houses attempting to

intimidate opposing teams in the corridors;

unpleasant chants about individual players being

rehearsed loudly as they passed; the team members

themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the

attention or else dashing into bathrooms between

classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become

inextricably linked in Harry’s mind with success or

failure in his plans for Ginny. He could not help

feeling that if they won by more than three hundred

points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud after-

match party might be just as good as a hearty swig of

Felix Felicis.

In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not

forgotten his other ambition: finding out what Malfoy

was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still

checking the Marauder’s Map, and as he was unable

to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still

spending plenty of time within the room. Although

Harry was losing hope that he would ever succeed in

getting inside the Room of Requirement, he attempted

it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how

he reworded his request, the wall remained firmly

doorless.

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A few days before the match against Ravenclaw,

Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone

from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a

nearby bathroom to throw up yet again, and

Hermione having dashed off to see Professor Vector

about a mistake she thought she might have made in

her last Arithmancy essay. More out of habit than

anything, Harry made his usual detour along the

seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder’s Map

as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy

anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the

Room of Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy’s

tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys’ bathroom on the

floor below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle,

but by Moaning Myrtle.

Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling

when he walked right into a suit of armor. The loud

crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from

the scene lest Filch turn up, he dashed down the

marble staircase and along the passageway below.

Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the

door. He could not hear anything. He very quietly

pushed the door open.

Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door,

his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-

blond head bowed.

“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Myrtle’s voice from one of

the cubicles. “Don’t … tell me what’s wrong … I can

help you. …”

“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body

was shaking. “I can’t do it. … I can’t. … It won’t work

… and unless I do it soon … he says he’ll kill me. …”

And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to

root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying —

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actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and

then, with a great shudder, looked up into the

cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his

shoulder.

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand.

Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex

missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the

wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways,

thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy

blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another —

“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice

echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!”

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry

exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that

backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear and

smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who

screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry

slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci —”

“SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor,

waving his wand wildly.

Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though

he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He

staggered backward and collapsed onto the

waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling

from his limp right hand.

“No —” gasped Harry.

Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and

plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining

scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-

soaked chest.

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“No — I didn’t —”

Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his

knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably

in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a

deafening scream: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE

BATHROOM! MURDER!”

The door banged open behind Harry and he looked

up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his face

livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over

Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep

wounds Harry’s curse had made, muttering an

incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow

of blood seemed to ease; Snape wiped the residue

from Malfoy’s face and repeated his spell. Now the

wounds seemed to be knitting.

Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had

done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood

and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and

wailing overhead. When Snape had performed his

countercurse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy

into a standing position.

“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain

amount of scarring, but if you take dittany

immediately we might avoid even that. … Come. …”

He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at

the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you,

Potter … You wait here for me.”

It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He

stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet

floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson

flowers across its surface. He could not even find it in

himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she

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continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.

Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the

bathroom and closed the door behind him.

“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into

her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind

her.

“I didn’t mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His

voice echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn’t know

what that spell did.”

But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated

you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have

thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you

that spell?”

“I — read about it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It was — a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I

can’t remember what it was call —”

“Liar,” said Snape. Harry’s throat went dry. He knew

what Snape was going to do and he had never been

able to prevent it. …

The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he

struggled to block out all thought, but try as he

might, the Half-Blood Prince’s copy of Advanced

Potion-Making swam hazily to the forefront of his

mind.

And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst

of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into

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Snape’s black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen what he feared, but —

“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all

of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me

here. Now!”

There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and

splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor,

he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most

people were walking the other way; they gaped at him,

drenched in water and blood, but he answered none

of the questions fired at him as he ran past.

He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had

turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been

thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what

would happen when Snape saw it? Would he tell

Slughorn — Harry’s stomach churned — how Harry

had been achieving such good results in Potions all

year? Would he confiscate or destroy the book that

had taught Harry so much … the book that had

become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not

let it happen. … He could not …

“Where’ve you — ? Why are you soaking — ? Is that

blood?”

Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking

bewildered at the sight of Harry.

“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book.

Quick … give it to me …”

“But what about the Half-Blood —”

“I’ll explain later!”

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Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past

him and back to the common room. Here, he seized

his schoolbag, ignoring the amazed looks of several

people who had already finished their dinner, threw

himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off

along the seventh-floor corridor.

He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing

trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk.

I need a place to hide my book. … I need a place to

hide my book. … I need a place to hide my book. …

Three times he walked up and down in front of the

stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there

it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement.

Harry wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and

slammed it shut.

He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of

what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not

help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He

was standing in a room the size of a large cathedral,

whose high windows were sending shafts of light

down upon what looked like a city with towering

walls, built of what Harry knew must be objects

hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There

were alleyways and roads bordered by teetering piles

of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away,

perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or

else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were

thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned

or graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults

and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in

them to hover halfheartedly over the mountains of

other forbidden items; there were chipped bottles of

congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were

what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles

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whose contents still shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe.

Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways

between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past

an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a

left at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which

Montague had got lost the previous year, finally

pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have

had acid thrown at its blistered surface. He opened

one of the cupboard’s creaking doors: It had already

been used as a hiding place for something in a cage

that had long since died; its skeleton had five legs. He

stuffed the Half-Blood Prince’s book behind the cage

and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his

heart thumping horribly, gazing around at all the

clutter. … Would he be able to find this spot again

amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an

ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he

stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was

now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished

tiara on the statue’s head to make it more distinctive,

then sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden

junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back

out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door

behind him, and it turned at once back into stone.

Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor

below, cramming Ron’s copy of Advanced Potion-

Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he

was back in front of Snape, who held out his hand

wordlessly for Harry’s schoolbag. Harry handed it

over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited.

One by one, Snape extracted Harry’s books and

examined them. Finally, the only book left was the

Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before

speaking.

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“This is your copy of Advanced Potion-Making, is it, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry, still breathing hard.

“You’re quite sure of that, are you, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry, with a touch more defiance.

“This is the copy of Advanced Potion-Making that you

purchased from Flourish and Blotts?”

“Yes,” said Harry firmly.

“Then why,” asked Snape, “does it have the name

‘Roonil Wazlib’ written inside the front cover?”

Harry’s heart missed a beat. “That’s my nickname,”

he said.

“Your nickname,” repeated Snape.

“Yeah … that’s what my friends call me,” said Harry.

“I understand what a nickname is,” said Snape. The

cold, black eyes were boring once more into Harry’s;

he tried not to look into them. Close your mind. …

Close your mind. … But he had never learned how to

do it properly. …

“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very

quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and

that you deserve detention with me every Saturday

until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”

“I — I don’t agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to

look into Snape’s eyes.

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“Well, we shall see how you feel after your

detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o’clock Saturday

morning, Potter. My office.”

“But sir …” said Harry, looking up desperately.

“Quidditch … the last match of the …”

“Ten o’clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that

showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor … fourth

place this year, I fear …”

And he left the bathroom without another word,

leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling

sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life.

“I won’t say ‘I told you so,’ ” said Hermione, an hour

later in the common room.

“Leave it, Hermione,” said Ron angrily.

Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite

at all. He had just finished telling Ron, Hermione, and

Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to

have been much need. The news had traveled very

fast: Apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon

herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to

tell the story; Malfoy had already been visited in the

hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no

time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had

told the staff precisely what had happened. Harry had

already been called out of the common room to

endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the

company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him

he was lucky not to have been expelled and that she

supported wholeheartedly Snape’s punishment of

detention every Saturday until the end of term.

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“I told you there was something wrong with that

Prince person,” Hermione said, evidently unable to

stop herself. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No, I don’t think you were,” said Harry stubbornly.

He was having a bad enough time without Hermione

lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team’s

faces when he had told them he would not be able to

play on Saturday had been the worst punishment of

all. He could feel Ginny’s eyes on him now but did not

meet them; he did not want to see disappointment or

anger there. He had just told her that she would be

playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be

rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if

they won, Ginny and Dean would make up during the

post-match euphoria. … The thought went through

Harry like an icy knife. …

“Harry,” said Hermione, “how can you still stick up

for that book when that spell —”

“Will you stop harping on about the book!” snapped

Harry. “The Prince only copied it out! It’s not like he

was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he

was making a note of something that had been used

against him!”

“I don’t believe this,” said Hermione. “You’re actually

defending —”

“I’m not defending what I did!” said Harry quickly. “I

wish I hadn’t done it, and not just because I’ve got

about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn’t’ve

used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you

can’t blame the Prince, he hadn’t written ‘try this out,

it’s really good’ — he was just making notes for

himself, wasn’t he, not for anyone else. …”

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“Are you telling me,” said Hermione, “that you’re

going to go back — ?”

“And get the book? Yeah, I am,” said Harry forcefully.

“Listen, without the Prince I’d never have won the

Felix Felicis. I’d never have known how to save Ron

from poisoning, I’d never have —”

“— got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don’t

deserve,” said Hermione nastily.

“Give it a rest, Hermione!” said Ginny, and Harry was

so amazed, so grateful, he looked up. “By the sound

of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse,

you should be glad Harry had something good up his

sleeve!”

“Well, of course I’m glad Harry wasn’t cursed!” said

Hermione, clearly stung. “But you can’t call that

Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it’s

landed him! And I’d have thought, seeing what this

has done to your chances in the match —”

“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand

Quidditch,” snapped Ginny, “you’ll only embarrass

yourself.”

Harry and Ron stared: Hermione and Ginny, who had

always got on together very well, were now sitting

with their arms folded, glaring in opposite directions.

Ron looked nervously at Harry, then snatched up a

book at random and hid behind it. Harry, however,

little though he knew he deserved it, felt unbelievably

cheerful all of a sudden, even though none of them

spoke again for the rest of the evening.

His lightheartedness was short-lived. There were

Slytherin taunts to be endured next day, not to

mention much anger from fellow Gryffindors, who

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were most unhappy that their Captain had got

himself banned from the final match of the season. By

Saturday morning, whatever he might have told

Hermione, Harry would have gladly exchanged all the

Felix Felicis in the world to be walking down to the

Quidditch pitch with Ron, Ginny, and the others. It

was almost unbearable to turn away from the mass of

students streaming out into the sunshine, all of them

wearing rosettes and hats and brandishing banners

and scarves, to descend the stone steps into the

dungeons and walk until the distant sounds of the

crowd were quite obliterated, knowing that he would

not be able to hear a word of commentary or a cheer

or groan.

“Ah, Potter,” said Snape, when Harry had knocked on

his door and entered the unpleasantly familiar office

that Snape, despite teaching floors above now, had

not vacated; it was as dimly lit as ever and the same

slimy dead objects were suspended in colored potions

all around the walls. Ominously, there were many

cobwebbed boxes piled on a table where Harry was

clearly supposed to sit; they had an aura of tedious,

hard, and pointless work about them.

“Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out

these old files,” said Snape softly. “They are the

records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their

punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the

cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like

you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh

and, making sure that they are in alphabetical order,

replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic.”

“Right, Professor,” said Harry, with as much contempt

as he could put into the last three syllables.

“I thought you could start,” said Snape, a malicious

smile on his lips, “with boxes one thousand and

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twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add

interest to the task. Here, you see …”

He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes

with a flourish and read, “ ‘ James Potter and Sirius

Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram

Aubrey. Aubrey’s head twice normal size. Double

detention. ’ ” Snape sneered. “It must be such a

comfort to think that, though they are gone, a record

of their great achievements remains. …”

Harry felt the familiar boiling sensation in the pit of

his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself

retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes and

pulled one toward him.

It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring

work, punctuated (as Snape had clearly planned) with

the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just

read his father or Sirius’s names, usually coupled

together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally

accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter

Pettigrew. And while he copied out all their various

offenses and punishments, he wondered what was

going on outside, where the match would have just

started … Ginny playing Seeker against Cho …

Harry glanced again and again at the large clock

ticking on the wall. It seemed to be moving half as

fast as a regular clock; perhaps Snape had bewitched

it to go extra slowly? He could not have been here for

only half an hour … an hour … an hour and a half. …

Harry’s stomach started rumbling when the clock

showed half past twelve. Snape, who had not spoken

at all since setting Harry his task, finally looked up at

ten past one.

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“I think that will do,” he said coldly. “Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o’clock

next Saturday.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and

hurried out of the door before Snape could change his

mind, racing back up the stone steps, straining his

ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet.

… It was over, then. …

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran

up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won

or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated

in their own common room.

“Quid agis?” he said tentatively to the Fat Lady,

wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, “You’ll

see.”

And she swung forward.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind

her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the

sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

“We won!” yelled Ron, bounding into sight and

brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. “We won! Four

hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!”

Harry looked around; there was Ginny running

toward him; she had a hard, blazing look in her face

as she threw her arms around him. And without

thinking, without planning it, without worrying about

the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry kissed

her.

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After several long moments — or it might have been half an hour — or possibly several sunlit days — they

broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Then

several people wolf-whistled and there was an

outbreak of nervous giggling. Harry looked over the

top of Ginny’s head to see Dean Thomas holding a

shattered glass in his hand, and Romilda Vane

looking as though she might throw something.

Hermione was beaming, but Harry’s eyes sought Ron.

At last he found him, still clutching the Cup and

wearing an expression appropriate to having been

clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second they

looked at each other, then Ron gave a tiny jerk of the

head that Harry understood to mean, Well — if you

must.

The creature in his chest roaring in triumph, he

grinned down at Ginny and gestured wordlessly out of

the portrait hole. A long walk in the grounds seemed

indicated, during which — if they had time — they

might discuss the match.

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THE SEER OVERHEARD

The fact that Harry Potter was going out with Ginny

Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people,

most of them girls, yet Harry found himself newly and

happily impervious to gossip over the next few weeks.

After all, it made a very nice change to be talked

about because of something that was making him

happier than he could remember being for a very long

time, rather than because he had been involved in

horrific scenes of Dark Magic.

“You’d think people had better things to gossip

about,” said Ginny, as she sat on the common room

floor, leaning against Harry’s legs and reading the

Daily Prophet. “Three dementor attacks in a week, and

all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it’s true you’ve got

a hippogriff tattooed across your chest.”

Ron and Hermione both roared with laughter. Harry

ignored them.

“What did you tell her?”

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“I told her it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said Ginny, turning a page of the newspaper idly. “Much more

macho.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning. “And what did you tell

her Ron’s got?”

“A Pygmy Puff, but I didn’t say where.”

Ron scowled as Hermione rolled around laughing.

“Watch it,” he said, pointing warningly at Harry and

Ginny. “Just because I’ve given my permission doesn’t

mean I can’t withdraw it —”

“ ‘ Your permission, ’ ” scoffed Ginny. “Since when did you give me permission to do anything? Anyway, you

said yourself you’d rather it was Harry than Michael

or Dean.”

“Yeah, I would,” said Ron grudgingly. “And just as

long as you don’t start snogging each other in public

—”

“You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender,

thrashing around like a pair of eels all over the

place?” demanded Ginny.

But Ron’s tolerance was not to be tested much as

they moved into June, for Harry and Ginny’s time

together was becoming increasingly restricted.

Ginny’s O.W.L.s were approaching and she was

therefore forced to study for hours into the night. On

one such evening, when Ginny had retired to the

library, and Harry was sitting beside the window in

the common room, supposedly finishing his

Herbology homework but in reality reliving a

particularly happy hour he had spent down by the

lake with Ginny at lunchtime, Hermione dropped into

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the seat between him and Ron with an unpleasantly

purposeful look on her face.

“I want to talk to you, Harry.”

“What about?” said Harry suspiciously. Only the

previous day, Hermione had told him off for

distracting Ginny when she ought to be working hard

for her examinations.

“The so-called Half-Blood Prince.”

“Oh, not again,” he groaned. “Will you please drop it?”

He had not dared to return to the Room of

Requirement to retrieve his book, and his

performance in Potions was suffering accordingly

(though Slughorn, who approved of Ginny, had

jocularly attributed this to Harry being lovesick). But

Harry was sure that Snape had not yet given up hope

of laying hands on the Prince’s book, and was

determined to leave it where it was while Snape

remained on the lookout.

“I’m not dropping it,” said Hermione firmly, “until

you’ve heard me out. Now, I’ve been trying to find out

a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing

Dark spells —”

“He didn’t make a hobby of it —”

“He, he — who says it’s a he?”

“We’ve been through this,” said Harry crossly. “Prince,

Hermione, Prince!”

“Right!” said Hermione, red patches blazing in her

cheeks as she pulled a very old piece of newsprint out

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of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in

front of Harry. “Look at that! Look at the picture!”

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and

stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age;

Ron leaned over for a look too. The picture showed a

skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she

looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy

brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the

photograph was the caption: EILEEN PRINCE,

CAPTAIN OF THE HOGWARTS GOBSTONES TEAM.

“So?” said Harry, scanning the short news item to

which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story

about interschool competitions.

“Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry.”

They looked at each other, and Harry realized what

Hermione was trying to say. He burst out laughing.

“No way.”

“What?”

“You think she was the Half-Blood … ? Oh, come on.”

“Well, why not? Harry, there aren’t any real princes in

the Wizarding world! It’s either a nickname, a made-

up title somebody’s given themselves, or it could be

their actual name, couldn’t it? No, listen! If, say, her

father was a wizard whose surname was Prince, and

her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her

a ‘half-blood Prince’!”

“Yeah, very ingenious, Hermione …”

“But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a

Prince!”

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“Listen, Hermione, I can tell it’s not a girl. I can just tell.”

“The truth is that you don’t think a girl would have

been clever enough,” said Hermione angrily.

“How can I have hung round with you for five years

and not think girls are clever?” said Harry, stung by

this. “It’s the way he writes, I just know the Prince

was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn’t got anything to

do with it. Where did you get this anyway?”

“The library,” said Hermione predictably. “There’s a

whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, I’m

going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.”

“Enjoy yourself,” said Harry irritably.

“I will,” said Hermione. “And the first place I’ll look,”

she shot at him, as she reached the portrait hole, “is

records of old Potions awards!”

Harry scowled after her for a moment, then continued

his contemplation of the darkening sky.

“She’s just never got over you outperforming her in

Potions,” said Ron, returning to his copy of A

Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

“You don’t think I’m mad, wanting that book back, do

you?”

“ ’Course not,” said Ron robustly. “He was a genius,

the Prince. Anyway … without his bezoar tip …” He

drew his finger significantly across his own throat. “I

wouldn’t be here to discuss it, would I? I mean, I’m

not saying that spell you used on Malfoy was great —”

“Nor am I,” said Harry quickly.

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“But he healed all right, didn’t he? Back on his feet in no time.”

“Yeah,” said Harry; this was perfectly true, although

his conscience squirmed slightly all the same.

“Thanks to Snape …”

“You still got detention with Snape this Saturday?”

Ron continued.

“Yeah, and the Saturday after that, and the Saturday

after that,” sighed Harry. “And he’s hinting now that if

I don’t get all the boxes done by the end of term, we’ll

carry on next year.”

He was finding these detentions particularly irksome

because they cut into the already limited time he

could have been spending with Ginny. Indeed, he had

frequently wondered lately whether Snape did not

know this, for he was keeping Harry later and later

every time, while making pointed asides about Harry

having to miss the good weather and the varied

opportunities it offered.

Harry was shaken from these bitter reflections by the

appearance at his side of Jimmy Peakes, who was

holding out a scroll of parchment.

“Thanks, Jimmy … Hey, it’s from Dumbledore!” said

Harry excitedly, unrolling the parchment and

scanning it. “He wants me to go to his office as quick

as I can!”

They stared at each other.

“Blimey,” whispered Ron. “You don’t reckon … he

hasn’t found … ?”

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“Better go and see, hadn’t I?” said Harry, jumping to his feet.

He hurried out of the common room and along the

seventh floor as fast as he could, passing nobody but

Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction,

throwing bits of chalk at Harry in a routine sort of

way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry’s

defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there was

silence in the corridors; with only fifteen minutes left

until curfew, most people had already returned to

their common rooms.

And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He

stopped in his tracks, listening.

“How — dare — you — aaaaargh!”

The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry

sprinted toward it, his wand at the ready, hurtled

around another corner, and saw Professor Trelawney

sprawled upon the floor, her head covered in one of

her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside

her, one broken.

“Professor —”

Harry hurried forward and helped Professor

Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads

had become entangled with her glasses. She hiccuped

loudly, patted her hair, and pulled herself up on

Harry’s helping arm.

“What happened, Professor?”

“You may well ask!” she said shrilly. “I was strolling

along, brooding upon certain dark portents I happen

to have glimpsed …”

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But Harry was not paying much attention. He had

just noticed where they were standing: There on the

right was the tapestry of dancing trolls, and on the

left, that smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone wall

that concealed —

“Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of

Requirement?”

“… omens I have been vouchsafed — what?” She

looked suddenly shifty.

“The Room of Requirement,” repeated Harry. “Were

you trying to get in there?”

“I — well — I didn’t know students knew about —”

“Not all of them do,” said Harry. “But what happened?

You screamed. … It sounded as though you were

hurt. …”

“I — well,” said Professor Trelawney, drawing her

shawls around her defensively and staring down at

him with her vastly magnified eyes. “I wished to — ah

— deposit certain — um — personal items in the

room. …” And she muttered something about “nasty

accusations.”

“Right,” said Harry, glancing down at the sherry

bottles. “But you couldn’t get in and hide them?”

He found this very odd; the room had opened for him,

after all, when he had wanted to hide the Half-Blood

Prince’s book.

“Oh, I got in all right,” said Professor Trelawney,

glaring at the wall. “But there was somebody already

in there.”

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“Somebody in — ? Who?” demanded Harry. “Who was

in there?”

“I have no idea,” said Professor Trelawney, looking

slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry’s voice. “I

walked into the room and I heard a voice, which has

never happened before in all my years of hiding — of

using the room, I mean.”

“A voice? Saying what?”

“I don’t know that it was saying anything,” said

Professor Trelawney. “It was … whooping.”

“Whooping?”

“Gleefully,” she said, nodding.

Harry stared at her.

“Was it male or female?”

“I would hazard a guess at male,” said Professor

Trelawney.

“And it sounded happy?”

“Very happy,” said Professor Trelawney sniffily.

“As though it was celebrating?”

“Most definitely.”

“And then — ?”

“And then I called out ‘Who’s there?’ ”

“You couldn’t have found out who it was without

asking?” Harry asked her, slightly frustrated.

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“The Inner Eye,” said Professor Trelawney with

dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of

glittering beads, “was fixed upon matters well outside

the mundane realms of whooping voices.”

“Right,” said Harry hastily; he had heard about

Professor Trelawney’s Inner Eye all too often before.

“And did the voice say who was there?”

“No, it did not,” she said. “Everything went pitch-

black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled

headfirst out of the room!”

“And you didn’t see that coming?” said Harry, unable

to help himself.

“No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch —” She stopped

and glared at him suspiciously.

“I think you’d better tell Professor Dumbledore,” said

Harry. “He ought to know Malfoy’s celebrating — I

mean, that someone threw you out of the room.”

To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up

at this suggestion, looking haughty.

“The headmaster has intimated that he would prefer

fewer visits from me,” she said coldly. “I am not one to

press my company upon those who do not value it. If

Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings the cards

show —” Her bony hand closed suddenly around

Harry’s wrist. “Again and again, no matter how I lay

them out —” And she pulled a card dramatically from

underneath her shawls. “— the lightning-struck

tower,” she whispered. “Calamity. Disaster. Coming

nearer all the time …”

“Right,” said Harry again. “Well … I still think you

should tell Dumbledore about this voice, and

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everything going dark and being thrown out of the

room. …”

“You think so?” Professor Trelawney seemed to

consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could

tell that she liked the idea of retelling her little

adventure.

“I’m going to see him right now,” said Harry. “I’ve got

a meeting with him. We could go together.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Professor Trelawney with

a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry

bottles, and dumped them unceremoniously in a large

blue-and-white vase standing in a nearby niche.

“I miss having you in my classes, Harry,” she said

soulfully as they set off together. “You were never

much of a Seer … but you were a wonderful Object

…”

Harry did not reply; he had loathed being the Object

of Professor Trelawney’s continual predictions of

doom.

“I am afraid,” she went on, “that the nag — I’m sorry,

the centaur — knows nothing of cartomancy. I asked

him — one Seer to another — had he not, too, sensed

the distant vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he

seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!”

Her voice rose rather hysterically, and Harry caught a

powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles had

been left behind.

“Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have

not inherited my great-great-grandmother’s gift.

Those rumors have been bandied about by the jealous

for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry?

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Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great

school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I

not proved myself to him?”

Harry mumbled something indistinct.

“I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore,”

went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. “He

was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed. …

I was staying at the Hog’s Head, which I do not

advise, incidentally — bedbugs, dear boy — but funds

were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling

upon me in my room. He questioned me. … I must

confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed

toward Divination … and I remember I was starting to

feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day … but

then …”

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the

first time, for he knew what had happened then:

Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had

altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy

about him and Voldemort.

“… but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus

Snape!”

“What?”

“Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it

flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman

standing with Snape, who was waffling about having

come the wrong way up the stairs, although I’m afraid

that I myself rather thought he had been

apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with

Dumbledore — you see, he himself was seeking a job

at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well,

after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more

disposed to give me a job, and I could not help

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thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming

manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing,

thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at

keyholes — Harry, dear?”

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just

realized that Harry was no longer with her; he had

stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each

other.

“Harry?” she repeated uncertainly.

Perhaps his face was white to make her look so

concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stock-

still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after

wave, obliterating everything except the information

that had been kept from him for so long. …

It was Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was

Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy to

Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had

sent Voldemort hunting after Lily and James and

their son. …

Nothing else mattered to Harry just now.

“Harry?” said Professor Trelawney again. “Harry — I

thought we were going to see the headmaster

together?”

“You stay here,” said Harry through numb lips.

“But dear … I was going to tell him how I was

assaulted in the Room of —”

“You stay here!” Harry repeated angrily.

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She looked alarmed as he ran past her, around the

corner into Dumbledore’s corridor, where the lone

gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at

the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase

three steps at a time. He did not knock upon

Dumbledore’s door, he hammered; and the calm voice

answered, “Enter” after Harry had already flung

himself into the room.

Fawkes the phoenix looked around, his bright black

eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset

beyond the windows. Dumbledore was standing at the

window looking out at the grounds, a long, black

traveling cloak in his arms.

“Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with

me.”

For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the

conversation with Trelawney had driven everything

else out of his head and his brain seemed to be

moving very slowly.

“Come … with you … ?”

“Only if you wish it, of course.”

“If I …”

And then Harry remembered why he had been eager

to come to Dumbledore’s office in the first place.

“You’ve found one? You’ve found a Horcrux?”

“I believe so.”

Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement:

For several moments, Harry could not speak.

“It is natural to be afraid,” said Dumbledore.

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“I’m not scared!” said Harry at once, and it was

perfectly true; fear was one emotion he was not

feeling at all. “Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?”

“I am not sure which it is — though I think we can

rule out the snake — but I believe it to be hidden in a

cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have

been trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in

which Tom Riddle once terrorized two children from

his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “How is it protected?”

“I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely

wrong.” Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “Harry, I

promised you that you could come with me, and I

stand by that promise, but it would be very wrong of

me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly

dangerous.”

“I’m coming,” said Harry, almost before Dumbledore

had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at Snape,

his desire to do something desperate and risky had

increased tenfold in the last few minutes. This

seemed to show on Harry’s face, for Dumbledore

moved away from the window and looked more closely

at Harry, a slight crease between his silver eyebrows.

“What has happened to you?”

“Nothing,” lied Harry promptly.

“What has upset you?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Harry, you were never a good Occlumens —”

The word was the spark that ignited Harry’s fury.

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“Snape!” he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft squawk behind them. “Snape’s what’s happened! He

told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he

listened outside the door, Trelawney told me!”

Dumbledore’s expression did not change, but Harry

thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast

by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore

said nothing. “When did you find out about this?” he

asked at last.

“Just now!” said Harry, who was refraining from

yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly,

he could not stop himself. “AND YOU LET HIM

TEACH HERE AND HE TOLD VOLDEMORT TO GO

AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!”

Breathing hard as though he was fighting, Harry

turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not

moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study,

rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising

every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking

things over. He wanted to rage and storm at

Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with him to try

and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him that

he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he

was terrified that Dumbledore would not take him

along unless he mastered his anger. …

“Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Please listen to

me.”

It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to

refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip,

and looked into Dumbledore’s lined face.

“Professor Snape made a terrible —”

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“Don’t tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!”

“Please let me finish.” Dumbledore waited until Harry

had nodded curtly, then went on. “Professor Snape

made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord

Voldemort’s employ on the night he heard the first

half of Professor Trelawney’s prophecy. Naturally, he

hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it

concerned his master most deeply. But he did not

know — he had no possible way of knowing — which

boy Voldemort would hunt from then onward, or that

the parents he would destroy in his murderous quest

were people that Professor Snape knew, that they

were your mother and father —”

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter.

“He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven’t you

noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend

to end up dead?”

“You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt

when he realized how Lord Voldemort had interpreted

the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest

regret of his life and the reason that he returned —”

“But he’s a very good Occlumens, isn’t he, sir?” said

Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of

keeping it steady. “And isn’t Voldemort convinced that

Snape’s on his side, even now? Professor … how can

you be sure Snape’s on our side?”

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as

though he was trying to make up his mind about

something. At last he said, “I am sure. I trust Severus

Snape completely.”

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Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.

“Well, I don’t!” he said, as loudly as before. “He’s up to

something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under

your nose, and you still —”

“We have discussed this, Harry,” said Dumbledore,

and now he sounded stern again. “I have told you my

views.”

“You’re leaving the school tonight, and I’ll bet you

haven’t even considered that Snape and Malfoy might

decide to —”

“To what?” asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised.

“What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?”

“I … they’re up to something!” said Harry, and his

hands curled into fists as he said it. “Professor

Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement,

trying to hide her sherry bottles, and she heard

Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He’s trying to mend

something dangerous in there and if you ask me, he’s

fixed it at last and you’re about to just walk out of

school without —”

“Enough,” said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly,

and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he had

finally crossed some invisible line. “Do you think that

I have once left the school unprotected during my

absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave,

there will again be additional protection in place.

Please do not suggest that I do not take the safety of

my students seriously, Harry.”

“I didn’t —” mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but

Dumbledore cut across him.

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“I do not wish to discuss the matter any further.”

Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too

far, that he had ruined his chance of accompanying

Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, “Do you wish

to come with me tonight?”

“Yes,” said Harry at once.

“Very well, then: Listen.” Dumbledore drew himself up

to his full height. “I take you with me on one

condition: that you obey any command I might give

you at once, and without question.”

“Of course.”

“Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you

must follow even such orders as ‘run,’ ‘hide,’ or ‘go

back.’ Do I have your word?”

“I — yes, of course.”

“If I tell you to hide, you will do so?”

“Yes.”

“If I tell you to flee, you will obey?”

“Yes.”

“If I tell you to leave me and save yourself, you will do

as I tell you?

“I —”

“Harry?”

They looked at each other for a moment.

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“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your

Invisibility Cloak and meet me in the entrance hall in

five minutes’ time.”

Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery

window; the sun was now a ruby red glare along the

horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and

down the spiral staircase. His mind was oddly clear

all of a sudden. He knew what to do.

Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the

common room when he came back. “What does he

want?” Hermione said at once. “Harry, are you okay?”

she added anxiously.

“I’m fine,” said Harry shortly, racing past them. He

dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he

flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder’s

Map and a pair of balled-up socks. Then he sped back

down the stairs and into the common room, skidding

to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, looking

stunned.

“I’ve got to be quick,” Harry panted. “Dumbledore

thinks I’m getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen. …”

Quickly he told them where he was going and why. He

did not pause either for Hermione’s gasps of horror or

for Ron’s hasty questions; they could work out the

finer details for themselves later.

“… so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a

gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so

Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever

he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both

Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting.

“I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of

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Requirement. Here —” He shoved the Marauder’s Map

into Hermione’s hands. “You’ve got to watch him and

you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who

you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione, those

contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore

says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if

Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s

protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be

expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?”

“Harry —” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.

“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Take

this as well —”

He thrust the socks into Ron’s hands.

“Thanks,” said Ron. “Er — why do I need socks?”

“You need what’s wrapped in them, it’s the Felix

Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too.

Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go,

Dumbledore’s waiting —”

“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little

bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don’t

want it, you take it, who knows what you’re going to

be facing?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I

want to know you lot are okay. … Don’t look like that,

Hermione, I’ll see you later. …”

And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait

hole and toward the entrance hall.

Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front

doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out onto the

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topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.

“I would like you to wear your cloak, please,” said

Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it

on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?”

Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his

own traveling cloak barely stirring in the still summer

air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility

Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot.

“But what will people think when they see you

leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy

and Snape.

“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said

Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my

custom, or else visit the Hog’s Head … or I appear to.

It is as good a way as any of disguising one’s true

destination.”

They made their way down the drive in the gathering

twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass,

lake water, and wood smoke from Hagrid’s cabin. It

was difficult to believe that they were heading for

anything dangerous or frightening.

“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the

bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be

Apparating?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I

believe?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven’t got a license.”

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He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled

everything by turning up a hundred miles from where

he was supposed to go?

“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you

again.”

They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted

lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they

walked, and by the time they reached the High Street

night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from

windows over shops and as they neared the Three

Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.

“— and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly

ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus …

You’re out late …”

“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening … forgive me,

I’m off to the Hog’s Head. … No offense, but I feel like

a quieter atmosphere tonight. …”

A minute later they turned the corner into the side

street where the Hog’s Head’s sign creaked a little,

though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three

Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely

empty.

“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered

Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody

sees us go … now place your hand upon my arm,

Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely

guiding you. On the count of three … One … two …

three …”

Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible

sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick

rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of

him was being compressed almost past endurance

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and then, just when he thought he must suffocate,

the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was

standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of

fresh, salty air.

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THE CAVE

Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a

light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at

moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing

upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and

churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A

towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black

and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the

one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were

standing, looked as though they had broken away

from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a

bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by

any tree or sweep of grass or sand.

“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might

have been asking Harry’s opinion on whether it was a

good site for a picnic.

“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?”

asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot

for a day trip.

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“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind

us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little

sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only

ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited

this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless

they were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats

cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them

are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed

down; magic would have served better than ropes.

And he brought two small children with him,

probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think

the journey alone would have done it, don’t you?”

Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose

bumps.

“But his final destination — and ours — lies a little

farther on. Come.”

Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the

rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds

leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in

water and closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous

descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his

withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were

slippery with seawater. Harry could feel flecks of cold

salt spray hitting his face.

“Lumos, ” said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder

closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden

light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a

few feet below where he crouched; the black wall of

rock beside him was illuminated too.

“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand

a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into

which dark water was swirling.

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“You will not object to getting a little wet?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak — there is no

need for it now — and let us take the plunge.”

And with the sudden agility of a much younger man,

Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea,

and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke,

toward the dark slit in the rock face, his lit wand held

in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into

his pocket, and followed.

The water was icy; Harry’s waterlogged clothes

billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking

deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of

salt and seaweed, he struck out for the shimmering,

shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff.

The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry

could tell would be filled with water at high tide. The

slimy walls were barely three feet apart and

glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of

Dumbledore’s wand. A little way in, the passageway

curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far

into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore’s

wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing the

rough, wet rock.

Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water

ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When

Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a

large cave. He clambered up them, water streaming

from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering

uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air.

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Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot,

examining the walls and ceiling.

“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore.

“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper.

“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply.

Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was

experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or

to the same awareness of enchantments. He watched

as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot,

evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see.

“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,”

said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to

penetrate the inner place. … Now it is Lord

Voldemort’s obstacles that stand in our way, rather

than those nature made. …”

Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and

caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring

words in a strange tongue that Harry did not

understand. Twice Dumbledore walked right around

the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he

could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers

backward and forward over a particular spot, until

finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the

wall.

“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance

is concealed.”

Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had

never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply

by looking and touching; but Harry had long since

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learned that bangs and smoke were more often the

marks of ineptitude than expertise.

Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and

pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an

arched outline appeared there, blazing white as

though there was a powerful light behind the crack.

“You’ve d-done it!” said Harry through chattering

teeth, but before the words had left his lips the

outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid

as ever. Dumbledore looked around.

“Harry, I’m so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed

his wand at Harry and at once, Harry’s clothes were

as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front

of a blazing fire.

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore

had already turned his attention back to the solid

cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply

stood there staring at it intently, as though something

extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed

quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore’s

concentration. Then, after two solid minutes,

Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.”

“What is it, Professor?”

“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his

uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a

short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop

potion ingredients, “that we are required to make

payment to pass.”

“Payment?” said Harry. “You’ve got to give the door

something?”

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“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much

mistaken.”

“Blood?”

“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded

disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort

had fallen short of the standards Dumbledore

expected. “The idea, as I am sure you will have

gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or

herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to

grasp that there are much more terrible things than

physical injury.”

“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it …” said Harry, who

had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more.

“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said

Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and

exposing the forearm of his injured hand.

“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as

Dumbledore raised his knife. “I’ll do it, I’m —”

He did not know what he was going to say — younger,

fitter? But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a

flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face

was peppered with dark, glistening drops.

“You are very kind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, now

passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had

made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just

as Snape had healed Malfoy’s wounds. “But your

blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to

have done the trick, doesn’t it?”

The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in

the wall once more, and this time it did not fade

away: The blood-spattered rock within it simply

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vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness.

“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked

through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting

his own wand hastily as he went.

An eerie sight met their eyes: They were standing on

the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry

could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so

high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty

greenish light shone far away in what looked like the

middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely

still water below. The greenish glow and the light from

the two wands were the only things that broke the

otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not

penetrate as far as Harry would have expected. The

darkness was somehow denser than normal

darkness.

“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very

careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.”

He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry

followed close behind him. Their footsteps made

echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock

that surrounded the water. On and on they walked,

but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the

rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless

expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in the very

middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow.

Harry found the place and the silence oppressive,

unnerving.

“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the

Horcrux is here?”

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I’m sure it is. The

question is, how do we get to it?”

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“We couldn’t … we couldn’t just try a Summoning

Charm?” Harry said, sure that it was a stupid

suggestion. But he was much keener than he was

prepared to admit on getting out of this place as soon

as possible.

“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so

suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why

don’t you do it?”

“Me? Oh … okay …”

Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat

and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!”

With a noise like an explosion, something very large

and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty

feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had

vanished again with a crashing splash that made

great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry

leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart

was still thundering as he turned to Dumbledore.

“What was that?”

“Something, I think, that is ready to respond should

we attempt to seize the Horcrux.”

Harry looked back at the water. The surface of the

lake was once more shining black glass: The ripples

had vanished unnaturally fast; Harry’s heart,

however, was still pounding.

“Did you think that would happen, sir?”

“I thought something would happen if we made an

obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux.

That was a very good idea, Harry; much the simplest

way of finding out what we are facing.”

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“But we don’t know what the thing was,” said Harry, looking at the sinisterly smooth water.

“What the things are, you mean,” said Dumbledore. “I

doubt very much that there is only one of them. Shall

we walk on?”

“Professor?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Do you think we’re going to have to go into the lake?”

“Into it? Only if we are very unfortunate.”

“You don’t think the Horcrux is at the bottom?”

“Oh no … I think the Horcrux is in the middle. ”

And Dumbledore pointed toward the misty green light

in the center of the lake.

“So we’re going to have to cross the lake to get to it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Harry did not say anything. His thoughts were all of

water monsters, of giant serpents, of demons, kelpies,

and sprites. …

“Aha,” said Dumbledore, and he stopped again; this

time, Harry really did walk into him; for a moment he

toppled on the edge of the dark water, and

Dumbledore’s uninjured hand closed tightly around

his upper arm, pulling him back. “So sorry, Harry, I

should have given warning. Stand back against the

wall, please; I think I have found the place.”

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Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant; this

patch of dark bank was exactly like every other bit as

far as he could tell, but Dumbledore seemed to have

detected something special about it. This time he was

running his hand, not over the rocky wall, but

through the thin air, as though expecting to find and

grip something invisible.

“Oho,” said Dumbledore happily, seconds later. His

hand had closed in midair upon something Harry

could not see. Dumbledore moved closer to the water;

Harry watched nervously as the tips of Dumbledore’s

buckled shoes found the utmost edge of the rock rim.

Keeping his hand clenched in midair, Dumbledore

raised his wand with the other and tapped his fist

with the point.

Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared

out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water

into Dumbledore’s clenched hand. Dumbledore

tapped the chain, which began to slide through his

fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a

clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky walls,

pulling something from the depths of the black water.

Harry gasped as the ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke

the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and

floated, with barely a ripple, toward the place on the

bank where Harry and Dumbledore stood.

“How did you know that was there?” Harry asked in

astonishment.

“Magic always leaves traces,” said Dumbledore, as the

boat hit the bank with a gentle bump, “sometimes

very distinctive traces. I taught Tom Riddle. I know

his style.”

“Is … is this boat safe?”

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“Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a

means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath

of those creatures he had placed within it in case he

ever wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux.”

“So the things in the water won’t do anything to us if

we cross in Voldemort’s boat?”

“I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that they

will, at some point, realize we are not Lord Voldemort.

Thus far, however, we have done well. They have

allowed us to raise the boat.”

“But why have they let us?” asked Harry, who could

not shake off the vision of tentacles rising out of the

dark water the moment they were out of sight of the

bank.

“Voldemort would have been reasonably confident

that none but a very great wizard would have been

able to find the boat,” said Dumbledore. “I think he

would have been prepared to risk what was, to his

mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody

else would find it, knowing that he had set other

obstacles ahead that only he would be able to

penetrate. We shall see whether he is right.”

Harry looked down into the boat. It really was very

small.

“It doesn’t look like it was built for two people. Will it

hold both of us? Will we be too heavy together?”

Dumbledore chuckled.

“Voldemort will not have cared about the weight, but

about the amount of magical power that crossed his

lake. I rather think an enchantment will have been

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placed upon this boat so that only one wizard at a time will be able to sail in it.”

“But then — ?”

“I do not think you will count, Harry: You are

underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never

have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I

think it unlikely that your powers will register

compared to mine.”

These words did nothing to raise Harry’s morale;

perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for he added,

“Voldemort’s mistake, Harry, Voldemort’s mistake …

Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates

youth. … Now, you first this time, and be careful not

to touch the water.”

Dumbledore stood aside and Harry climbed carefully

into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the

chain onto the floor. They were crammed in together;

Harry could not comfortably sit, but crouched, his

knees jutting over the edge of the boat, which began

to move at once. There was no sound other than the

silken rustle of the boat’s prow cleaving the water; it

moved without their help, as though an invisible rope

was pulling it onward toward the light in the center.

Soon they could no longer see the walls of the cavern;

they might have been at sea except that there were no

waves.

Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his

wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black water

as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples

upon the glassy surface, grooves in the dark mirror.

…

And then Harry saw it, marble white, floating inches

below the surface.

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“Professor!” he said, and his startled voice echoed loudly over the silent water.

“Harry?”

“I think I saw a hand in the water — a human hand!”

“Yes, I am sure you did,” said Dumbledore calmly.

Harry stared down into the water, looking for the

vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat.

“So that thing that jumped out of the water — ?”

But Harry had his answer before Dumbledore could

reply; the wandlight had slid over a fresh patch of

water and showed him, this time, a dead man lying

faceup inches beneath the surface, his open eyes

misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his

robes swirling around him like smoke.

“There are bodies in here!” said Harry, and his voice

sounded much higher than usual and most unlike his

own.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore placidly, “but we do not need

to worry about them at the moment.”

“At the moment?” Harry repeated, tearing his gaze

from the water to look at Dumbledore.

“Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below

us,” said Dumbledore. “There is nothing to be feared

from a body, Harry, any more than there is anything

to be feared from the darkness. Lord Voldemort, who

of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once

again he reveals his own lack of wisdom. It is the

unknown we fear when we look upon death and

darkness, nothing more.”

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Harry said nothing; he did not want to argue, but he found the idea that there were bodies floating around

them and beneath them horrible and, what was more,

he did not believe that they were not dangerous.

“But one of them jumped,” he said, trying to make his

voice as level and calm as Dumbledore’s. “When I

tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the

lake.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I am sure that once we take

the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable.

However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and

darkness, they fear light and warmth, which we shall

therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire,

Harry,” Dumbledore added with a smile, in response

to Harry’s bewildered expression.

“Oh … right …” said Harry quickly. He turned his

head to look at the greenish glow toward which the

boat was still inexorably sailing. He could not pretend

now that he was not scared. The great black lake,

teeming with the dead … It seemed hours and hours

ago that he had met Professor Trelawney, that he had

given Ron and Hermione Felix Felicis. … He suddenly

wished he had said a better good-bye to them … and

he hadn’t seen Ginny at all. …

“Nearly there,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing

larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come

to a halt, bumping gently into something that Harry

could not see at first, but when he raised his

illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a

small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake.

“Careful not to touch the water,” said Dumbledore

again as Harry climbed out of the boat.

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The island was no larger than Dumbledore’s office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but

the source of that greenish light, which looked much

brighter when viewed close to. Harry squinted at it; at

first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then

he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin

rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a

pedestal.

Dumbledore approached the basin and Harry

followed. Side by side, they looked down into it. The

basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting that

phosphorescent glow.

“What is it?” asked Harry quietly.

“I am not sure,” said Dumbledore. “Something more

worrisome than blood and bodies, however.”

Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over

his blackened hand, and stretched out the tips of his

burned fingers toward the surface of the potion.

“Sir, no, don’t touch — !”

“I cannot touch,” said Dumbledore, smiling faintly.

“See? I cannot approach any nearer than this. You

try.”

Staring, Harry put his hand into the basin and

attempted to touch the potion. He met an invisible

barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of

it. No matter how hard he pushed, his fingers

encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and

inflexible air.

“Out of the way, please, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He

raised his wand and made complicated movements

over the surface of the potion, murmuring

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soundlessly. Nothing happened, except perhaps that the potion glowed a little brighter. Harry remained

silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a while

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Harry felt it was

safe to talk again.

“You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?”

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore peered more closely into the

basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, in

the smooth surface of the green potion. “But how to

reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by hand,

Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor

can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made

to change its nature.”

Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand

again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the

crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere.

“I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to

be drunk.”

“What?” said Harry. “No!”

“Yes, I think so: Only by drinking it can I empty the

basin and see what lies in its depths.”

“But what if — what if it kills you?”

“Oh, I doubt that it would work like that,” said

Dumbledore easily. “Lord Voldemort would not want

to kill the person who reached this island.”

Harry couldn’t believe it. Was this more of

Dumbledore’s insane determination to see good in

everyone?

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“Sir,” said Harry, trying to keep his voice reasonable,

“sir, this is Voldemort we’re —”

“I’m sorry, Harry; I should have said, he would not

want to immediately kill the person who reached this

island,” Dumbledore corrected himself. “He would

want to keep them alive long enough to find out how

they managed to penetrate so far through his

defenses and, most importantly of all, why they were

so intent upon emptying the basin. Do not forget that

Lord Voldemort believes that he alone knows about

his Horcruxes.”

Harry made to speak again, but this time Dumbledore

raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at the

emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard.

“Undoubtedly,” he said, finally, “this potion must act

in a way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It

might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here

for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me

incapable in some other way. This being the case,

Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep

drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my

protesting mouth. You understand?”

Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with

that strange, green light. Harry did not speak. Was

this why he had been invited along — so that he

could force-feed Dumbledore a potion that might

cause him unendurable pain?

“You remember,” said Dumbledore, “the condition on

which I brought you with me?”

Harry hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had

turned green in the reflected light of the basin.

“But what if — ?”

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“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I

gave you?”

“Yes, but —”

“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”

“Well, then,” said Dumbledore, shaking back his

sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, “you

have my orders.”

“Why can’t I drink the potion instead?” asked Harry

desperately.

“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much

less valuable,” said Dumbledore. “Once and for all,

Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your

power to make me keep drinking?”

“Couldn’t — ?”

“Do I have it?”

“But —”

“Your word, Harry. ”

“I — all right, but —”

Before Harry could make any further protest,

Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the

potion. For a split second, Harry hoped that he would

not be able to touch the potion with the goblet, but

the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had;

when the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore lifted

it to his mouth.

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“Your good health, Harry.”

And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified,

his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that

his fingertips were numb.

“Professor?” he said anxiously, as Dumbledore

lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?”

Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Harry

wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore

plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled

it, and drank once more.

In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the

potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he

staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes

were still closed, his breathing heavy.

“Professor Dumbledore?” said Harry, his voice

strained. “Can you hear me?”

Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching

as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a

horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening;

the potion was about to spill from it. Harry reached

forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it

steady.

“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his

voice echoing around the cavern.

Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry

did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore

frightened like this.

“I don’t want … Don’t make me …”

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Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and

did not know what to do.

“… don’t like … want to stop …” moaned Dumbledore.

“You … you can’t stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You’ve

got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had

to keep drinking. Here …”

Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry

forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore’s mouth

and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the

remainder of the potion inside.

“No …” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back

into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don’t want to.

… I don’t want to. … Let me go. …”

“It’s all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand

shaking. “It’s all right, I’m here —”

“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore.

“Yes … yes, this’ll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped

the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore’s open

mouth.

Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around

the vast chamber, across the dead black water.

“No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t

want to. …”

“It’s all right, Professor, it’s all right!” said Harry

loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly

scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was

now half empty. “Nothing’s happening to you, you’re

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safe, it isn’t real, I swear it isn’t real — take this, now, take this. …”

And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was

an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the

goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.

“It’s all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please

make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it

stop and I’ll never, never again …”

“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his

voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of

potion into Dumbledore’s mouth.

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible

torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost

knocked the refilled goblet from Harry’s trembling

hands as he moaned, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt

them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead …”

“Here, drink this, drink this, you’ll be all right,” said

Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore

obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his

eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot.

And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering

his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth

goblet.

“Please, please, please, no … not that, not that, I’ll do

anything …”

“Just drink, Professor, just drink …”

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but

when he had finished, he yelled again as though his

insides were on fire. “No more, please, no more …”

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Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.

“We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it. …”

He supported Dumbledore’s shoulders and again,

Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his

feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore

began to scream in more anguish than ever, “I want

to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want

to die!”

“Drink this, Professor. Drink this. …”

Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished

than he yelled, “KILL ME!”

“This — this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this

… It’ll be over … all over!”

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last

drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over

onto his face.

“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet

again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin,

flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved

him over onto his back; Dumbledore’s glasses were

askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No,” said

Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you’re not dead, you

said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up —

Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointing at

Dumbledore’s chest; there was a flash of red light but

nothing happened. “Rennervate — sir — please —”

Dumbledore’s eyelids flickered; Harry’s heart leapt.

“Sir, are you — ?”

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“Water,” croaked Dumbledore.

“Water,” panted Harry. “Yes —”

He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had

dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden

locket lying curled beneath it.

“Aguamenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his

wand.

The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to

his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and

brought the glass to his lips — but it was empty.

Dumbledore groaned and began to pant.

“But I had some — wait — Aguamenti!” said Harry

again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for

a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he

approached Dumbledore’s mouth, the water vanished

again.

“Sir, I’m trying, I’m trying!” said Harry desperately,

but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear

him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing

great, rattling breaths that sounded agonizing.

“Aguamenti — Aguamenti — AGUAMENTI!”

The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now

Dumbledore’s breathing was fading. His brain

whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only

way left to get water, because Voldemort had planned

it so …

He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and

plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to

the brim of icy water that did not vanish.

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“Sir — here!” Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore’s face.

It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his

arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of

the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist,

and the creature to whom it belonged was pulling

him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of

the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was

churning, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads

and hands were emerging from the dark water, men

and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes

were moving toward the rock: an army of the dead

rising from the black water.

“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to

the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he

pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm: It

released him, falling backward into the water with a

splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi

were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands

clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted

eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken

faces leering.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing

away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or

seven of them crumpled, but more were coming

toward him. “Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”

A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in

ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them

merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still

slashing at the air with his wand, Harry yelled,

“Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”

But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and

their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: They walked

on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched

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toward him, and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless

arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as

they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and

surely, back to the water, and he knew there would

be no release, that he would be drowned, and become

one more dead guardian of a fragment of Voldemort’s

shattered soul. …

But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson

and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so

that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and

faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to

get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the

ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his

arms, but scrambled back up, raising his wand and

staring around.

Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the

surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire

dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch

and from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast

lasso, encircling them all with warmth.

The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting,

blindly, to escape the fire in which they were

enclosed. …

Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of

the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes.

Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side.

Distracted by the flames, the Inferi seemed unaware

that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led

Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with

them, around them, the bewildered Inferi

accompanying them to the water’s edge, where they

slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.

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Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a

moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb

into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it;

all his efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the

ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized

him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were

both safely jammed inside again, the boat began to

move back across the black water, away from the

rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed

that the Inferi swarming below them did not dare

resurface.

“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot — about fire — they

were coming at me and I panicked —”

“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore.

Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was.

They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry

leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore.

The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he

let his wand hand fall; the ring of fire vanished, but

the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The

little boat sank into the water once more; clanking

and tinkling, its chain slithered back into the lake

too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against

the cavern wall.

“I am weak. …” he said.

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about

Dumbledore’s extreme pallor and by his air of

exhaustion. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us back. … Lean on

me, sir. …”

And pulling Dumbledore’s uninjured arm around his

shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around

the lake, bearing most of his weight.

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“The protection was … after all … well-designed,” said Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done

it. … You did well, very well, Harry. …”

“Don’t talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred

Dumbledore’s voice had become, how much his feet

dragged. “Save your energy, sir. … We’ll soon be out

of here. …”

“The archway will have sealed again. … My knife …”

“There’s no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry

firmly. “Just tell me where. …”

“Here …”

Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone:

Having received its tribute of blood, the archway

reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and

Harry helped Dumbledore back into the icy seawater

that filled the crevice in the cliff.

“It’s going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and

over again, more worried by Dumbledore’s silence

than he had been by his weakened voice. “We’re

nearly there. … I can Apparate us both back. … Don’t

worry. …”

“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice

a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with

you.”

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THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER

Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved

Dumbledore onto the top of the nearest boulder and

then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore’s

weight still upon him, Harry concentrated harder

than he had ever done upon his destination:

Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore’s

arm as tightly as he could, he stepped forward into

that feeling of horrible compression.

He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: The

smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and

Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the

middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade. For one

horrible moment Harry’s imagination showed him

more Inferi creeping toward him around the sides of

shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was

stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a

few streetlamps and lit upper windows.

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“We did it, Professor!” Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realized that he had a searing stitch in

his chest. “We did it! We got the Horcrux!”

Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment,

Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had

thrown Dumbledore off balance; then he saw his face,

paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a

streetlamp.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“I’ve been better,” said Dumbledore weakly, though

the corners of his mouth twitched. “That potion …

was no health drink. …”

And to Harry’s horror, Dumbledore sank onto the

ground.

“Sir — it’s okay, sir, you’re going to be all right, don’t

worry —”

He looked around desperately for help, but there was

nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he

must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the

hospital wing.

“We need to get you up to the school, sir. … Madam

Pomfrey …”

“No,” said Dumbledore. “It is … Professor Snape

whom I need. … But I do not think … I can walk very

far just yet. …”

“Right — sir, listen — I’m going to knock on a door,

find a place you can stay — then I can run and get

Madam —”

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“Severus,” said Dumbledore clearly. “I need Severus.

…”

“All right then, Snape — but I’m going to have to leave

you for a moment so I can —”

Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard

running footsteps. His heart leapt: Somebody had

seen, somebody knew they needed help — and

looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying

down the dark street toward them on high-heeled,

fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown

embroidered with dragons.

“I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom

curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn’t

think what to — but what’s wrong with Albus?”

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-

eyed, at Dumbledore.

“He’s hurt,” said Harry. “Madam Rosmerta, can he

come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the

school and get help for him?”

“You can’t go up there alone! Don’t you realize —

haven’t you seen — ?

“If you help me support him,” said Harry, not

listening to her, “I think we can get him inside —”

“What has happened?” asked Dumbledore.

“Rosmerta, what’s wrong?”

“The — the Dark Mark, Albus.”

And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of

Hogwarts. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the

words. … He turned and looked.

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There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark

Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a

building … wherever they had murdered. …

“When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, and his

hand clenched painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he

struggled to his feet.

“Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I

put the cat out, but when I got upstairs —”

“We need to return to the castle at once,” said

Dumbledore. “Rosmerta” — and though he staggered

a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation

— “we need transport — brooms —”

“I’ve got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking

very frightened. “Shall I run and fetch — ?”

“No, Harry can do it.”

Harry raised his wand at once.

“Accio Rosmerta’s Brooms!”

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front

door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out

into the street and were racing each other to Harry’s

side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly at

waist height.

“Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,”

said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest

him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has

yet realized anything is wrong. … Harry, put on your

Invisibility Cloak.”

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Harry pulled his Cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself before mounting his broom: Madam

Rosmerta was already tottering back toward her pub

as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground

and rose up into the air. As they sped toward the

castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready

to grab him should he fall, but the sight of the Dark

Mark seemed to have acted upon Dumbledore like a

stimulant: He was bent low over his broom, his eyes

fixed upon the Mark, his long silver hair and beard

flying behind him on the night air. And Harry too

looked ahead at the skull, and fear swelled inside him

like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs,

driving all other discomfort from his mind. …

How long had they been away? Had Ron, Hermione,

and Ginny’s luck run out by now? Was it one of them

who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or

was it Neville, or Luna, or some other member of the

D.A.? And if it was … he was the one who had told

them to patrol the corridors, he had asked them to

leave the safety of their beds. … Would he be

responsible, again, for the death of a friend?

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which

they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the

whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore

muttering in some strange language again. He

thought he understood why as he felt his broom

shudder when they flew over the boundary wall into

the grounds: Dumbledore was undoing the

enchantments he himself had set around the castle

so they could enter at speed. The Dark Mark was

glittering directly above the Astronomy Tower, the

highest of the castle. Did that mean the death had

occurred there?

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Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated

ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to

him seconds later and looked around.

The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral

staircase that led back into the castle was closed.

There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the

death, of a body.

“What does it mean?” Harry asked Dumbledore,

looking up at the green skull with its serpent’s tongue

glinting evilly above them. “Is it the real Mark? Has

someone definitely been — Professor?”

In the dim green glow from the Mark, Harry saw

Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened

hand.

“Go and wake Severus,” said Dumbledore faintly but

clearly. “Tell him what has happened and bring him

to me. Do nothing else, speak to nobody else, and do

not remove your cloak. I shall wait here.”

“But —”

“You swore to obey me, Harry — go!”

Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral

staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the

iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps

on the other side. He looked around at Dumbledore,

who gestured him to retreat. Harry backed away,

drawing his wand as he did so.

The door burst open and somebody erupted through

it and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s body became instantly rigid and immobile,

and he felt himself fall back against the tower wall,

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propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or speak. He could not understand how it had happened

— Expelliarmus was not a Freezing Charm —

Then, by the light of the Mark, he saw Dumbledore’s

wand flying in an arc over the edge of the ramparts

and understood. … Dumbledore had wordlessly

immobilized Harry, and the second he had taken to

perform the spell had cost him the chance of

defending himself.

Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face,

Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or distress.

He merely looked across at his disarmer and said,

“Good evening, Draco.”

Malfoy stepped forward, glancing around quickly to

check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His eyes

fell upon the second broom.

“Who else is here?”

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

Harry saw Malfoy’s pale eyes shift back to

Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark.

“No,” he said. “I’ve got backup. There are Death

Eaters here in your school tonight.”

“Well, well,” said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was

showing him an ambitious homework project. “Very

good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did

you?”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who was panting. “Right under

your nose and you never realized!”

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“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “Yet … forgive me …

where are they now? You seem unsupported.”

“They met some of your guards. They’re having a fight

down below. They won’t be long. … I came on ahead. I

— I’ve got a job to do.”

“Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,”

said Dumbledore softly.

There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his

own invisible, paralyzed body, staring at the two of

them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death

Eaters’ distant fight, and in front of him, Draco

Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore,

who, incredibly, smiled.

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”

“How do you know?” said Malfoy at once.

He seemed to realize how childish the words had

sounded; Harry saw him flush in the Mark’s greenish

light.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” said Malfoy

more forcefully. “You don’t know what I’ve done!”

“Oh yes, I do,” said Dumbledore mildly. “You almost

killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been

trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year.

Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble

attempts. … So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder

whether your heart has been really in it.”

“It has been in it!” said Malfoy vehemently. “I’ve been

working on it all year, and tonight —”

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Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry

heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced

over his shoulder.

“Somebody is putting up a good fight,” said

Dumbledore conversationally. “But you were saying …

yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters

into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible.

… How did you do it?”

But Malfoy said nothing: He was still listening to

whatever was happening below and seemed almost as

paralyzed as Harry was.

“Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,”

suggested Dumbledore. “What if your backup has

been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps

realized, there are members of the Order of the

Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don’t

really need help. … I have no wand at the moment. …

I cannot defend myself.”

Malfoy merely stared at him.

“I see,” said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither

moved nor spoke. “You are afraid to act until they join

you.”

“I’m not afraid!” snarled Malfoy, though he still made

no move to hurt Dumbledore. “It’s you who should be

scared!”

“But why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing

is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe. … So tell

me, while we wait for your friends … how did you

smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a

long time to work out how to do it.”

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Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the

urge to shout, or to vomit. He gulped and took several

deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand

pointing directly at the latter’s heart. Then, as though

he could not help himself, he said, “I had to mend

that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for

years. The one Montague got lost in last year.”

“Aaaah.” Dumbledore’s sigh was half a groan. He

closed his eyes for a moment. “That was clever. …

There is a pair, I take it?”

“In Borgin and Burkes,” said Malfoy, “and they make

a kind of passage between them. Montague told me

that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was

trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what

was going on at school, and sometimes what was

going on in the shop, as if the cabinet was traveling

between them, but he couldn’t make anyone hear

him. … In the end, he managed to Apparate out, even

though he’d never passed his test. He nearly died

doing it. Everyone thought it was a really good story,

but I was the only one who realized what it meant —

even Borgin didn’t know — I was the one who realized

there could be a way into Hogwarts through the

cabinets if I fixed the broken one.”

“Very good,” murmured Dumbledore. “So the Death

Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes into

the school to help you. … A clever plan, a very clever

plan … and, as you say, right under my nose.”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who bizarrely seemed to draw

courage and comfort from Dumbledore’s praise.

“Yeah, it was!”

“But there were times,” Dumbledore went on, “weren’t

there, when you were not sure you would succeed in

mending the cabinet? And you resorted to crude and

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badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed

necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands …

poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I

might drink. …”

“Yeah, well, you still didn’t realize who was behind

that stuff, did you?” sneered Malfoy, as Dumbledore

slid a little down the ramparts, the strength in his

legs apparently fading, and Harry struggled

fruitlessly, mutely, against the enchantment binding

him.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Dumbledore. “I was

sure it was you.

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?” Malfoy demanded.

“I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping

watch over you on my orders —”

“He hasn’t been doing your orders, he promised my

mother —”

“Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but

—”

“He’s a double agent, you stupid old man, he isn’t

working for you, you just think he is!”

“We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens

that I trust Professor Snape —”

“Well, you’re losing your grip, then!” sneered Malfoy.

“He’s been offering me plenty of help — wanting all

the glory for himself— wanting a bit of the action —

‘What are you doing?’ ‘Did you do the necklace, that

was stupid, it could have blown everything —’ But I

haven’t told him what I’ve been doing in the Room of

Requirement, he’s going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll

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all be over and he won’t be the Dark Lord’s favorite anymore, he’ll be nothing compared to me, nothing!”

“Very gratifying,” said Dumbledore mildly. “We all like

appreciation for our own hard work, of course. But

you must have had an accomplice, all the same …

someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to

slip Katie the — the — aaaah …”

Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as

though he was about to fall asleep. “… of course …

Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius

Curse?”

“Got there at last, have you?” Malfoy taunted.

There was another yell from below, rather louder than

the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his shoulder

again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on: “So

poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own

bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts

student who entered the room unaccompanied? And

the poisoned mead … well, naturally, Rosmerta was

able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to

Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas

present. … Yes, very neat … very neat … Poor Mr.

Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of

Rosmerta’s. Tell me, how have you been

communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all

methods of communication in and out of the school

monitored.”

“Enchanted coins,” said Malfoy, as though he was

compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was

shaking badly. “I had one and she had the other and I

could send her messages —”

“Isn’t that the secret method of communication the

group that called themselves Dumbledore’s Army

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used last year?” asked Dumbledore. His voice was

light and conversational, but Harry saw him slip an

inch lower down the wall as he said it.

“Yeah, I got the idea from them,” said Malfoy, with a

twisted smile. “I got the idea of poisoning the mead

from the Mudblood Granger as well, I heard her

talking in the library about Filch not recognizing

potions.”

“Please do not use that offensive word in front of me,”

said Dumbledore.

Malfoy gave a harsh laugh. “You care about me saying

‘Mudblood’ when I’m about to kill you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore, and Harry saw his feet

slide a little on the floor as he struggled to remain

upright. “But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you

have had several long minutes now, we are quite

alone, I am more defenseless than you can have

dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted.

…”

Malfoy’s mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he

had tasted something very bitter.

“Now, about tonight,” Dumbledore went on, “I am a

little puzzled about how it happened. … You knew

that I had left the school? But of course,” he

answered his own question, “Rosmerta saw me

leaving, she tipped you off using your ingenious

coins, I’m sure.”

“That’s right,” said Malfoy. “But she said you were

just going for a drink, you’d be back. …”

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“Well, I certainly did have a drink … and I came back

… after a fashion,” mumbled Dumbledore. “So you

decided to spring a trap for me?”

“We decided to put the Dark Mark over the tower and

get you to hurry up here, to see who’d been killed,”

said Malfoy. “And it worked!”

“Well … yes and no …” said Dumbledore. “But am I to

take it, then, that nobody has been murdered?”

“Someone’s dead,” said Malfoy, and his voice seemed

to go up an octave as he said it. “One of your people

… I don’t know who, it was dark. … I stepped over the

body. … I was supposed to be waiting up here when

you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way. …”

“Yes, they do that,” said Dumbledore.

There was a bang and shouts from below, louder than

ever; it sounded as though people were fighting on the

actual spiral staircase that led to where Dumbledore,

Malfoy, and Harry stood, and Harry’s heart thundered

unheard in his invisible chest. … Someone was dead.

… Malfoy had stepped over the body … but who was

it?

“There is little time, one way or another,” said

Dumbledore. “So let us discuss your options, Draco.”

“My options!” said Malfoy loudly. “I’m standing here

with a wand — I’m about to kill you —”

“My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about

that. If you were going to kill me, you would have

done it when you first disarmed me, you would not

have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and

means.”

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“I haven’t got any options!” said Malfoy, and he was suddenly white as Dumbledore. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll

kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!”

“I appreciate the difficulty of your position,” said

Dumbledore. “Why else do you think I have not

confronted you before now? Because I knew that you

would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realized

that I suspected you.”

Malfoy winced at the sound of the name.

“I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which

I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used

Legilimency against you,” continued Dumbledore.

“But now at last we can speak plainly to each other.

… No harm has been done, you have hurt nobody,

though you are very lucky that your unintentional

victims survived. … I can help you, Draco.”

“No, you can’t,” said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking

very badly indeed. “Nobody can. He told me to do it or

he’ll kill me. I’ve got no choice.”

“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide

you more completely than you can possibly imagine.

What is more, I can send members of the Order to

your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father

is safe at the moment in Azkaban. … When the time

comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right

side, Draco … you are not a killer. …”

Malfoy stared at Dumbledore.

“But I got this far, didn’t I?” he said slowly. “They

thought I’d die in the attempt, but I’m here … and

you’re in my power. … I’m the one with the wand. …

You’re at my mercy. …”

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“No, Draco,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”

Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand

hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it drop by

a fraction —

But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs,

and a second later Malfoy was buffeted out of the way

as four people in black robes burst through the door

onto the ramparts. Still paralyzed, his eyes staring

unblinkingly, Harry gazed in terror upon four

strangers: It seemed the Death Eaters had won the

fight below.

A lumpy-looking man with an odd lopsided leer gave a

wheezy giggle.

“Dumbledore cornered!” he said, and he turned to a

stocky little woman who looked as though she could

be his sister and who was grinning eagerly.

“Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done,

Draco, well done!”

“Good evening, Amycus,” said Dumbledore calmly, as

though welcoming the man to a tea party. “And you’ve

brought Alecto too. … Charming …”

The woman gave an angry little titter. “Think your

little jokes’ll help you on your deathbed then?” she

jeered.

“Jokes? No, no, these are manners,” replied

Dumbledore.

“Do it,” said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a

big, rangy man with matted gray hair and whiskers,

whose black Death Eater’s robes looked

uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that

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Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat, and,

unmistakably, of blood coming from him. His filthy

hands had long yellowish nails.

“Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore.

“That’s right,” rasped the other. “Pleased to see me,

Dumbledore?”

“No, I cannot say that I am.”

Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood

trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly,

obscenely.

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.”

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without

the full moon now? This is most unusual. … You have

developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be

satisfied once a month?”

“That’s right,” said Fenrir Greyback. “Shocks you

that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?”

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,”

said Dumbledore. “And, yes, I am a little shocked that

Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school

where his friends live. …”

“I didn’t,” breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at

Fenrir; he did not seem to want to even glance at him.

“I didn’t know he was going to come —”

“I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts,

Dumbledore,” rasped Greyback. “Not when there are

throats to be ripped out… Delicious, delicious …”

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And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his front teeth, leering at Dumbledore. “I could do you for

afters, Dumbledore.”

“No,” said the fourth Death Eater sharply. He had a

heavy, brutal-looking face. “We’ve got orders. Draco’s

got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.”

Malfoy was showing less resolution than ever. He

looked terrified as he stared into Dumbledore’s face,

which was even paler, and rather lower than usual,

as he had slid so far down the rampart wall.

“He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!”

said the lopsided man, to the accompaniment of his

sister’s wheezing giggles. “Look at him — what’s

happened to you, then, Dumby?”

“Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus,”

said Dumbledore. “Old age, in short … One day,

perhaps, it will happen to you … if you are lucky. …”

“What’s that mean, then, what’s that mean?” yelled

the Death Eater, suddenly violent. “Always the same,

weren’t yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing,

nothing. I don’t even know why the Dark Lord’s

bothering to kill yer! Come on, Draco, do it!”

But at that moment there were renewed sounds of

scuffling from below and a voice shouted, “They’ve

blocked the stairs — Reducto! REDUCTO!”

Harry’s heart leapt: So these four had not eliminated

all opposition, but merely broken through the fight to

the top of the tower, and, by the sound of it, created a

barrier behind them —

“Now, Draco, quickly!” said the brutal-faced man

angrily.

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But Malfoy’s hand was shaking so badly that he could barely aim.

“I’ll do it,” snarled Fenrir, moving toward Dumbledore

with his hands outstretched, his teeth bared.

“I said no!” shouted the brutal-faced man; there was a

flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of the

way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking

furious. Harry’s heart was hammering so hard it

seemed impossible that nobody could hear him

standing there, imprisoned by Dumbledore’s spell —

if he could only move, he could aim a curse from

under the cloak —

“Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us —” screeched

the woman, but at that precise moment, the door to

the ramparts burst open once more and there stood

Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black

eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped

against the wall, to the four Death Eaters, including

the enraged werewolf, and Malfoy.

“We’ve got a problem, Snape,” said the lumpy

Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon

Dumbledore, “the boy doesn’t seem able —”

But somebody else had spoken Snape’s name, quite

softly.

“Severus …”

The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had

experienced all evening. For the first time,

Dumbledore was pleading.

Snape said nothing, but walked forward and pushed

Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters

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fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed cowed.

Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there

was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of

his face.

“Severus … please …”

Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at

Dumbledore.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand

and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry’s

scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving,

he was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted

into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang

suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell

slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the

battlements and out of sight.

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FLIGHT OF THE PRINCE

Harry felt as though he too were hurtling through

space; it had not happened. … It could not have

happened. …

“Out of here, quickly,” said Snape.

He seized Malfoy by the scruff of the neck and forced

him through the door ahead of the rest; Greyback and

the squat brother and sister followed, the latter both

panting excitedly. As they vanished through the door,

Harry realized he could move again. What was now

holding him paralyzed against the wall was not magic,

but horror and shock. He threw the Invisibility Cloak

aside as the brutal-faced Death Eater, last to leave

the tower top, was disappearing through the door.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The Death Eater buckled as though hit in the back

with something solid and fell to the ground, rigid as a

waxwork, but he had barely hit the floor when Harry

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was clambering over him and running down the

darkened staircase.

Terror tore at Harry’s heart. … He had to get to

Dumbledore and he had to catch Snape. … Somehow

the two things were linked. … He could reverse what

had happened if he had them both together. …

Dumbledore could not have died. …

He leapt the last ten steps of the spiral staircase and

stopped where he landed, his wand raised: The dimly

lit corridor was full of dust; half the ceiling seemed to

have fallen in; and a battle was raging before him, but

even as he attempted to make out who was fighting

whom, he heard the hated voice shout, “It’s over, time

to go!” and saw Snape disappearing around the corner

at the far end of the corridor; he and Malfoy seemed

to have forced their way through the fight unscathed.

As Harry plunged after them, one of the fighters

detached themselves from the fray and flew at him: It

was the werewolf, Fenrir. He was on top of Harry

before Harry could raise his wand: Harry fell

backward, with filthy matted hair in his face, the

stench of sweat and blood filling his nose and mouth,

hot greedy breath at his throat —

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry felt Fenrir collapse against him; with a

stupendous effort he pushed the werewolf off and

onto the floor as a jet of green light came flying

toward him; he ducked and ran, headfirst, into the

fight. His feet met something squashy and slippery on

the floor and he stumbled: There were two bodies

lying there, lying facedown in a pool of blood, but

there was no time to investigate. Harry now saw red

hair flying like flames in front of him: Ginny was

locked in combat with the lumpy Death Eater,

Amycus, who was throwing hex after hex at her while

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she dodged them: Amycus was giggling, enjoying the sport: “Crucio — Crucio — you can’t dance forever,

pretty —”

“Impedimenta!” yelled Harry.

His jinx hit Amycus in the chest: He gave a piglike

squeal of pain, was lifted off his feet and slammed

into the opposite wall, slid down it, and fell out of

sight behind Ron, Professor McGonagall, and Lupin,

each of whom was battling a separate Death Eater.

Beyond them, Harry saw Tonks fighting an enormous

blond wizard who was sending curses flying in all

directions, so that they ricocheted off the walls

around them, cracking stone, shattering the nearest

window —

“Harry, where did you come from?” Ginny cried, but

there was no time to answer her. He put his head

down and sprinted forward, narrowly avoiding a blast

that erupted over his head, showering them all in bits

of wall. Snape must not escape, he must catch up

with Snape —

“Take that!” shouted Professor McGonagall, and Harry

glimpsed the female Death Eater, Alecto, sprinting

away down the corridor with her arms over her head,

her brother right behind her. He launched himself

after them but his foot caught on something, and next

moment he was lying across someone’s legs. Looking

around, he saw Neville’s pale, round face flat against

the floor.

“Neville, are you — ?”

“M’all right,” muttered Neville, who was clutching his

stomach, “Harry … Snape ’n’ Malfoy … ran past …”

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“I know, I’m on it!” said Harry, aiming a hex from the floor at the enormous blond Death Eater who was

causing most of the chaos. The man gave a howl of

pain as the spell hit him in the face: He wheeled

around, staggered, and then pounded away after the

brother and sister. Harry scrambled up from the floor

and began to sprint along the corridor, ignoring the

bangs issuing from behind him, the yells of the others

to come back, and the mute call of the figures on the

ground whose fate he did not yet know. …

He skidded around the corner, his trainers slippery

with blood; Snape had an immense head start. Was it

possible that he had already entered the cabinet in

the Room of Requirement, or had the Order made

steps to secure it, to prevent the Death Eaters

retreating that way? He could hear nothing but his

own pounding feet, his own hammering heart as he

sprinted along the next empty corridor, but then

spotted a bloody footprint that showed at least one of

the fleeing Death Eaters was heading toward the front

doors — perhaps the Room of Requirement was

indeed blocked —

He skidded around another corner and a curse flew

past him; he dived behind a suit of armor that

exploded. He saw the brother and sister running

down the marble staircase ahead and aimed jinxes at

them, but merely hit several bewigged witches in a

portrait on the landing, who ran screeching into

neighboring paintings. As he leapt the wreckage of

armor, Harry heard more shouts and screams; other

people within the castle seemed to have awoken. …

He pelted toward a shortcut, hoping to overtake the

brother and sister and close in on Snape and Malfoy,

who must surely have reached the grounds by now.

Remembering to leap the vanishing step halfway

down the concealed staircase, he burst through a

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tapestry at the bottom and out into a corridor where a number of bewildered and pajama-clad Hufflepuffs

stood.

“Harry! We heard a noise, and someone said

something about the Dark Mark —” began Ernie

Macmillan.

“Out of the way!” yelled Harry, knocking two boys

aside as he sprinted toward the landing and down the

remainder of the marble staircase. The oak front

doors had been blasted open, there were smears of

blood on the flagstones, and several terrified students

stood huddled against the walls, one or two still

cowering with their arms over their faces. The giant

Gryffindor hourglass had been hit by a curse, and the

rubies within were still falling, with a loud rattle, onto

the flagstones below.

Harry flew across the entrance hall and out into the

dark grounds: He could just make out three figures

racing across the lawn, heading for the gates beyond

which they could Disapparate — by the looks of them,

the huge blond Death Eater and, some way ahead of

him, Snape and Malfoy …

The cold night air ripped at Harry’s lungs as he tore

after them; he saw a flash of light in the distance that

momentarily silhouetted his quarry. He did not know

what it was but continued to run, not yet near

enough to get a good aim with a curse —

Another flash, shouts, retaliatory jets of light, and

Harry understood: Hagrid had emerged from his

cabin and was trying to stop the Death Eaters

escaping, and though every breath seemed to shred

his lungs and the stitch in his chest was like fire,

Harry sped up as an unbidden voice in his head said:

not Hagrid … not Hagrid too …

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Something caught Harry hard in the small of the back and he fell forward, his face smacking the ground,

blood pouring out of both nostrils: He knew, even as

he rolled over, his wand ready, that the brother and

sister he had overtaken using his shortcut were

closing in behind him. …

“Impedimenta!” he yelled as he rolled over again,

crouching close to the dark ground, and miraculously

his jinx hit one of them, who stumbled and fell,

tripping up the other; Harry leapt to his feet and

sprinted on after Snape.

And now he saw the vast outline of Hagrid,

illuminated by the light of the crescent moon revealed

suddenly behind clouds; the blond Death Eater was

aiming curse after curse at the gamekeeper; but

Hagrid’s immense strength and the toughened skin

he had inherited from his giantess mother seemed to

be protecting him. Snape and Malfoy, however, were

still running; they would soon be beyond the gates,

able to Disapparate —

Harry tore past Hagrid and his opponent, took aim at

Snape’s back, and yelled, “Stupefy!”

He missed; the jet of red light soared past Snape’s

head; Snape shouted, “Run, Draco!” and turned.

Twenty yards apart, he and Harry looked at each

other before raising their wands simultaneously.

“Cruc —”

But Snape parried the curse, knocking Harry

backward off his feet before he could complete it;

Harry rolled over and scrambled back up again as the

huge Death Eater behind him yelled, “Incendio!” Harry

heard an explosive bang and a dancing orange light

spilled over all of them: Hagrid’s house was on fire.

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“Fang’s in there, yer evil — !” Hagrid bellowed.

“Cruc —” yelled Harry for the second time, aiming for

the figure ahead illuminated in the dancing firelight,

but Snape blocked the spell again. Harry could see

him sneering.

“No Unforgivable Curses from you, Potter!” he

shouted over the rushing of the flames, Hagrid’s yells,

and the wild yelping of the trapped Fang. “You haven’t

got the nerve or the ability —”

“Incarc —” Harry roared, but Snape deflected the spell

with an almost lazy flick of his arm.

“Fight back!” Harry screamed at him. “Fight back, you

cowardly —”

“Coward, did you call me, Potter?” shouted Snape.

“Your father would never attack me unless it was four

on one, what would you call him, I wonder?”

“Stupe —”

“Blocked again and again and again until you learn to

keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!”

sneered Snape, deflecting the curse once more. “Now

come!” he shouted at the huge Death Eater behind

Harry. “It is time to be gone, before the Ministry turns

up —”

“Impedi —”

But before he could finish this jinx, excruciating pain

hit Harry; he keeled over in the grass. Someone was

screaming, he would surely die of this agony, Snape

was going to torture him to death or madness —

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“No!” roared Snape’s voice and the pain stopped as suddenly as it had started; Harry lay curled on the

dark grass, clutching his wand and panting;

somewhere overhead Snape was shouting, “Have you

forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord

— we are to leave him! Go! Go!”

And Harry felt the ground shudder under his face as

the brother and sister and the enormous Death Eater

obeyed, running toward the gates. Harry uttered an

inarticulate yell of rage: In that instant, he cared not

whether he lived or died. Pushing himself to his feet

again, he staggered blindly toward Snape, the man he

now hated as much as he hated Voldemort himself —

“Sectum — !”

Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet

again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he

could see Snape’s face clearly at last: He was no

longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed

a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of

concentration, Harry thought, Levi —

“No, Potter!” screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG

and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground

hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his

hand. He could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang howling

as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he

lay, wandless and defenseless as Dumbledore had

been. Snape’s pale face, illuminated by the flaming

cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been

before he had cursed Dumbledore.

“You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It

was I who invented them — I, the Half-Blood Prince!

And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy

father, would you? I don’t think so … no!”

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Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of

sight.

“Kill me then,” panted Harry, who felt no fear at all,

but only rage and contempt. “Kill me like you killed

him, you coward —”

“DON’T—” screamed Snape, and his face was

suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in

as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the

burning house behind them — “CALL ME COWARD!”

And he slashed at the air: Harry felt a white-hot,

whiplike something hit him across the face and was

slammed backward into the ground. Spots of light

burst in front of his eyes and for a moment all the

breath seemed to have gone from his body, then he

heard a rush of wings above him and something

enormous obscured the stars. Buckbeak had flown at

Snape, who staggered backward as the razor-sharp

claws slashed at him. As Harry raised himself into a

sitting position, his head still swimming from its last

contact with the ground, he saw Snape running as

hard as he could, the enormous beast flapping behind

him and screeching as Harry had never heard him

screech —

Harry struggled to his feet, looking around groggily for

his wand, hoping to give chase again, but even as his

fingers fumbled in the grass, discarding twigs, he

knew it would be too late, and sure enough, by the

time he had located his wand, he turned only to see

the hippogriff circling the gates. Snape had managed

to Disapparate just beyond the school’s boundaries.

“Hagrid,” muttered Harry, still dazed, looking around.

“HAGRID?”

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He stumbled toward the burning house as an

enormous figure emerged from out of the flames

carrying Fang on his back. With a cry of

thankfulness, Harry sank to his knees; he was

shaking in every limb, his body ached all over, and

his breath came in painful stabs.

“Yeh all righ’, Harry? Yeh all righ’? Speak ter me,

Harry. …”

Hagrid’s huge, hairy face was swimming above Harry,

blocking out the stars. Harry could smell burnt wood

and dog hair; he put out a hand and felt Fang’s

reassuringly warm and alive body quivering beside

him.

“I’m all right,” panted Harry. “Are you?”

“ ’Course I am … take more’n that ter finish me.”

Hagrid put his hands under Harry’s arms and raised

him up with such force that Harry’s feet momentarily

left the ground before Hagrid set him upright again.

He could see blood trickling down Hagrid’s cheek

from a deep cut under one eye, which was swelling

rapidly.

“We should put out your house,” said Harry, “the

charm’s ‘Aguamenti’ …”

“Knew it was summat like that,” mumbled Hagrid,

and he raised a smoldering pink, flowery umbrella

and said, “Aguamenti!”

A jet of water flew out of the umbrella tip. Harry

raised his wand arm, which felt like lead, and

murmured “Aguamenti” too: Together, he and Hagrid

poured water on the house until the last flame was

extinguished.

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“S’not too bad,” said Hagrid hopefully a few minutes later, looking at the smoking wreck. “Nothin’

Dumbledore won’ be able to put righ’ …”

Harry felt a searing pain in his stomach at the sound

of the name. In the silence and the stillness, horror

rose inside him.

“Hagrid …”

“I was bindin’ up a couple o’ bowtruckle legs when I

heard ’em comin’,” said Hagrid sadly, still staring at

his wrecked cabin. “They’ll’ve bin burnt ter twigs,

poor little things. …”

“Hagrid …”

“But what happened, Harry? I jus’ saw them Death

Eaters runnin’ down from the castle, but what the

ruddy hell was Snape doin’ with ’em? Where’s he gone

— was he chasin’ them?”

“He …” Harry cleared his throat; it was dry from panic

and the smoke. “Hagrid, he killed …”

“Killed?” said Hagrid loudly, staring down at Harry.

“Snape killed? What’re yeh on abou’, Harry?”

“Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Snape killed …

Dumbledore.”

Hagrid simply looked at him, the little of his face that

could be seen completely blank, uncomprehending.

“Dumbledore wha’, Harry?”

“He’s dead. Snape killed him. …”

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“Don’ say that,” said Hagrid roughly. “Snape kill

Dumbledore — don’ be stupid, Harry. Wha’s made

yeh say tha’?”

“I saw it happen.”

“Yeh couldn’ have.”

“I saw it, Hagrid.”

Hagrid shook his head; his expression was

disbelieving but sympathetic, and Harry knew that

Hagrid thought he had sustained a blow to the head,

that he was confused, perhaps by the aftereffects of a

jinx. …

“What musta happened was, Dumbledore musta told

Snape ter go with them Death Eaters,” Hagrid said

confidently. “I suppose he’s gotta keep his cover.

Look, let’s get yeh back up ter the school. Come on,

Harry. …”

Harry did not attempt to argue or explain. He was still

shaking uncontrollably. Hagrid would find out soon

enough, too soon. … As they directed their steps back

toward the castle, Harry saw that many of its

windows were lit now. He could imagine, clearly, the

scenes inside as people moved from room to room,

telling each other that Death Eaters had got in, that

the Mark was shining over Hogwarts, that somebody

must have been killed. …

The oak front doors stood open ahead of them, light

flooding out onto the drive and the lawn. Slowly,

uncertainly, dressing-gowned people were creeping

down the steps, looking around nervously for some

sign of the Death Eaters who had fled into the night.

Harry’s eyes, however, were fixed upon the ground at

the foot of the tallest tower. He imagined that he

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could see a black, huddled mass lying in the grass there, though he was really too far away to see

anything of the sort. Even as he stared wordlessly at

the place where he thought Dumbledore’s body must

lie, however, he saw people beginning to move toward

it.

“What’re they all lookin’ at?” said Hagrid, as he and

Harry approached the castle front, Fang keeping as

close as he could to their ankles. “Wha’s tha’, lyin’ on

the grass?” Hagrid added sharply, heading now

toward the foot of the Astronomy Tower, where a

small crowd was congregating. “See it, Harry? Righ’ at

the foot o’ the tower? Under where the Mark … Blimey

… yeh don’ think someone got thrown — ?”

Hagrid fell silent, the thought apparently too horrible

to express aloud. Harry walked alongside him, feeling

the aches and pains in his face and his legs where the

various hexes of the last half hour had hit him,

though in an oddly detached way, as though

somebody near him was suffering them. What was

real and inescapable was the awful pressing feeling in

his chest. …

He and Hagrid moved, dreamlike, through the

murmuring crowd to the very front, where the

dumbstruck students and teachers had left a gap.

Harry heard Hagrid’s moan of pain and shock, but he

did not stop; he walked slowly forward until he

reached the place where Dumbledore lay and

crouched down beside him. He had known there was

no hope from the moment that the full Body-Bind

Curse Dumbledore had placed upon him lifted,

known that it could have happened only because its

caster was dead, but there was still no preparation for

seeing him here, spread-eagled, broken: the greatest

wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet.

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Dumbledore’s eyes were closed; but for the strange angle of his arms and legs, he might have been

sleeping. Harry reached out, straightened the half-

moon spectacles upon the crooked nose, and wiped a

trickle of blood from the mouth with his own sleeve.

Then he gazed down at the wise old face and tried to

absorb the enormous and incomprehensible truth:

that never again would Dumbledore speak to him,

never again could he help. …

The crowd murmured behind Harry. After what

seemed like a long time, he became aware that he was

kneeling upon something hard and looked down.

The locket they had managed to steal so many hours

before had fallen out of Dumbledore’s pocket. It had

opened, perhaps due to the force with which it hit the

ground. And although he could not feel more shock or

horror or sadness than he felt already, Harry knew,

as he picked it up, that there was something wrong.

…

He turned the locket over in his hands. This was

neither as large as the locket he remembered seeing

in the Pensieve, nor were there any markings upon it,

no sign of the ornate S that was supposed to be

Slytherin’s mark. Moreover, there was nothing inside

but for a scrap of folded parchment wedged tightly

into the place where a portrait should have been.

Automatically, without really thinking about what he

was doing, Harry pulled out the fragment of

parchment, opened it, and read by the light of the

many wands that had now been lit behind him:

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this

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but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.

I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.

I face death in the hope that when you meet your

match,

you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

Harry neither knew nor cared what the message

meant. Only one thing mattered: This was not a

Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by

drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Harry

crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes

burned with tears as behind him Fang began to howl.

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THE PHOENIX LAMENT

“C’mere, Harry …”

“No.”

“Yeh can’ stay here, Harry. … Come on, now. …”

“No.”

He did not want to leave Dumbledore’s side, he did

not want to move anywhere. Hagrid’s hand on his

shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said,

“Harry, come on.”

A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his

and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its pressure

without really thinking about it. Only as he walked

blindly back through the crowd did he realize, from a

trace of flowery scent on the air, that it was Ginny

who was leading him back into the castle.

Incomprehensible voices battered him, sobs and

shouts and wails stabbed the night, but Harry and

Ginny walked on, back up the steps into the entrance

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hall. Faces swam on the edges of Harry’s vision,

people were peering at him, whispering, wondering,

and Gryffindor rubies glistened on the floor like drops

of blood as they made their way toward the marble

staircase.

“We’re going to the hospital wing,” said Ginny.

“I’m not hurt,” said Harry.

“It’s McGonagall’s orders,” said Ginny. “Everyone’s up

there, Ron and Hermione and Lupin and everyone —”

Fear stirred in Harry’s chest again: He had forgotten

the inert figures he had left behind.

“Ginny, who else is dead?”

“Don’t worry, none of us.”

“But the Dark Mark — Malfoy said he stepped over a

body —”

“He stepped over Bill, but it’s all right, he’s alive.”

There was something in her voice, however, that

Harry knew boded ill.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure … he’s a — a bit of a mess, that’s

all. Greyback attacked him. Madam Pomfrey says he

won’t — won’t look the same anymore. …”

Ginny’s voice trembled a little.

“We don’t really know what the aftereffects will be — I

mean, Greyback being a werewolf, but not

transformed at the time.”

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“But the others … There were other bodies on the

ground. …”

“Neville and Professor Flitwick are both hurt, but

Madam Pomfrey says they’ll be all right. And a Death

Eater’s dead, he got hit by a Killing Curse that huge

blond one was firing off everywhere — Harry, if we

hadn’t had your Felix potion, I think we’d all have

been killed, but everything seemed to just miss us —”

They had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open

the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently asleep,

in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks,

and Lupin were gathered around another bed near

the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors

opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry

and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking

anxious.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

“I’m fine. … How’s Bill?”

Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione’s

shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on

Bill’s pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he

looked grotesque. Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at his

wounds with some harsh-smelling green ointment.

Harry remembered how Snape had mended Malfoy’s

Sectumsempra wounds so easily with his wand.

“Can’t you fix them with a charm or something?” he

asked the matron.

“No charm will work on these,” said Madam Pomfrey.

“I’ve tried everything I know, but there is no cure for

werewolf bites.”

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“But he wasn’t bitten at the full moon,” said Ron, who was gazing down into his brother’s face as though he

could somehow force him to mend just by staring.

“Greyback hadn’t transformed, so surely Bill won’t be

a — a real — ?”

He looked uncertainly at Lupin.

“No, I don’t think that Bill will be a true werewolf,”

said Lupin, “but that does not mean that there won’t

be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds.

They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and — and Bill

might have some wolfish characteristics from now

on.”

“Dumbledore might know something that’d work,

though,” Ron said. “Where is he? Bill fought those

maniacs on Dumbledore’s orders, Dumbledore owes

him, he can’t leave him in this state —”

“Ron — Dumbledore’s dead,” said Ginny.

“No!” Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as

though hoping the latter might contradict her, but

when Harry did not, Lupin collapsed into a chair

beside Bill’s bed, his hands over his face. Harry had

never seen Lupin lose control before; he felt as though

he was intruding upon something private, indecent.

He turned away and caught Ron’s eye instead,

exchanging in silence a look that confirmed what

Ginny had said.

“How did he die?” whispered Tonks. “How did it

happen?”

“Snape killed him,” said Harry. “I was there, I saw it.

We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because

that’s where the Mark was. … Dumbledore was ill, he

was weak, but I think he realized it was a trap when

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we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He

immobilized me, I couldn’t do anything, I was under

the Invisibility Cloak — and then Malfoy came

through the door and disarmed him —”

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron

groaned. Luna’s mouth trembled.

“— more Death Eaters arrived — and then Snape —

and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra. ” Harry couldn’t

go on.

Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Nobody paid her

any attention except Ginny, who whispered, “Shh!

Listen!”

Gulping, Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers to her

mouth, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the

darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had

never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible

beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix

song before, that the music was inside him, not

without: It was his own grief turned magically to song

that echoed across the grounds and through the

castle windows.

How long they all stood there, listening, he did not

know, nor why it seemed to ease their pain a little to

listen to the sound of their mourning, but it felt like a

long time later that the hospital door opened again

and Professor McGonagall entered the ward. Like all

the rest, she bore marks of the recent battle: There

were grazes on her face and her robes were ripped.

“Molly and Arthur are on their way,” she said, and the

spell of the music was broken: Everyone roused

themselves as though coming out of trances, turning

again to look at Bill, or else to rub their own eyes,

shake their heads. “Harry, what happened? According

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to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore when

he — when it happened. He says Professor Snape was

involved in some —”

“Snape killed Dumbledore,” said Harry.

She stared at him for a moment, then swayed

alarmingly; Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have

pulled herself together, ran forward, conjuring a chair

from thin air, which she pushed under McGonagall.

“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the

chair. “We all wondered … but he trusted … always …

Snape … I can’t believe it. …”

“Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said

Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We

always knew that.”

“But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!”

whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore

must know something about Snape that we didn’t. …”

“He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for

trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall, now

dabbing at the corners of her leaking eyes with a

tartan-edged handkerchief. “I mean … with Snape’s

history … of course people were bound to wonder …

but Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape’s

repentance was absolutely genuine. … Wouldn’t hear

a word against him!”

“I’d love to know what Snape told him to convince

him,” said Tonks.

“I know,” said Harry, and they all turned to look at

him. “Snape passed Voldemort the information that

made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then

Snape told Dumbledore he hadn’t realized what he

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was doing, he was really sorry he’d done it, sorry that they were dead.”

They all stared at him.

“And Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin

incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry

James was dead? Snape hated James. …”

“And he didn’t think my mother was worth a damn

either,” said Harry, “because she was Muggle-born. …

‘Mudblood,’ he called her. …”

Nobody asked how Harry knew this. All of them

seemed to be lost in horrified shock, trying to digest

the monstrous truth of what had happened.

“This is all my fault,” said Professor McGonagall

suddenly. She looked disoriented, twisting her wet

handkerchief in her hands. “My fault. I sent Filius to

fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come

and help us! If I hadn’t alerted Snape to what was

going on, he might never have joined forces with the

Death Eaters. I don’t think he knew they were there

before Filius told him, I don’t think he knew they were

coming.”

“It isn’t your fault, Minerva,” said Lupin firmly. “We

all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape

was on his way. …”

“So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the

Death Eaters’ side?” asked Harry, who wanted every

detail of Snape’s duplicity and infamy, feverishly

collecting more reasons to hate him, to swear

vengeance.

“I don’t know exactly how it happened,” said Professor

McGonagall distractedly. “It’s all so confusing. …

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Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the school for a few hours and that we were to patrol the

corridors just in case … Remus, Bill, and

Nymphadora were to join us … and so we patrolled.

All seemed quiet. Every secret passageway out of the

school was covered. We knew nobody could fly in.

There were powerful enchantments on every entrance

into the castle. I still don’t know how the Death

Eaters can possibly have entered. …”

“I do,” said Harry, and he explained, briefly, about the

pair of Vanishing Cabinets and the magical pathway

they formed. “So they got in through the Room of

Requirement.”

Almost against his will he glanced from Ron to

Hermione, both of whom looked devastated.

“I messed up, Harry,” said Ron bleakly. “We did like

you told us: We checked the Marauder’s Map and we

couldn’t see Malfoy on it, so we thought he must be in

the Room of Requirement, so me, Ginny, and Neville

went to keep watch on it … but Malfoy got past us.”

“He came out of the room about an hour after we

started keeping watch,” said Ginny. “He was on his

own, clutching that awful shriveled arm —”

“His Hand of Glory,” said Ron. “Gives light only to the

holder, remember?”

“Anyway,” Ginny went on, “he must have been

checking whether the coast was clear to let the Death

Eaters out, because the moment he saw us he threw

something into the air and it all went pitch-black —”

“— Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” said Ron

bitterly. “Fred and George’s. I’m going to be having a

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word with them about who they let buy their

products.”

“We tried everything, Lumos, Incendio,” said Ginny.

“Nothing would penetrate the darkness; all we could

do was grope our way out of the corridor again, and

meanwhile we could hear people rushing past us.

Obviously Malfoy could see because of that hand

thing and was guiding them, but we didn’t dare use

any curses or anything in case we hit each other, and

by the time we’d reached a corridor that was light,

they’d gone.”

“Luckily,” said Lupin hoarsely, “Ron, Ginny, and

Neville ran into us almost immediately and told us

what had happened. We found the Death Eaters

minutes later, heading in the direction of the

Astronomy Tower. Malfoy obviously hadn’t expected

more people to be on the watch; he seemed to have

exhausted his supply of Darkness Powder, at any

rate. A fight broke out, they scattered and we gave

chase. One of them, Gibbon, broke away and headed

up the tower stairs —”

“To set off the Mark?” asked Harry.

“He must have done, yes, they must have arranged

that before they left the Room of Requirement,” said

Lupin. “But I don’t think Gibbon liked the idea of

waiting up there alone for Dumbledore, because he

came running back downstairs to rejoin the fight and

was hit by a Killing Curse that just missed me.”

“So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement

with Ginny and Neville,” said Harry, turning to

Hermione, “were you — ?”

“Outside Snape’s office, yes,” whispered Hermione,

her eyes sparkling with tears, “with Luna. We hung

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around for ages outside it and nothing happened. …

We didn’t know what was going on upstairs, Ron had

taken the map. … It was nearly midnight when

Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into the

dungeons. He was shouting about Death Eaters in

the castle, I don’t think he really registered that Luna

and I were there at all, he just burst his way into

Snape’s office and we heard him saying that Snape

had to go back with him and help and then we heard

a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out of his

room and he saw us and — and —”

“What?” Harry urged her.

“I was so stupid, Harry!” said Hermione in a high-

pitched whisper. “He said Professor Flitwick had

collapsed and that we should go and take care of him

while he — while he went to help fight the Death

Eaters —” She covered her face in shame and

continued to talk into her fingers, so that her voice

was muffled. “We went into his office to see if we

could help Professor Flitwick and found him

unconscious on the floor … and oh, it’s so obvious

now, Snape must have Stupefied Flitwick, but we

didn’t realize, Harry, we didn’t realize, we just let

Snape go!”

“It’s not your fault,” said Lupin firmly. “Hermione,

had you not obeyed Snape and got out of the way, he

probably would have killed you and Luna.”

“So then he came upstairs,” said Harry, who was

watching Snape running up the marble staircase in

his mind’s eye, his black robes billowing behind him

as ever, pulling his wand from under his cloak as he

ascended, “and he found the place where you were all

fighting. …”

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“We were in trouble, we were losing,” said Tonks in a low voice. “Gibbon was down, but the rest of the

Death Eaters seemed ready to fight to the death.

Neville had been hurt, Bill had been savaged by

Greyback … It was all dark … curses flying

everywhere … The Malfoy boy had vanished, he must

have slipped past, up the stairs … then more of them

ran after him, but one of them blocked the stair

behind them with some kind of curse. … Neville ran

at it and got thrown up into the air —”

“None of us could break through,” said Ron, “and that

massive Death Eater was still firing off jinxes all over

the place, they were bouncing off the walls and barely

missing us. …”

“And then Snape was there,” said Tonks, “and then

he wasn’t —”

“I saw him running toward us, but that huge Death

Eater’s jinx just missed me right afterward and I

ducked and lost track of things,” said Ginny.

“I saw him run straight through the cursed barrier as

though it wasn’t there,” said Lupin. “I tried to follow

him, but was thrown back just like Neville. …”

“He must have known a spell we didn’t,” whispered

McGonagall. “After all — he was the Defense Against

the Dark Arts teacher. … I just assumed that he was

in a hurry to chase after the Death Eaters who’d

escaped up to the tower. …”

“He was,” said Harry savagely, “but to help them, not

to stop them … and I’ll bet you had to have a Dark

Mark to get through that barrier — so what happened

when he came back down?”

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“Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke the

curse blocking the stairs,” said Lupin. “We all ran

forward — those of us who were still standing anyway

— and then Snape and the boy emerged out of the

dust — obviously, none of us attacked them —”

“We just let them pass,” said Tonks in a hollow voice.

“We thought they were being chased by the Death

Eaters — and next thing, the other Death Eaters and

Greyback were back and we were fighting again — I

thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don’t

know what —”

“He shouted, ‘It’s over,’ ” said Harry. “He’d done what

he’d meant to do.”

They all fell silent. Fawkes’s lament was still echoing

over the dark grounds outside. As the music

reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome

thoughts slunk into Harry’s mind. … Had they taken

Dumbledore’s body from the foot of the tower yet?

What would happen to it next? Where would it rest?

He clenched his fists tightly in his pockets. He could

feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux against

the knuckles of his right hand.

The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making

them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding up

the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face

terrified.

“Molly — Arthur —” said Professor McGonagall,

jumping up and hurrying to greet them. “I am so

sorry —”

“Bill,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor

McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill’s mangled face.

“Oh, Bill!”

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Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the

bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her

lips to his bloody forehead.

“You said Greyback attacked him?” Mr. Weasley

asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. “But he

hadn’t transformed? So what does that mean? What

will happen to Bill?”

“We don’t yet know,” said Professor McGonagall,

looking helplessly at Lupin.

“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur,”

said Lupin. “It is an odd case, possibly unique. … We

don’t know what his behavior might be like when he

awakens. …”

Mrs. Weasley took the nasty-smelling ointment from

Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill’s wounds.

“And Dumbledore …” said Mr. Weasley. “Minerva, is it

true … Is he really … ?”

As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny

move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly

narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing

down at Bill with a frozen expression on her face.

“Dumbledore gone,” whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs.

Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she began

to sob, tears falling onto Bill’s mutilated face.

“Of course, it doesn’t matter how he looks. … It’s not

r-really important … but he was a very handsome

little b-boy … always very handsome … and he was g-

going to be married!”

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“And what do you mean by zat?” said Fleur suddenly and loudly. “What do you mean, ‘’e was going to be

married?’ ”

Mrs. Weasley raised her tear-stained face, looking

startled. “Well — only that —”

“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?”

demanded Fleur. “You theenk, because of these bites,

he will not love me?”

“No, that’s not what I —”

“Because ’e will!” said Fleur, drawing herself up to her

full height and throwing back her long mane of silver

hair. “It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill

loving me!”

“Well, yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but I

thought perhaps — given how — how he —”

“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or

per’aps, you hoped?” said Fleur, her nostrils flaring.

“What do I care how he looks? I am good-looking

enough for both of us, I theenk! All these scars show

is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!” she

added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and

snatching the ointment from her.

Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and

watched Fleur mopping up Bill’s wounds with a most

curious expression upon her face. Nobody said

anything; Harry did not dare move. Like everybody

else, he was waiting for the explosion.

“Our Great-Auntie Muriel,” said Mrs. Weasley after a

long pause, “has a very beautiful tiara — goblin-made

— which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you

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for the wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, and it would look lovely with your hair.”

“Thank you,” said Fleur stiffly. “I am sure zat will be

lovely.”

And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened,

both women were crying and hugging each other.

Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world

had gone mad, he turned around: Ron looked as

stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were

exchanging startled looks.

“You see!” said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at

Lupin. “She still wants to marry him, even though

he’s been bitten! She doesn’t care!”

“It’s different,” said Lupin, barely moving his lips and

looking suddenly tense. “Bill will not be a full

werewolf. The cases are completely —”

“But I don’t care either, I don’t care!” said Tonks,

seizing the front of Lupin’s robes and shaking them.

“I’ve told you a million times. …”

And the meaning of Tonks’s Patronus and her mouse-

colored hair, and the reason she had come running to

find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor

someone had been attacked by Greyback, all

suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been

Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all.

“And I’ve told you a million times,” said Lupin,

refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, “that I

am too old for you, too poor … too dangerous. …”

“I’ve said all along you’re taking a ridiculous line on

this, Remus,” said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur’s shoulder

as she patted her on the back.

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“I am not being ridiculous,” said Lupin steadily.

“Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.”

“But she wants you,” said Mr. Weasley, with a small

smile. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do

not necessarily remain so.”

He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them.

“This is … not the moment to discuss it,” said Lupin,

avoiding everybody’s eyes as he looked around

distractedly. “Dumbledore is dead. …”

“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody

to think that there was a little more love in the world,”

said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital

doors opened again and Hagrid walked in.

The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or

beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking with

tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand.

“I’ve … I’ve done it, Professor,” he choked. “M-moved

him. Professor Sprout’s got the kids back in bed.

Professor Flitwick’s lyin’ down, but he says he’ll be all

righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the

Ministry’s bin informed.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall,

standing up at once and turning to look at the group

around Bill’s bed. “I shall have to see the Ministry

when they get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of

Houses — Slughorn can represent Slytherin — that I

want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like

you to join us too.”

As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the

room again, she looked down at Harry. “Before I meet

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them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you’ll come with me. …”

Harry stood up, murmured “See you in a bit” to Ron,

Hermione, and Ginny, and followed Professor

McGonagall back down the ward. The corridors

outside were deserted and the only sound was the

distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before

Harry became aware that they were not heading for

Professor McGonagall’s office, but for Dumbledore’s,

and another few seconds before he realized that of

course, she had been deputy headmistress. …

Apparently she was now headmistress … so the room

behind the gargoyle was now hers.

In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase

and entered the circular office. He did not know what

he had expected: that the room would be draped in

black, perhaps, or even that Dumbledore’s body

might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly

as it had done when he and Dumbledore had left it

mere hours previously: the silver instruments

whirring and puffing on their spindle-legged tables,

Gryffindor’s sword in its glass case gleaming in the

moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf behind the

desk. But Fawkes’s perch stood empty, he was still

crying his lament to the grounds. And a new portrait

had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and

headmistresses of Hogwarts: Dumbledore was

slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his half-

moon spectacles perched upon his crooked nose,

looking peaceful and untroubled.

After glancing once at this portrait, Professor

McGonagall made an odd movement as though

steeling herself, then rounded the desk to look at

Harry, her face taut and lined.

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“Harry,” she said, “I would like to know what you and Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening when

you left the school.”

“I can’t tell you that, Professor,” said Harry. He had

expected the question and had his answer ready. It

had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore

had told him that he was to confide the contents of

their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione.

“Harry, it might be important,” said Professor

McGonagall.

“It is,” said Harry, “very, but he didn’t want me to tell

anyone.”

Professor McGonagall glared at him. “Potter” — Harry

registered the renewed use of his surname — “in the

light of Professor Dumbledore’s death, I think you

must see that the situation has changed somewhat —

”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “Professor

Dumbledore never told me to stop following his orders

if he died.”

“But —”

“There’s one thing you should know before the

Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta’s under

the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the

Death Eaters, that’s how the necklace and the

poisoned mead —”

“Rosmerta?” said Professor McGonagall incredulously,

but before she could go on, there was a knock on the

door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick,

and Slughorn traipsed into the room, followed by

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Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge

frame trembling with grief.

“Snape!” ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most

shaken, pale and sweating. “Snape! I taught him! I

thought I knew him!”

But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp

voice spoke from high on the wall: A sallow-faced

wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back

into his empty canvas.

“Minerva, the Minister will be here within seconds, he

has just Disapparated from the Ministry.”

“Thank you, Everard,” said Professor McGonagall,

and she turned quickly to her teachers.

“I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts

before he gets here,” she said quickly. “Personally, I

am not convinced that the school should reopen next

year. The death of the headmaster at the hands of one

of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts’s

history. It is horrible.”

“I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school

to remain open,” said Professor Sprout. “I feel that if a

single pupil wants to come, then the school ought to

remain open for that pupil.”

“But will we have a single pupil after this?” said

Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a

silken handkerchief. “Parents will want to keep their

children at home and I can’t say I blame them.

Personally, I don’t think we’re in more danger at

Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can’t

expect mothers to think like that. They’ll want to keep

their families together, it’s only natural.”

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“I agree,” said Professor McGonagall. “And in any

case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never

envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close.

When the Chamber of Secrets reopened he considered

the closure of the school — and I must say that

Professor Dumbledore’s murder is more disturbing to

me than the idea of Slytherin’s monster living

undetected in the bowels of the castle. …”

“We must consult the governors,” said Professor

Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large

bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise

unscathed by his collapse in Snape’s office. “We must

follow the established procedures. A decision should

not be made hastily.”

“Hagrid, you haven’t said anything,” said Professor

McGonagall. “What are your views, ought Hogwarts to

remain open?”

Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large,

spotted handkerchief throughout this conversation,

now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, “I dunno,

Professor … that’s fer the Heads of House an’ the

headmistress ter decide …”

“Professor Dumbledore always valued your views,”

said Professor McGonagall kindly, “and so do I.”

“Well, I’m stayin’,” said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking

out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down into

his tangled beard. “It’s me home, it’s bin me home

since I was thirteen. An’ if there’s kids who wan’ me

ter teach ’em, I’ll do it. But … I dunno … Hogwarts

without Dumbledore …” He gulped and disappeared

behind his handkerchief once more, and there was

silence.

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“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, glancing out of the window at the grounds, checking to see

whether the Minister was yet approaching, “then I

must agree with Filius that the right thing to do is to

consult the governors, who will make the final

decision.

“Now, as to getting students home … there is an

argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We

could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come

tomorrow if necessary —”

“What about Dumbledore’s funeral?” said Harry,

speaking at last.

“Well …” said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of

her briskness as her voice shook. “I — I know that it

was Dumbledore’s wish to be laid to rest here, at

Hogwarts —”

“Then that’s what’ll happen, isn’t it?” said Harry

fiercely.

“If the Ministry thinks it appropriate,” said Professor

McGonagall. “No other headmaster or headmistress

has ever been —”

“No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more

to this school,” growled Hagrid.

“Hogwarts should be Dumbledore’s final resting

place,” said Professor Flitwick.

“Absolutely,” said Professor Sprout.

“And in that case,” said Harry, “you shouldn’t send

the students home until the funeral’s over. They’ll

want to say —”

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The last word caught in his throat, but Professor

Sprout completed the sentence for him.

“Good-bye.”

“Well said,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “Well said

indeed! Our students should pay tribute, it is fitting.

We can arrange transport home afterward.”

“Seconded,” barked Professor Sprout.

“I suppose … yes …” said Slughorn in a rather

agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of

assent.

“He’s coming,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly,

gazing down into the grounds. “The Minister … and

by the looks of it, he’s brought a delegation …”

“Can I leave, Professor?” said Harry at once.

He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by,

Rufus Scrimgeour tonight.

“You may,” said Professor McGonagall. “And quickly.”

She strode toward the door and held it open for him.

He sped down the spiral staircase and off along the

deserted corridor; he had left his Invisibility Cloak at

the top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did not matter;

there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass,

not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. He did not

meet another soul until he turned into the passage

leading to the Gryffindor common room.

“Is it true?” whispered the Fat Lady as he approached

her. “It is really true? Dumbledore — dead?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

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She let out a wail and, without waiting for the

password, swung forward to admit him.

As Harry had suspected it would be, the common

room was jam-packed. The room fell silent as he

climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and

Seamus sitting in a group nearby: This meant that

the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without

speaking to anybody, without making eye contact at

all, Harry walked straight across the room and

through the door to the boys’ dormitories.

As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully

dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his

own four-poster and for a moment, they simply stared

at each other.

“They’re talking about closing the school,” said Harry.

“Lupin said they would,” said Ron.

There was a pause.

“So?” said Ron in a very low voice, as though he

thought the furniture might be listening in. “Did you

find one? Did you get it? A — a Horcrux?”

Harry shook his head. All that had taken place

around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare

now; had it really happened, and only hours ago?

“You didn’t get it?” said Ron, looking crestfallen. “It

wasn’t there?”

“No,” said Harry. “Someone had already taken it and

left a fake in its place.”

“Already taken — ?”

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Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his

pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full story

could wait. … It did not matter tonight … nothing

mattered except the end, the end of their pointless

adventure, the end of Dumbledore’s life. …

“R.A.B.,” whispered Ron, “but who was that?”

“Dunno,” said Harry, lying back on his bed fully

clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no

curiosity at all about R.A.B.: He doubted that he

would ever feel curious again. As he lay there, he

became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent.

Fawkes had stopped singing.

And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that

the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just

as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world

… had left Harry.

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THE WHITE TOMB

All lessons were suspended, all examinations

postponed. Some students were hurried away from

Hogwarts by their parents over the next couple of

days — the Patil twins were gone before breakfast on

the morning following Dumbledore’s death, and

Zacharias Smith was escorted from the castle by his

haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan, on the

other hand, refused point-blank to accompany his

mother home; they had a shouting match in the

entrance hall that was resolved when she agreed that

he could remain behind for the funeral. She had

difficulty in finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus told

Harry and Ron, for wizards and witches were pouring

into the village, preparing to pay their last respects to

Dumbledore.

Some excitement was caused among the younger

students, who had never seen it before, when a

powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a

dozen giant winged palominos, came soaring out of

the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and

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landed on the edge of the forest. Harry watched from a window as a gigantic and handsome olive-skinned,

black-haired woman descended the carriage steps

and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid’s arms.

Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials, including

the Minister of Magic himself, was being

accommodated within the castle. Harry was diligently

avoiding contact with any of them; he was sure that,

sooner or later, he would be asked again to account

for Dumbledore’s last excursion from Hogwarts.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were spending all

of their time together. The beautiful weather seemed

to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have

been if Dumbledore had not died, and they had had

this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny’s

examinations finished, the pressure of homework

lifted … and hour by hour, he put off saying the thing

that he knew he must say, doing what he knew was

right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best

source of comfort.

They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had

been discharged, but Bill remained under Madam

Pomfrey’s care. His scars were as bad as ever — in

truth, he now bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye

Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs —

but in personality he seemed just the same as ever.

All that appeared to have changed was that he now

had a great liking for very rare steaks.

“… so eet ees lucky ’e is marrying me,” said Fleur

happily, plumping up Bill’s pillows, “because ze

British overcook their meat, I ’ave always said this.”

“I suppose I’m just going to have to accept that he

really is going to marry her,” sighed Ginny later that

evening, as she, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat beside

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the open window of the Gryffindor common room,

looking out over the twilit grounds.

“She’s not that bad,” said Harry. “Ugly, though,” he

added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she

let out a reluctant giggle.

“Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can.”

“Anyone else we know died?” Ron asked Hermione,

who was perusing the Evening Prophet.

Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice.

“No,” she said reprovingly, folding up the newspaper.

“They’re still looking for Snape but no sign …”

“Of course there isn’t,” said Harry, who became angry

every time this subject cropped up. “They won’t find

Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they’ve

never managed to do that in all this time …”

“I’m going to go to bed,” yawned Ginny. “I haven’t

been sleeping that well since … well … I could do with

some sleep.”

She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved

at the other two, and departed for the girls’

dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind

her, Hermione leaned forward toward Harry with a

most Hermione-ish look on her face.

“Harry, I found something out this morning, in the

library.”

“R.A.B.?” said Harry, sitting up straight.

He did not feel the way he had so often felt before,

excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a

mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering

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the truth about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little farther along the dark

and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path

that he and Dumbledore had set out upon together,

and which he now knew he would have to journey

alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes

out there somewhere, and each would need to be

found and eliminated before there was even a

possibility that Voldemort could be killed. He kept

reciting their names to himself, as though by listing

them he could bring them within reach: the locket …

the cup … the snake … something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s … the locket … the cup … the snake …

something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s …

This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry’s mind as

he fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with

cups, lockets, and mysterious objects that he could

not quite reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered

Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the

moment he began to climb. …

He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket

the morning after Dumbledore’s death, and although

she had not immediately recognized the initials as

belonging to some obscure wizard about whom she

had been reading, she had since been rushing off to

the library a little more often than was strictly

necessary for somebody who had no homework to do.

“No,” she said sadly, “I’ve been trying, Harry, but I

haven’t found anything. … There are a couple of

reasonably well-known wizards with those initials —

Rosalind Antigone Bungs … Rupert ‘Axebanger’

Brookstanton … but they don’t seem to fit at all.

Judging by that note, the person who stole the

Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I can’t find a shred of

evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything

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to do with him. … No, actually, it’s about … well, Snape.”

She looked nervous even saying the name again.

“What about him?” asked Harry heavily, slumping

back in his chair.

“Well, it’s just that I was sort of right about the Half-

Blood Prince business,” she said tentatively.

“D’you have to rub it in, Hermione? How d’you think I

feel about that now?”

“No — no — Harry, I didn’t mean that!” she said

hastily, looking around to check that they were not

being overheard. “It’s just that I was right about

Eileen Prince once owning the book. You see … she

was Snape’s mother!”

“I thought she wasn’t much of a looker,” said Ron.

Hermione ignored him.

“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and

there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince

marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later

an announcement saying that she’d given birth to a

—”

“— murderer,” spat Harry.

“Well … yes,” said Hermione. “So … I was sort of

right. Snape must have been proud of being ‘half a

Prince,’ you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from

what it said in the Prophet. ”

“Yeah, that fits,” said Harry. “He’d play up the pure-

blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and

the rest of them. … He’s just like Voldemort. Pure-

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blood mother, Muggle father … ashamed of his

parentage, trying to make himself feared using the

Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name —

Lord Voldemort — the Half-Blood Prince — how could

Dumbledore have missed — ?”

He broke off, looking out the window. He could not

stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore’s inexcusable

trust in Snape … but as Hermione had just

inadvertently reminded him, he, Harry, had been

taken in just the same. … In spite of the increasing

nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to

believe ill of the boy who had been so clever, who had

helped him so much. …

Helped him … it was an almost unendurable thought

now.

“I still don’t get why he didn’t turn you in for using

that book,” said Ron. “He must’ve known where you

were getting it all from.”

“He knew,” said Harry bitterly. “He knew when I used

Sectumsempra. He didn’t really need Legilimency. …

He might even have known before then, with

Slughorn talking about how brilliant I was at Potions.

… Shouldn’t have left his old book in the bottom of

that cupboard, should he?”

“But why didn’t he turn you in?”

“I don’t think he wanted to associate himself with that

book,” said Hermione. “I don’t think Dumbledore

would have liked it very much if he’d known. And

even if Snape pretended it hadn’t been his, Slughorn

would have recognized his writing at once. Anyway,

the book was left in Snape’s old classroom, and I’ll bet

Dumbledore knew his mother was called ‘Prince.’ ”

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“I should’ve shown the book to Dumbledore,” said

Harry. “All that time he was showing me how

Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I

had proof Snape was too —”

“ ‘Evil’ is a strong word,” said Hermione quietly.

“You were the one who kept telling me the book was

dangerous!”

“I’m trying to say, Harry, that you’re putting too much

blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to

have a nasty sense of humor, but I would never have

guessed he was a potential killer. …”

“None of us could’ve guessed Snape would … you

know,” said Ron.

Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their

own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like him,

were thinking about the following morning, when

Dumbledore’s body would be laid to rest. He had

never attended a funeral before; there had been no

body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not know

what to expect and was a little worried about what he

might see, about how he would feel. He wondered

whether Dumbledore’s death would be more real to

him once it was over. Though he had moments when

the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him,

there were blank stretches of numbness where,

despite the fact that nobody was talking about

anything else in the whole castle, he still found it

difficult to believe that Dumbledore had really gone.

Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked

desperately for some kind of loophole, some way that

Dumbledore would come back. … He felt in his pocket

for the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which he now

carried with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but

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as a reminder of what it had cost and what remained still to do.

Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts

Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral.

Downstairs, he found the mood in the Great Hall

subdued. Everybody was wearing their dress robes

and no one seemed very hungry. Professor

McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the middle

of the staff table empty. Hagrid’s chair was deserted

too; Harry thought that perhaps he had not been able

to face breakfast, but Snape’s place had been

unceremoniously filled by Rufus Scrimgeour. Harry

avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall;

Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour

was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour’s entourage

Harry spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses

of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware

of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with

unwonted venom.

Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were

muttering together. Hulking boys though they were,

they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of

Malfoy between them, bossing them around. Harry

had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity

was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in

Malfoy’s voice on that tower top, nor the fact that he

had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters

arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have

killed Dumbledore. He despised Malfoy still for his

infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest

drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry

wondered, was Malfoy now, and what was Voldemort

making him do under threat of killing him and his

parents?

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the

ribs from Ginny. Professor McGonagall had risen to

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her feet, and the mournful hum in the Hall died away at once.

“It is nearly time,” she said. “Please follow your Heads

of Houses out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after

me.”

They filed out from behind their benches in near

silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the

Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald

green robes embroidered with silver. He had never

seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs,

looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her

hat, and when they reached the entrance hall, they

found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a

thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient

black suit and tie reeking of mothballs.

They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped

out onto the stone steps from the front doors, toward

the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as

they followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the

place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in

rows. An aisle ran down the center of them: There

was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs

facing it. It was the most beautiful summer’s day.

An extraordinary assortment of people had already

settled into half of the chairs; shabby and smart, old

and young. Most Harry did not recognize, but a few

he did, including members of the Order of the

Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt; Mad-Eye Moody;

Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest

pink; Remus Lupin, with whom she seemed to be

holding hands; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; Bill supported

by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were

wearing jackets of black dragon skin. Then there was

Madame Maxime, who took up two and a half chairs

on her own; Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron

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in London; Arabella Figg, Harry’s Squib neighbor; the hairy bass player from the Wizarding group the Weird

Sisters; Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus; Madam

Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley; and some

people whom Harry merely knew by sight, such as the

barman of the Hog’s Head and the witch who pushed

the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts

were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight,

discernible only when they moved, shimmering

insubstantially on the gleaming air.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny filed into seats at

the end of a row beside the lake. People were

whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in

the grass, but the birdsong was louder by far. The

crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of

affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being

helped into a seat by Luna. Neville and Luna alone of

the D.A. had responded to Hermione’s summons the

night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew

why: They were the ones who had missed the D.A.

most … probably the ones who had checked their

coins regularly in the hope that there would be

another meeting.

Cornelius Fudge walked past toward the front rows,

his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler

hat as usual; Harry next recognized Rita Skeeter,

who, he was infuriated to see, had a notebook

clutched in her red-taloned hand, and then, with a

worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing

expression of grief upon her toadlike face, a black

velvet bow set atop her iron-colored curls. At the sight

of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a

sentinel near the water’s edge, she gave a start and

scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.

The staff was seated at last. Harry could see

Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front

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row with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether Scrimgeour or any of these important people were

really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then he

heard music, strange, otherworldly music, and he

forgot his dislike of the Ministry in looking around for

the source of it. He was not the only one: Many heads

were turning, searching, a little alarmed.

“In there,” whispered Ginny in Harry’s ear.

And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water,

inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of

the Inferi: a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange

language he did not understand, their pallid faces

rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them.

The music made the hair on Harry’s neck stand up,

and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of

loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild

faces of the singers, he had the feeling that they, at

least, were sorry for Dumbledore’s passing. Then

Ginny nudged him again and he looked around.

Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the

chairs. He was crying quite silently, his face gleaming

with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet

spangled with golden stars, was what Harry knew to

be Dumbledore’s body. A sharp pain rose in Harry’s

throat at this sight: For a moment, the strange music

and the knowledge that Dumbledore’s body was so

close seemed to take all warmth from the day. Ron

looked white and shocked. Tears were falling thick

and fast into both Ginny’s and Hermione’s laps.

They could not see clearly what was happening at the

front. Hagrid seemed to have placed the body

carefully upon the table. Now he retreated down the

aisle, blowing his nose with loud trumpeting noises

that drew scandalized looks from some, including,

Harry saw, Dolores Umbridge … but Harry knew that

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Dumbledore would not have cared. He tried to make a friendly gesture to Hagrid as he passed, but Hagrid’s

eyes were so swollen it was a wonder he could see

where he was going. Harry glanced at the back row to

which Hagrid was heading and realized what was

guiding him, for there, dressed in a jacket and

trousers each the size of a small marquee, was the

giant Grawp, his great ugly boulderlike head bowed,

docile, almost human. Hagrid sat down next to his

half-brother, and Grawp patted Hagrid hard on the

head, so that his chair legs sank into the ground.

Harry had a wonderful momentary urge to laugh. But

then the music stopped, and he turned to face the

front again.

A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes had got

to his feet and stood now in front of Dumbledore’s

body. Harry could not hear what he was saying. Odd

words floated back to them over the hundreds of

heads. “Nobility of spirit” … “intellectual contribution”

… “greatness of heart” … It did not mean very much.

It had little to do with Dumbledore as Harry had

known him. He suddenly remembered Dumbledore’s

idea of a few words, “nitwit,” “oddment,” “blubber,”

and “tweak,” and again had to suppress a grin. …

What was the matter with him?

There was a soft splashing noise to his left and he

saw that the merpeople had broken the surface to

listen too. He remembered Dumbledore crouching at

the water’s edge two years ago, very close to where

Harry now sat, and conversing in Mermish with the

Merchieftainess. Harry wondered where Dumbledore

had learned Mermish. There was so much he had

never asked him, so much he should have said. …

And then, without warning, it swept over him, the

dreadful truth, more completely and undeniably than

it had until now. Dumbledore was dead, gone. … He

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clutched the cold locket in his hand so tightly that it hurt, but he could not prevent hot tears spilling from

his eyes: He looked away from Ginny and the others

and stared out over the lake, toward the forest, as the

little man in black droned on. … There was movement

among the trees. The centaurs had come to pay their

respects too. They did not move into the open but

Harry saw them standing quite still, half hidden in

shadow, watching the wizards, their bows hanging at

their sides. And Harry remembered his first

nightmarish trip into the forest, the first time he had

ever encountered the thing that was then Voldemort,

and how he had faced him, and how he and

Dumbledore had discussed fighting a losing battle not

long thereafter. It was important, Dumbledore said, to

fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then

could evil be kept at bay, though never quite

eradicated. …

And Harry saw very clearly as he sat there under the

hot sun how people who cared about him had stood

in front of him one by one, his mother, his father, his

godfather, and finally Dumbledore, all determined to

protect him; but now that was over. He could not let

anybody else stand between him and Voldemort; he

must abandon forever the illusion he ought to have

lost at the age of one, that the shelter of a parent’s

arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was

no waking from his nightmare, no comforting whisper

in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all in

his imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors

had died, and he was more alone than he had ever

been before.

The little man in black had stopped speaking at last

and resumed his seat. Harry waited for somebody else

to get to their feet; he expected speeches, probably

from the Minister, but nobody moved.

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Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore’s body and the table

upon which it lay: Higher and higher they rose,

obscuring the body. White smoke spiraled into the air

and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one

heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly

joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had

vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb,

encasing Dumbledore’s body and the table on which

he had rested.

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of

arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short

of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs’

tribute: He saw them turn tail and disappear back

into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sank

slowly back into the green water and were lost from

view.

Harry looked at Ginny, Ron, and Hermione: Ron’s

face was screwed up as though the sunlight were

blinding him. Hermione’s face was glazed with tears,

but Ginny was no longer crying. She met Harry’s gaze

with the same hard, blazing look that he had seen

when she had hugged him after winning the

Quidditch Cup in his absence, and he knew that at

that moment they understood each other perfectly,

and that when he told her what he was going to do

now, she would not say, “Be careful,” or “Don’t do it,”

but accept his decision, because she would not have

expected anything less of him. And so he steeled

himself to say what he had known he must say ever

since Dumbledore had died.

“Ginny, listen …” he said very quietly, as the buzz of

conversation grew louder around them and people

began to get to their feet, “I can’t be involved with you

anymore. We’ve got to stop seeing each other. We

can’t be together.”

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She said, with an oddly twisted smile, “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?”

“It’s been like … like something out of someone else’s

life, these last few weeks with you,” said Harry. “But I

can’t … we can’t … I’ve got things to do alone now.”

She did not cry, she simply looked at him.

“Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He’s

already used you as bait once, and that was just

because you’re my best friend’s sister. Think how

much danger you’ll be in if we keep this up. He’ll

know, he’ll find out. He’ll try and get to me through

you.”

“What if I don’t care?” said Ginny fiercely.

“I care,” said Harry. “How do you think I’d feel if this

was your funeral … and it was my fault. …”

She looked away from him, over the lake.

“I never really gave up on you,” she said. “Not really. I

always hoped. … Hermione told me to get on with life,

maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit

around you, because I never used to be able to talk if

you were in the room, remember? And she thought

you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more —

myself.”

“Smart girl, that Hermione,” said Harry, trying to

smile. “I just wish I’d asked you sooner. We could’ve

had ages … months … years maybe. …”

“But you’ve been too busy saving the Wizarding

world,” said Ginny, half laughing. “Well … I can’t say

I’m surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I

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knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

Harry could not bear to hear these things, nor did he

think his resolution would hold if he remained sitting

beside her. Ron, he saw, was now holding Hermione

and stroking her hair while she sobbed into his

shoulder, tears dripping from the end of his own long

nose. With a miserable gesture, Harry got up, turned

his back on Ginny and on Dumbledore’s tomb, and

walked away around the lake. Moving felt much more

bearable than sitting still, just as setting out as soon

as possible to track down the Horcruxes and kill

Voldemort would feel better than waiting to do it. …

“Harry!”

He turned. Rufus Scrimgeour was limping rapidly

toward him around the bank, leaning on his walking

stick.

“I’ve been hoping to have a word … do you mind if I

walk a little way with you?”

“No,” said Harry indifferently, and set off again.

“Harry, this was a dreadful tragedy,” said Scrimgeour

quietly. “I cannot tell you how appalled I was to hear

of it. Dumbledore was a very great wizard. We had our

disagreements, as you know, but no one knows better

than I —”

“What do you want?” asked Harry flatly.

Scrimgeour looked annoyed, but as before, hastily

modified his expression to one of sorrowful

understanding.

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“You are, of course, devastated,” he said. “I know that you were very close to Dumbledore. I think you may

have been his favorite pupil ever. The bond between

the two of you —”

“What do you want?” Harry repeated, coming to a

halt.

Scrimgeour stopped too, leaned on his stick, and

stared at Harry, his expression shrewd now.

“The word is that you were with him when he left the

school the night that he died.”

“Whose word?” said Harry.

“Somebody Stupefied a Death Eater on top of the

tower after Dumbledore died. There were also two

broomsticks up there. The Ministry can add two and

two, Harry.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Harry. “Well, where I went with

Dumbledore and what we did is my business. He

didn’t want people to know.”

“Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said

Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his

irritation with difficulty, “but Dumbledore is gone,

Harry. He’s gone.”

“He will only be gone from the school when none here

are loyal to him,” said Harry, smiling in spite of

himself.

“My dear boy … even Dumbledore cannot return from

the —”

“I am not saying he can. You wouldn’t understand.

But I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

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Scrimgeour hesitated, then said, in what was

evidently supposed to be a tone of delicacy, “The

Ministry can offer you all sorts of protection, you

know, Harry. I would be delighted to place a couple of

my Aurors at your service —”

Harry laughed. “Voldemort wants to kill me himself,

and Aurors won’t stop him. So thanks for the offer,

but no thanks.”

“So,” said Scrimgeour, his voice cold now, “the

request I made of you at Christmas —”

“What request? Oh yeah … the one where I tell the

world what a great job you’re doing in exchange for—”

“— for raising everyone’s morale!” snapped

Scrimgeour.

Harry considered him for a moment.

“Released Stan Shunpike yet?”

Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple color highly

reminiscent of Uncle Vernon.

“I see you are —”

“Dumbledore’s man through and through,” said

Harry. “That’s right.”

Scrimgeour glared at him for another moment, then

turned and limped away without another word. Harry

could see Percy and the rest of the Ministry delegation

waiting for him, casting nervous glances at the

sobbing Hagrid and Grawp, who were still in their

seats. Ron and Hermione were hurrying toward

Harry, passing Scrimgeour going in the opposite

direction. Harry turned and walked slowly on, waiting

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for them to catch up, which they finally did in the shade of a beech tree under which they had sat in

happier times.

“What did Scrimgeour want?” Hermione whispered.

“Same as he wanted at Christmas,” shrugged Harry.

“Wanted me to give him inside information on

Dumbledore and be the Ministry’s new poster boy.”

Ron seemed to struggle with himself for a moment,

then he said loudly to Hermione, “Look, let me go

back and hit Percy!”

“No,” she said firmly, grabbing his arm.

“It’ll make me feel better!”

Harry laughed. Even Hermione grinned a little,

though her smile faded as she looked up at the castle.

“I can’t bear the idea that we might never come back,”

she said softly. “How can Hogwarts close?”

“Maybe it won’t,” said Ron. “We’re not in any more

danger here than we are at home, are we?

Everywhere’s the same now. I’d even say Hogwarts is

safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the

place. What d’you reckon, Harry?”

“I’m not coming back even if it does reopen,” said

Harry.

Ron gaped at him, but Hermione said sadly, “I knew

you were going to say that. But then what will you

do?”

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“I’m going back to the Dursleys’ once more, because Dumbledore wanted me to,” said Harry. “But it’ll be a

short visit, and then I’ll be gone for good.”

“But where will you go if you don’t come back to

school?”

“I thought I might go back to Godric’s Hollow,” Harry

muttered. He had had the idea in his head ever since

the night of Dumbledore’s death. “For me, it started

there, all of it. I’ve just got a feeling I need to go there.

And I can visit my parents’ graves, I’d like that.”

“And then what?” said Ron.

“Then I’ve got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes,

haven’t I?” said Harry, his eyes upon Dumbledore’s

white tomb, reflected in the water on the other side of

the lake. “That’s what he wanted me to do, that’s why

he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right —

and I’m sure he was — there are still four of them out

there. I’ve got to find them and destroy them, and

then I’ve got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort’s

soul, the bit that’s still in his body, and I’m the one

who’s going to kill him. And if I meet Severus Snape

along the way,” he added, “so much the better for me,

so much the worse for him.”

There was a long silence. The crowd had almost

dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental

figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid,

whose howls of grief were still echoing across the

water.

“We’ll be there, Harry,” said Ron.

“What?”

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“At your aunt and uncle’s house,” said Ron. “And

then we’ll go with you wherever you’re going.”

“No —” said Harry quickly; he had not counted on

this, he had meant them to understand that he was

undertaking this most dangerous journey alone.

“You said to us once before,” said Hermione quietly,

“that there was time to turn back if we wanted to.

We’ve had time, haven’t we?

“We’re with you whatever happens,” said Ron. “But

mate, you’re going to have to come round my mum

and dad’s house before we do anything else, even

Godric’s Hollow.”

“Why?”

“Bill and Fleur’s wedding, remember?”

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything

as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed

incredible and yet wonderful.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t miss that,” he said finally.

His hand closed automatically around the fake

Horcrux, but in spite of everything, in spite of the

dark and twisting path he saw stretching ahead for

himself, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort

he knew must come, whether in a month, in a year,

or in ten, he felt his heart lift at the thought that

there was still one last golden day of peace left to

enjoy with Ron and Hermione.

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Document Outline

- THE OTHER MINISTER

- SPINNER’S END

- WILL AND WON’T

- HORACE SLUGHORN

- AN EXCESS OF PHLEGM

- DRACO’S DETOUR

- THE SLUG CLUB

- SNAPE VICTORIOUS

- THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

- THE HOUSE OF GAUNT

- HERMIONE’S HELPING HAND

- SILVER AND OPALS

- THE SECRET RIDDLE

- FELIX FELICIS

- THE UNBREAKABLE VOW

- A VERY FROSTY CHRISTMAS

- A SLUGGISH MEMORY

- BIRTHDAY SURPRISES

- ELF TAILS

- LORD VOLDEMORT’S REQUEST

- THE UNKNOWABLE ROOM

- AFTER THE BURIAL

- HORCRUXES

- SECTUMSEMPRA

- THE SEER OVERHEARD

- THE CAVE

- THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER

- FLIGHT OF THE PRINCE

- THE PHOENIX LAMENT

- THE WHITE TOMB

THE DARK LORD ASCENDING

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards

apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they

stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s

chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed

their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking

briskly in the same direction.

“News?” asked the taller of the two.

“The best,” replied Severus Snape.

The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-

growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly

manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped

around their ankles as they marched.

“Thought I might be late,” said Yaxley, his blunt

features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of

overhanging trees broke the moonlight. “It was a little

trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be

satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will

be good?”

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Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned

right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The

high hedge curved with them, running off into the

distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron

gates barring the men’s way. Neither of them broke

step: In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of

salute and passed straight through, as though the

dark metal were smoke.

The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men’s

footsteps. There was a rustle somewhere to their

right: Yaxley drew his wand again, pointing it over his

companion’s head, but the source of the noise proved

to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock,

strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.

“He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks …”

Yaxley thrust his wand back under his cloak with a

snort.

A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at

the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the

diamond-paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in

the dark garden beyond the hedge a fountain was

playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape

and Yaxley sped toward the front door, which swung

inward at their approach, though nobody had visibly

opened it.

The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously

decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of

the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on

the walls followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode

past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door

leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of

a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle.

The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a

long and ornate table. The room’s usual furniture had

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been pushed carelessly up against the walls.

Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a

handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a

gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a

moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew

accustomed to the lack of light, they were drawn

upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an

apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside

down over the table, revolving slowly as if suspended

by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in

the bare, polished surface of the table below. None of

the people seated underneath this singular sight was

looking at it except for a pale young man sitting

almost directly below it. He seemed unable to prevent

himself from glancing upward every minute or so.

“Yaxley. Snape,” said a high, clear voice from the head

of the table. “You are very nearly late.”

The speaker was seated directly in front of the

fireplace, so that it was difficult, at first, for the new

arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they

drew nearer, however, his face shone through the

gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and

gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was

so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow.

“Severus, here,” said Voldemort, indicating the seat

on his immediate right. “Yaxley — beside Dolohov.”

The two men took their allotted places. Most of the

eyes around the table followed Snape, and it was to

him that Voldemort spoke first.

“So?”

“My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move

Harry Potter from his current place of safety on

Saturday next, at nightfall.”

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The interest around the table sharpened palpably:

Some stiffened, others fidgeted, all gazing at Snape

and Voldemort.

“Saturday … at nightfall,” repeated Voldemort. His

red eyes fastened upon Snape’s black ones with such

intensity that some of the watchers looked away,

apparently fearful that they themselves would be

scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however,

looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face and, after a

moment or two, Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into

something like a smile.

“Good. Very good. And this information comes —”

“— from the source we discussed,” said Snape.

“My Lord.”

Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table

at Voldemort and Snape. All faces turned to him.

“My Lord, I have heard differently.”

Yaxley waited, but Voldemort did not speak, so he

went on, “Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that Potter will

not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the

boy turns seventeen.”

Snape was smiling.

“My source told me that there are plans to lay a false

trail; this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm

has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the

first time; he is known to be susceptible.”

“I assure you, my Lord, Dawlish seemed quite

certain,” said Yaxley.

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“If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain,”

said Snape. “I assure you, Yaxley, the Auror Office

will play no further part in the protection of Harry

Potter. The Order believes that we have infiltrated the

Ministry.”

“The Order’s got one thing right, then, eh?” said a

squat man sitting a short distance from Yaxley; he

gave a wheezy giggle that was echoed here and there

along the table.

Voldemort did not laugh. His gaze had wandered

upward to the body revolving slowly overhead, and he

seemed to be lost in thought.

“My Lord,” Yaxley went on, “Dawlish believes an

entire party of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy

—”

Voldemort held up a large white hand, and Yaxley

subsided at once, watching resentfully as Voldemort

turned back to Snape.

“Where are they going to hide the boy next?”

“At the home of one of the Order,” said Snape. “The

place, according to the source, has been given every

protection that the Order and Ministry together could

provide. I think that there is little chance of taking

him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of course, the

Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might

give us the opportunity to discover and undo enough

of the enchantments to break through the rest.”

“Well, Yaxley?” Voldemort called down the table, the

firelight glinting strangely in his red eyes. “Will the

Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?”

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Once again, all heads turned. Yaxley squared his

shoulders.

“My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have —

with difficulty, and after great effort — suceeded in

placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse.”

Many of those sitting around Yaxley looked

impressed; his neighbor, Dolohov, a man with a long,

twisted face, clapped him on the back.

“It is a start,” said Voldemort. “But Thicknesse is only

one man. Scrimgeour must be surrounded by our

people before I act. One failed attempt on the

Minister’s life will set me back a long way.”

“Yes — my Lord, that is true — but you know, as

Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,

Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the

Minister himself, but also with the Heads of all the

other Ministry departments. It will, I think, be easy

now that we have such a high-ranking official under

our control, to subjugate the others, and then they

can all work together to bring Scrimgeour down.”

“As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered

before he has converted the rest,” said Voldemort. “At

any rate, it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be

mine before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the

boy at his destination, then it must be done while he

travels.”

“We are at an advantage there, my Lord,” said Yaxley,

who seemed determined to receive some portion of

approval. “We now have several people planted within

the Department of Magical Transport. If Potter

Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we shall know

immediately.”

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“He will not do either,” said Snape. “The Order is

eschewing any form of transport that is controlled or

regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to

do with the place.”

“All the better,” said Voldemort. “He will have to move

in the open. Easier to take, by far.”

Again, Voldemort looked up at the slowly revolving

body as he went on, “I shall attend to the boy in

person. There have been too many mistakes where

Harry Potter is concerned. Some of them have been

my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors

than to his triumphs.”

The company around the table watched Voldemort

apprehensively, each of them, by his or her

expression, afraid that they might be blamed for

Harry Potter’s continued existence. Voldemort,

however, seemed to be speaking more to himself than

to any of them, still addressing the unconscious body

above him.

“I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by

luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best-

laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those

things that I did not understand before. I must be the

one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be.”

At these words, seemingly in response to them, a

sudden wail sounded, a terrible, drawn-out cry of

misery and pain. Many of those at the table looked

downward, startled, for the sound had seemed to

issue from below their feet.

“Wormtail,” said Voldemort, with no change in his

quiet, thoughtful tone, and without removing his eyes

from the revolving body above, “have I not spoken to

you about keeping our prisoner quiet?”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“Yes, m-my Lord,” gasped a small man halfway down

the table, who had been sitting so low in his chair

that it had appeared, at first glance, to be

unoccupied. Now he scrambled from his seat and

scurried from the room, leaving nothing behind him

but a curious gleam of silver.

“As I was saying,” continued Voldemort, looking again

at the tense faces of his followers, “I understand

better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a

wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter.”

The faces around him displayed nothing but shock;

he might have announced that he wanted to borrow

one of their arms.

“No volunteers?” said Voldemort. “Let’s see … Lucius,

I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore.”

Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin appeared yellowish

and waxy in the firelight, and his eyes were sunken

and shadowed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“My Lord?”

“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.”

“I …”

Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring

straight ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long

blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the

table her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At

her touch, Malfoy put his hand into his robes,

withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort,

who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it

closely.

“What is it?”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy.

“And the core?”

“Dragon — dragon heartstring.”

“Good,” said Voldemort. He drew out his own wand

and compared the lengths. Lucius Malfoy made an

involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it

seemed he expected to receive Voldemort’s wand in

exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by

Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.

“Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?”

Some of the throng sniggered.

“I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not

enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your

family seem less than happy of late. … What is it

about my presence in your home that displeases you,

Lucius?”

“Nothing — nothing, my Lord!”

“Such lies, Lucius …”

The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel

mouth had stopped moving. One or two of the wizards

barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew

louder; something heavy could be heard sliding

across the floor beneath the table.

The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up

Voldemort’s chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and

came to rest across Voldemort’s shoulders: its neck

the thickness of a man’s thigh; its eyes, with their

vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

the creature absently with long thin fingers, still

looking at Lucius Malfoy.

“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot?

Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they

professed to desire for so many years?”

“Of course, my Lord,” said Lucius Malfoy. His hand

shook as he wiped sweat from his upper lip. “We did

desire it — we do.”

To Malfoy’s left, his wife made an odd, stiff nod, her

eyes averted from Voldemort and the snake. To his

right, his son, Draco, who had been gazing up at the

inert body overhead, glanced quickly at Voldemort

and away again, terrified to make eye contact.

“My Lord,” said a dark woman halfway down the

table, her voice constricted with emotion, “it is an

honor to have you here, in our family’s house. There

can be no higher pleasure.”

She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with

her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in

bearing and demeanor; where Narcissa sat rigid and

impassive, Bellatrix leaned toward Voldemort, for

mere words could not demonstrate her longing for

closeness.

“No higher pleasure,” repeated Voldemort, his head

tilted a little to one side as he considered Bellatrix.

“That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you.”

Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears

of delight.

“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“No higher pleasure … even compared with the happy

event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this

week?”

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

“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”

“I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours,

Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the

werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud.”

There was an eruption of jeering laughter from

around the table. Many leaned forward to exchange

gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their fists.

The great snake, disliking the disturbance, opened its

mouth wide and hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters

did not hear it, so jubilant were they at Bellatrix and

the Malfoys’ humiliation. Bellatrix’s face, so recently

flushed with happiness, had turned an ugly, blotchy

red.

“She is no niece of ours, my Lord,” she cried over the

outpouring of mirth. “We — Narcissa and I — have

never set eyes on our sister since she married the

Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of

us, nor any beast she marries.”

“What say you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, and though

his voice was quiet, it carried clearly through the

catcalls and jeers. “Will you babysit the cubs?”

The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at

his father, who was staring down into his own lap,

then caught his mother’s eye. She shook her head

almost imperceptibly, then resumed her own deadpan

stare at the opposite wall.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“Enough,” said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake.

“Enough.”

And the laughter died at once.

“Many of our oldest family trees become a little

diseased over time,” he said as Bellatrix gazed at him,

breathless and imploring. “You must prune yours,

must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those

parts that threaten the health of the rest.”

“Yes, my Lord,” whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes

swam with tears of gratitude again. “At the first

chance!”

“You shall have it,” said Voldemort. “And in your

family, so in the world … we shall cut away the

canker that infects us until only those of the true

blood remain. …”

Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it

directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended over

the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to

life with a groan and began to struggle against

invisible bonds.

“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked

Voldemort.

Snape raised his eyes to the upside-down face. All of

the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now,

as though they had been given permission to show

curiosity. As she revolved to face the firelight, the

woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, “Severus!

Help me!”

“Ah, yes,” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly

away again.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the

snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook

his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he

seemed unable to look at her anymore.

“But you would not have taken her classes,” said

Voldemort. “For those of you who do not know, we are

joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until

recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and

Wizardry.”

There were small noises of comprehension around the

table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth

cackled.

“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of

witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they

are not so different from us …”

One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity

Burbage revolved to face Snape again.

“Severus … please … please …”

“Silence,” said Voldemort, with another twitch of

Malfoy’s wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged.

“Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds

of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage

wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the

Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these

thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling

of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most

desirable circumstance. … She would have us all

mate with Muggles … or, no doubt, werewolves. …”

Nobody laughed this time: There was no mistaking

the anger and contempt in Voldemort’s voice. For the

third time, Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape.

Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned

slowly away from him again.

“Avada Kedavra. ”

The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the

room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the

table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of

the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell

out of his onto the floor.

“Dinner, Nagini,” said Voldemort softly, and the great

snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto

the polished wood.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

IN MEMORIAM

Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his

left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered

open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of

breaking china: He had trodden on a cup of cold tea

that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom

door.

“What the — ?”

He looked around; the landing of number four, Privet

Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was

Dudley’s idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his

bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments

of cup together with the other hand and threw them

into the already crammed bin just visible inside his

bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the

bathroom to run his finger under the tap.

It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that

he still had four days left of being unable to perform

magic … but he had to admit to himself that this

jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he

came to think of it — particularly in light of his

immediate plans — this seemed a serious flaw in his

magical education. Making a mental note to ask

Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of

toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could,

before returning to his bedroom and slamming the

door behind him.

Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his

school trunk for the first time since he had packed it

six years ago. At the start of the intervening school

years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three

quarters of the contents and replaced or updated

them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom

— old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that

no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged

his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain

in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn

it to see a lot of blood.

He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling

down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the

bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that

flickered feebly between Support CEDRIC DIGGORY

and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out

Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note

signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered

the sharp edge that had done the damage. He

recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment

of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather,

Sirius, had given him. Harry laid it aside and felt

cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing

more remained of his godfather’s last gift except

powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of

debris like glittering grit.

Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which

he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the

fragment on top of that morning’s Daily Prophet,

which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem

the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of

regret and of longing the discovery of the broken

mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the

rubbish in the trunk.

It took another hour to empty it completely, throw

away the useless items, and sort the remainder in

piles according to whether or not he would need them

from now on. His school and Quidditch robes,

cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his

textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He

wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with

them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if

they were the evidence of some dreadful crime. His

Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit,

certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once

given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been

repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were

the Marauder’s Map and the locket with the note

signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this

place of honor not because it was valuable — in all

usual senses it was worthless — but because of what

it had cost to attain it.

This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his

desk beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of

the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this

summer.

He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved across to

his desk. Hedwig made no movement as he began to

flick through the newspapers, throwing them onto the

rubbish pile one by one. The owl was asleep, or else

faking; she was angry with Harry about the limited

amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at the

moment.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers,

Harry slowed down, searching for one particular issue

that he knew had arrived shortly after he had

returned to Privet Drive for the summer; he

remembered that there had been a small mention on

the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage,

the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At last he

found it. Turning to page ten, he sank into his desk

chair and reread the article he had been looking for.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED

by Elphias Doge

I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our

first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was

undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt

ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon

pox shortly before arriving at school, and while I was

no longer contagious, my pockmarked visage and

greenish hue did not encourage many to approach

me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts

under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a

year previously, his father, Percival, had been

convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon

three young Muggles.

Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who

was to die in Azkaban) had committed this crime; on

the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he

assured me that he knew his father to be guilty.

Beyond that, Dumbledore refused to speak of the sad

business, though many attempted to make him do so.

Some, indeed, were disposed to praise his father’s

action and assumed that Albus too was a Muggle-

hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As

anybody who knew Albus would attest, he never

revealed the remotest anti-Muggle tendency. Indeed,

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

his determined support for Muggle rights gained him

many enemies in subsequent years.

In a matter of months, however, Albus’s own fame

had begun to eclipse that of his father. By the end of

his first year he would never again be known as the

son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less

than the most brilliant student ever seen at the

school. Those of us who were privileged to be his

friends benefited from his example, not to mention his

help and encouragement, with which he was always

generous. He confessed to me in later life that he

knew even then that his greatest pleasure lay in

teaching.

He not only won every prize of note that the school

offered, he was soon in regular correspondence with

the most notable magical names of the day, including

Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda

Bagshot, the noted historian; and Adalbert Waffling,

the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found

their way into learned publications such as

Transfiguration Today, Challenges in Charming, and

The Practical Potioneer . Dumbledore’s future career

seemed likely to be meteoric, and the only question

that remained was when he would become Minister of

Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that

he was on the point of taking the job, however, he

never had Ministerial ambitions.

Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus’s

brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They were not

alike; Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike Albus,

preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than

through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite

wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers

were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as

two such different boys could do. In fairness to

Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus’s

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually outshone was an

occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot

have been any more pleasurable as a brother.

When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to take

the then-traditional tour of the world together, visiting

and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our

separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the

very eve of our trip, Albus’s mother, Kendra, died,

leaving Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the

family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay

my respects at Kendra’s funeral, then left for what

was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger

brother and sister to care for, and little gold left to

them, there could no longer be any question of Albus

accompanying me.

That was the period of our lives when we had least

contact. I wrote to Albus, describing, perhaps

insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow

escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments

of the Egyptian alchemists. His letters told me little of

his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be frustratingly

dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own

experiences, it was with horror that I heard, toward

the end of my year’s travels, that yet another tragedy

had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister,

Ariana.

Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long

time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their

mother, had a profound effect on both of her

brothers. All those closest to Albus — and I count

myself one of that lucky number — agree that

Ariana’s death, and Albus’s feeling of personal

responsibility for it (though, of course, he was

guiltless), left their mark upon him forevermore.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

I returned home to find a young man who had

experienced a much older person’s suffering. Albus

was more reserved than before, and much less light-

hearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had

led, not to a renewed closeness between Albus and

Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this would

lift — in later years they reestablished, if not a close

relationship, then certainly a cordial one.) However,

he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from then

on, and his friends learned not to mention them.

Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following

years. Dumbledore’s innumerable contributions to the

store of Wizarding knowledge, including his discovery

of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, will benefit

generations to come, as will the wisdom he displayed

in the many judgments he made while Chief Warlock of

the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel

ever matched that between Dumbledore and

Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have

written of the terror and the awe they felt as they

watched these two extraordinary wizards do battle.

Dumbledore’s triumph, and its consequences for the

Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in

magical history to match the introduction of the

International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could

find something to value in anyone, however

apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe

that his early losses endowed him with great

humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship

more than I can say, but my loss is as nothing

compared to the Wizarding world’s. That he was the

most inspiring and the best loved of all Hogwarts

headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he

lived: working always for the greater good and, to his

last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

boy with dragon pox as he was on the day that I met

him.

Harry finished reading but continued to gaze at the

picture accompanying the obituary. Dumbledore was

wearing his familiar, kindly smile, but as he peered

over the top of his half-moon spectacles, he gave the

impression, even in newsprint, of X-raying Harry,

whose sadness mingled with a sense of humiliation.

He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but

ever since reading this obituary he had been forced to

recognize that he had barely known him at all. Never

once had he imagined Dumbledore’s childhood or

youth; it was as though he had sprung into being as

Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired

and old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was

simply odd, like trying to imagine a stupid Hermione

or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.

He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his

past. No doubt it would have felt strange, impertinent

even, but after all, it had been common knowledge

that Dumbledore had taken part in that legendary

duel with Grindelwald, and Harry had not thought to

ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about

any of his other famous achievements. No, they had

always discussed Harry, Harry’s past, Harry’s future,

Harry’s plans … and it seemed to Harry now, despite

the fact that his future was so dangerous and so

uncertain, that he had missed irreplaceable

opportunities when he had failed to ask Dumbledore

more about himself, even though the only personal

question he had ever asked his headmaster was also

the only one he suspected that Dumbledore had not

answered honestly:

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

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

After several minutes’ thought, Harry tore the

obituary out of the Prophet, folded it carefully, and

tucked it inside the first volume of Practical Defensive

Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. Then he

threw the rest of the newspaper onto the rubbish pile

and turned to face the room. It was much tidier. The

only things left out of place were today’s Daily

Prophet, still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the

piece of broken mirror.

Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror

fragment off today’s Prophet, and unfolded the

newspaper. He had merely glanced at the headline

when he had taken the rolled-up paper from the

delivery owl early that morning and thrown it aside,

after noting that it said nothing about Voldemort.

Harry was sure that the Ministry was leaning on the

Prophet to suppress news about Voldemort. It was

only now, therefore, that he saw what he had missed.

Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller

headline was set over a picture of Dumbledore

striding along looking harried:

DUMBLEDORE — THE TRUTH AT LAST?

Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed

genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard

of his generation. Stripping away the popular image of

serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals

the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth, the

lifelong feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore

carried to his grave. WHY was the man tipped to be

Minister of Magic content to remain a mere

headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret

organization known as the Order of the Phoenix?

HOW did Dumbledore really meet his end?

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the explosive new biography, The Life and

Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, exclusively

interviewed by Betty Braithwaite, page 13, inside.

Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen.

The article was topped with a picture showing

another familiar face: a woman wearing jeweled

glasses with elaborately curled blonde hair, her teeth

bared in what was clearly supposed to be a winning

smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing his best

to ignore this nauseating image, Harry read on.

In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer

than her famously ferocious quill-portraits might

suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy home,

she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea,

a slice of pound cake and, it goes without saying, a

steaming vat of freshest gossip.

“Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer’s dream,”

says Skeeter. “Such a long, full life. I’m sure my book

will be the first of very, very many.”

Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-

hundred-page book was completed a mere four weeks

after Dumbledore’s mysterious death in June. I ask

her how she managed this superfast feat.

“Oh, when you’ve been a journalist as long as I have,

working to a deadline is second nature. I knew that

the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story

and I wanted to be the first to meet that need.”

I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of

Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and

longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, that

“Skeeter’s book contains less fact than a Chocolate

Frog card.”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.

“Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few

years back about merpeople rights, bless him.

Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at

the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to

watch out for trout.”

And yet Elphias Doge’s accusations of inaccuracy

have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter really

feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a

full picture of Dumbledore’s long and extraordinary

life?

“Oh, my dear,” beams Skeeter, rapping me

affectionately across the knuckles, “you know as well

as I do how much information can be generated by a

fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word ‘no,’

and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were

queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not

everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know —

he trod on an awful lot of important toes. But old

Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because

I’ve had access to a source most journalists would

swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in

public before and who was close to Dumbledore

during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of

his youth.”

The advance publicity for Skeeter’s biography has

certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store

for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a

blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she

uncovered, I ask?

“Now, come off it, Betty, I’m not giving away all the

highlights before anybody’s bought the book!” laughs

Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still

thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

rude awakening! Let’s just say that nobody hearing

him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed

that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth!

And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading

for tolerance, he wasn’t exactly broad-minded when

he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an

extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy

family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up.”

I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore’s

brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the

Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor

scandal fifteen years ago.

“Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap,” laughs

Skeeter. “No, no, I’m talking about much worse than a

brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats,

worse even than the Muggle-maiming father —

Dumbledore couldn’t keep either of them quiet anyway,

they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it’s the

mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little

digging uncovered a positive nest of nastiness — but,

as I say, you’ll have to wait for chapters nine to twelve

for full details. All I can say now is, it’s no wonder

Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got

broken.”

Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny

the brilliance that led to Dumbledore’s many magical

discoveries?

“He had brains,” she concedes, “although many now

question whether he could really take full credit for all

of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in chapter

sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already

discovered eight uses of dragon’s blood when

Dumbledore ‘borrowed’ his papers.”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

But the importance of some of Dumbledore’s

achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What of

his famous defeat of Grindelwald?

“Oh, now, I’m glad you mentioned Grindelwald,” says

Skeeter with a tantalizing smile. “I’m afraid those who

go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore’s spectacular victory

must brace themselves for a bombshell — or perhaps

a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I’ll say

is, don’t be so sure that there really was the

spectacular duel of legend. After they’ve read my

book, people may be forced to conclude that

Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief

from the end of his wand and came quietly!”

Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this

intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the

relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her

readers more than any other.

“Oh yes,” says Skeeter, nodding briskly, “I devote an

entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore

relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister.

Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the

whole story, but there is no question that

Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from

the word go. Whether that was really in the boy’s best

interests — well, we’ll see. It’s certainly an open secret

that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence.”

I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry

Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year: a

breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively

of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.

“Oh, yes, we’ve developed a close bond,” says Skeeter.

“Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of

the most testing moments of his life — the Triwizard

Tournament. I am probably one of the only people

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

alive who can say that they know the real Harry

Potter.”

Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still

circulating about Dumbledore’s final hours. Does

Skeeter believe that Potter was there when

Dumbledore died?

“Well, I don’t want to say too much — it’s all in the

book — but eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts castle saw

Potter running away from the scene moments after

Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later

gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against

whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it

seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide

— once they’ve read my book.”

On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be

no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant

bestseller. Dumbledore’s legions of admirers,

meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to

emerge about their hero.

Harry reached the bottom of the article, but

continued to stare blankly at the page. Revulsion and

fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the

newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the wall,

where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around

his overflowing bin.

He began to stride blindly around the room, opening

empty drawers and picking up books only to replace

them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he

was doing, as random phrases from Rita’s article

echoed in his head: An entire chapter to the whole

Potter-Dumbledore relationship … It’s been called

unhealthy, even sinister. … He dabbled in the Dark

Arts himself in his youth … I’ve had access to a source

most journalists would swap their wands for …

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“Lies!” Harry bellowed, and through the window he

saw the next-door neighbor, who had paused to

restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.

Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of

mirror danced away from him; he picked it up and

turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of

Dumbledore and the lies with which Rita Skeeter was

defaming him. …

A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger

slipping on the jagged edge of the mirror again. He

had imagined it, he must have done. He glanced over

his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly peach color of

Aunt Petunia’s choosing: There was nothing blue

there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the

mirror fragment again, and saw nothing but his own

bright green eye looking back at him.

He had imagined it, there was no other explanation;

imagined it, because he had been thinking of his dead

headmaster. If anything was certain, it was that the

bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never

pierce him again.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

THE DURSLEYS DEPARTING

The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the

stairs and a voice yelled, “Oi! You!”

Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no

doubt whom his uncle was calling; nevertheless, he

did not immediately respond. He was still gazing at

the mirror fragment in which, for a split second, he

had thought he saw Dumbledore’s eye. It was not

until his uncle bellowed, “BOY!” that Harry got slowly

to his feet and headed for the bedroom door, pausing

to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack

filled with things he would be taking with him.

“You took your time!” roared Vernon Dursley when

Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. “Get down

here, I want a word!”

Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his jeans

pockets. When he reached the living room he found

all three Dursleys. They were dressed for traveling:

Uncle Vernon in a fawn zip-up jacket, Aunt Petunia in

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

a neat salmon-colored coat, and Dudley, Harry’s

large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket.

“Yes?” asked Harry.

“Sit down!” said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his

eyebrows. “Please!” added Uncle Vernon, wincing

slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat.

Harry sat. He thought he knew what was coming. His

uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and

Dudley following his movements with anxious

expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled

with concentration, Uncle Vernon stopped in front of

Harry and spoke.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

“What a surprise,” said Harry.

“Don’t you take that tone —” began Aunt Petunia in a

shrill voice, but Vernon Dursley waved her down.

“It’s all a lot of claptrap,” said Uncle Vernon, glaring

at Harry with piggy little eyes. “I’ve decided I don’t

believe a word of it. We’re staying put, we’re not going

anywhere.”

Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of

exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had

been changing his mind every twenty-four hours for

the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and

repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry’s

favorite moment had been the one when Uncle

Vernon, unaware that Dudley had added his

dumbbells to his case since the last time it had been

unpacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the

boot and collapsed with roars of pain and much

swearing.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“According to you,” Vernon Dursley said now,

resuming his pacing up and down the living room,

“we — Petunia, Dudley, and I — are in danger. From

— from —”

“Some of ‘my lot,’ right,” said Harry.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” repeated Uncle Vernon,

coming to a halt in front of Harry again. “I was awake

half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it’s a

plot to get the house.”

“The house?” repeated Harry. “What house?”

“This house!” shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein in his

forehead starting to pulse. “Our house! House prices

are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the

way and then you’re going to do a bit of hocus-pocus

and before we know it the deeds will be in your name

and —”

“Are you out of your mind?” demanded Harry. “A plot

to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you

look?”

“Don’t you dare — !” squealed Aunt Petunia, but

again, Vernon waved her down: Slights on his

personal appearance were, it seemed, as nothing to

the danger he had spotted.

“Just in case you’ve forgotten,” said Harry, “I’ve

already got a house, my godfather left me one. So why

would I want this one? All the happy memories?”

There was silence. Harry thought he had rather

impressed his uncle with this argument.

“You claim,” said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet

again, “that this Lord Thing —”

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“— Voldemort,” said Harry impatiently, “and we’ve

been through this about a hundred times already.

This isn’t a claim, it’s fact, Dumbledore told you last

year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley —”

Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and

Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward

off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days

into Harry’s summer holidays, of two fully grown

wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley

Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most

unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to

admit, however, that as Mr. Weasley had once

demolished half of the living room, his reappearance

could not have been expected to delight Uncle

Vernon.

“— Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well,”

Harry pressed on remorselessly. “Once I’m seventeen,

the protective charm that keeps me safe will break,

and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure

Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to

try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by

holding you hostage I’d come and try to rescue you.”

Uncle Vernon’s and Harry’s eyes met. Harry was sure

that in that instant they were both wondering the

same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry

resumed, “You’ve got to go into hiding and the Order

wants to help. You’re being offered serious protection,

the best there is.”

Uncle Vernon said nothing, but continued to pace up

and down. Outside the sun hung low over the privet

hedges. The next-door neighbor’s lawn mower stalled

again.

“I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?” asked

Vernon Dursley abruptly.

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

“There is,” said Harry, surprised.

“Well, then, why can’t they protect us? It seems to me

that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than

harboring a marked man, we ought to qualify for

government protection!”

Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so

very typical of his uncle to put his hopes in the

establishment, even within this world that he

despised and mistrusted.

“You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said,”

Harry replied. “We think the Ministry has been

infiltrated.”

Uncle Vernon strode to the fireplace and back,

breathing so heavily that his great black mustache

rippled, his face still purple with concentration.

“All right,” he said, stopping in front of Harry yet

again. “All right, let’s say, for the sake of argument,

we accept this protection. I still don’t see why we can’t

have that Kingsley bloke.”

Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty.

This question had also been addressed half a dozen

times.

“As I’ve told you,” he said through gritted teeth,

“Kingsley is protecting the Mug — I mean, your Prime

Minister.”

“Exactly — he’s the best!” said Uncle Vernon, pointing

at the blank television screen. The Dursleys had

spotted Kingsley on the news, walking along

discreetly behind the Muggle Prime Minister as he

visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had

mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

mention a certain reassuring something in his slow,

deep voice, had caused the Dursleys to take to

Kingsley in a way that they had certainly not done

with any other wizard, although it was true that they

had never seen him with his earring in.

“Well, he’s taken,” said Harry. “But Hestia Jones and

Dedalus Diggle are more than up to the job —”

“If we’d even seen CVs …” began Uncle Vernon, but

Harry lost patience. Getting to his feet, he advanced

on his uncle, now pointing at the TV set himself.

“These accidents aren’t accidents — the crashes and

explosions and derailments and whatever else has

happened since we last watched the news. People are

disappearing and dying and he’s behind it —

Voldemort. I’ve told you this over and over again, he

kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs — they’re caused

by dementors, and if you can’t remember what they

are, ask your son!”

Dudley’s hands jerked upward to cover his mouth.

With his parents’ and Harry’s eyes upon him, he

slowly lowered them again and asked, “There are …

more of them?”

“More?” laughed Harry. “More than the two that

attacked us, you mean? Of course there are, there are

hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as

they feed off fear and despair —”

“All right, all right,” blustered Vernon Dursley.

“You’ve made your point —”

“I hope so,” said Harry, “because once I’m seventeen,

all of them — Death Eaters, dementors, maybe even

Inferi — which means dead bodies enchanted by a

Dark wizard — will be able to find you and will

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

certainly attack you. And if you remember the last

time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you’ll agree

you need help.”

There was a brief silence in which the distant echo of

Hagrid smashing down a wooden front door seemed

to reverberate through the intervening years. Aunt

Petunia was looking at Uncle Vernon; Dudley was

staring at Harry. Finally Uncle Vernon blurted out,

“But what about my work? What about Dudley’s

school? I don’t suppose those things matter to a

bunch of layabout wizards —”

“Don’t you understand?” shouted Harry. “They will

torture and kill you like they did my parents!”

“Dad,” said Dudley in a loud voice, “Dad — I’m going

with these Order people.”

“Dudley,” said Harry, “for the first time in your life,

you’re talking sense.”

He knew that the battle was won. If Dudley was

frightened enough to accept the Order’s help, his

parents would accompany him: There could be no

question of being separated from their Diddykins.

Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the

mantelpiece.

“They’ll be here in about five minutes,” he said, and

when none of the Dursleys replied, he left the room.

The prospect of parting — probably forever — from

his aunt, uncle, and cousin was one that he was able

to contemplate quite cheerfully, but there was

nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What

did you say to one another at the end of sixteen years’

solid dislike?

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

Back in his bedroom, Harry fiddled aimlessly with his rucksack, then poked a couple of owl nuts through

the bars of Hedwig’s cage. They fell with dull thuds to

the bottom, where she ignored them.

“We’re leaving soon, really soon,” Harry told her. “And

then you’ll be able to fly again.”

The doorbell rang. Harry hesitated, then headed back

out of his room and downstairs. It was too much to

expect Hestia and Dedalus to cope with the Dursleys

on their own.

“Harry Potter!” squeaked an excited voice, the

moment Harry had opened the door; a small man in a

mauve top hat was sweeping him a deep bow. “An

honor, as ever!”

“Thanks, Dedalus,” said Harry, bestowing a small and

embarrassed smile upon the dark-haired Hestia. “It’s

really good of you to do this. … They’re through here,

my aunt and uncle and cousin. …”

“Good day to you, Harry Potter’s relatives!” said

Dedalus happily, striding into the living room. The

Dursleys did not look at all happy to be addressed

thus; Harry half expected another change of mind.

Dudley shrank nearer to his mother at the sight of

the witch and wizard.

“I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan,

as Harry has told you, is a simple one,” said Dedalus,

pulling an immense pocket watch out of his waistcoat

and examining it. “We shall be leaving before Harry

does. Due to the danger of using magic in your house

— Harry being still underage, it could provide the

Ministry with an excuse to arrest him — we shall be

driving, say, ten miles or so, before Disapparating to

the safe location we have picked out for you. You

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

know how to drive, I take it?” he asked Uncle Vernon politely.

“Know how to — ? Of course I ruddy well know how to

drive!” spluttered Uncle Vernon.

“Very clever of you, sir, very clever, I personally would

be utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and

knobs,” said Dedalus. He was clearly under the

impression that he was flattering Vernon Dursley,

who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with

every word Dedalus spoke.

“Can’t even drive,” he muttered under his breath, his

mustache rippling indignantly, but fortunately neither

Dedalus nor Hestia seemed to hear him.

“You, Harry,” Dedalus continued, “will wait here for

your guard. There has been a little change in the

arrangements —”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry at once. “I thought

Mad-Eye was going to come and take me by Side-

Along-Apparition?”

“Can’t do it,” said Hestia tersely. “Mad-Eye will

explain.”

The Dursleys, who had listened to all of this with

looks of utter incomprehension on their faces, jumped

as a loud voice screeched, “Hurry up!” Harry looked

all around the room before realizing that the voice

had issued from Dedalus’s pocket watch.

“Quite right, we’re operating to a very tight schedule,”

said Dedalus, nodding at his watch and tucking it

back into his waistcoat. “We are attempting to time

your departure from the house with your family’s

Disapparition, Harry; thus, the charm breaks at the

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

moment you all head for safety.” He turned to the

Dursleys. “Well, are we all packed and ready to go?”

None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still

staring, appalled, at the bulge in Dedalus’s waistcoat

pocket.

“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall,

Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it

would be tactless for them to remain in the room

while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving,

possibly tearful farewells.

“There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon

made any further explanation unnecessary by saying

loudly,

“Well, this is good-bye, then, boy.”

He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry’s

hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face

it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it

backward and forward like a metronome.

“Ready, Diddy?” asked Aunt Petunia, fussily checking

the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at

Harry altogether.

Dudley did not answer, but stood there with his

mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the

giant, Grawp.

“Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon.

He had already reached the living room door when

Dudley mumbled, “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Aunt

Petunia, looking up at her son.

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Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at

Harry.

“Why isn’t he coming with us?”

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze where they

stood, staring at Dudley as though he had just

expressed a desire to become a ballerina.

“What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly.

“Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley.

“Well, he — he doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon,

turning to glare at Harry and adding, “You don’t want

to, do you?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Harry.

“There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now

come on, we’re off.”

He marched out of the room. They heard the front

door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few

faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.

“What now?” barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the

doorway.

It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts

too difficult to put into words. After several moments

of apparently painful internal struggle he said, “But

where’s he going to go?”

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other.

It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia

Jones broke the silence.

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“But … surely you know where your nephew is

going?” she asked, looking bewildered.

“Certainly we know,” said Vernon Dursley. “He’s off

with some of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get

in the car, you heard the man, we’re in a hurry.”

Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front

door, but Dudley did not follow.

“Off with some of our lot?”

Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude

before: Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his

closest living relatives took so little interest in the

famous Harry Potter.

“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter,

honestly.”

“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising

ominously. “Don’t these people realize what you’ve

been through? What danger you are in? The unique

position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort

movement?”

“Er — no, they don’t,” said Harry. “They think I’m a

waste of space, actually, but I’m used to —”

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.”

If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might

not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for

several seconds before accepting that it must have

been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing,

Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and

astonished himself.

“Well … er … thanks, Dudley.”

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Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too

unwieldy for expression before mumbling, “You saved

my life.”

“Not really,” said Harry. “It was your soul the

dementor would have taken. …”

He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had

virtually no contact during this summer or last, as

Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and

kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry,

however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had

trodden that morning might not have been a booby

trap at all. Although rather touched, he was

nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to

have exhausted his ability to express his feelings.

After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley

subsided into scarlet-faced silence.

Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her

an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt

Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather

than Harry.

“S-so sweet, Dudders …” she sobbed into his massive

chest. “S-such a lovely b-boy … s-saying thank you

…”

“But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” said Hestia

indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a

waste of space!”

“Yeah, but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’

” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to

laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley

as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.

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“Are we going or not?” roared Uncle Vernon,

reappearing yet again at the living room door. “I

thought we were on a tight schedule!”

“Yes — yes, we are,” said Dedalus Diggle, who had

been watching these exchanges with an air of

bemusement and now seemed to pull himself

together. “We really must be off. Harry —”

He tripped forward and wrung Harry’s hand with both

of his own.

“— good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the

Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Thanks.”

“Farewell, Harry,” said Hestia, also clasping his hand.

“Our thoughts go with you.”

“I hope everything’s okay,” said Harry with a glance

toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.

“Oh, I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,”

said Diggle brightly, waving his hat as he left the

room. Hestia followed him.

Dudley gently released himself from his mother’s

clutches and walked toward Harry, who had to

repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then

Dudley held out his large, pink hand.

“Blimey, Dudley,” said Harry over Aunt Petunia’s

renewed sobs, “did the dementors blow a different

personality into you?”

“Dunno,” muttered Dudley. “See you, Harry.”

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“Yeah …” said Harry, taking Dudley’s hand and

shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”

Dudley nearly smiled, then lumbered from the room.

Harry heard his heavy footfalls on the graveled drive,

and then a car door slammed.

Aunt Petunia, whose face had been buried in her

handkerchief, looked around at the sound. She did

not seem to have expected to find herself alone with

Harry. Hastily stowing her wet handkerchief into her

pocket, she said, “Well — good-bye,” and marched

toward the door without looking at him.

“Good-bye,” said Harry.

She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry

had the strangest feeling that she wanted to say

something to him: She gave him an odd, tremulous

look and seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but

then, with a little jerk of her head, she bustled out of

the room after her husband and son.

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THE SEVEN POTTERS

Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at

the window just in time to see the Dursleys’ car

swinging out of the drive and off up the road.

Dedalus’s top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia

and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at

the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for

a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was

gone.

Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage, his Firebolt, and his

rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last

sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back

downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage,

broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The

light was fading rapidly now, the hall full of shadows

in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here

in the silence and know that he was about to leave

the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had

been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy

themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare

treat: Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the

fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley’s

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computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart’s content. It gave him an

odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was

like remembering a younger brother whom he had

lost.

“Don’t you want to take a last look at the place?” he

asked Hedwig, who was still sulking with her head

under her wing. “We’ll never be here again. Don’t you

want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at

this doormat. What memories … Dudley puked on it

after I saved him from the dementors. … Turns out he

was grateful after all, can you believe it? … And last

summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door.

…”

Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment

and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but

continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry

turned his back on the front door.

“And under here, Hedwig” — Harry pulled open a door

under the stairs — “is where I used to sleep! You

never knew me then — Blimey, it’s small, I’d

forgotten. …”

Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and

umbrellas, remembering how he used to wake every

morning looking up at the underside of the staircase,

which was more often than not adorned with a spider

or two. Those had been the days before he had known

anything about his true identity; before he had found

out how his parents had died or why such strange

things often happened around him. But Harry could

still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even

in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of

green light and once — Uncle Vernon had nearly

crashed the car when Harry had recounted it — a

flying motorbike …

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There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere

nearby. Harry straightened up with a jerk and

smacked the top of his head on the low door frame.

Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon’s

choicest swear words, he staggered back into the

kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the

window into the back garden.

The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself

quivering. Then, one by one, figures began to pop into

sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted.

Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet

and goggles and sitting astride an enormous

motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around

him other people were dismounting from brooms and,

in two cases, skeletal, black winged horses.

Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into

their midst. There was a general cry of greeting as

Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped

him on the back, and Hagrid said, “All righ’, Harry?

Ready fer the off?”

“Definitely,” said Harry, beaming around at them all.

“But I wasn’t expecting this many of you!”

“Change of plan,” growled Mad-Eye, who was holding

two enormous, bulging sacks, and whose magical eye

was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden

with dizzying rapidity. “Let’s get undercover before we

talk you through it.”

Harry led them all back into the kitchen where,

laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat

themselves upon Aunt Petunia’s gleaming work

surfaces, or leaned up against her spotless

appliances: Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her

bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George,

grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and long-

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling

haired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his

spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-

legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its

socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite

shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur,

slender and beautiful, with her long silvery blonde

hair; Kingsley, bald, black, broad-shouldered; Hagrid,

with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked

to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and

Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with

his droopy basset hound’s eyes and matted hair.

Harry’s heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight:

He felt incredibly fond of all of them, even

Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last

time they had met.

“Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle

Prime Minister?” he called across the room.

“He can get along without me for one night,” said

Kingsley. “You’re more important.”

“Harry, guess what?” said Tonks from her perch on

top of the washing machine, and she wiggled her left

hand at him; a ring glittered there.

“You got married?” Harry yelped, looking from her to

Lupin.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, Harry, it was very

quiet.”

“That’s brilliant, congrat —”

“All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cozy catch-up

later!” roared Moody over the hubbub, and silence fell

in the kitchen. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet

and turned to Harry. “As Dedalus probably told you,

we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone

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over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an

imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo

Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out.

All done in the name of your protection, to prevent

You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely

pointless, seeing as your mother’s charm does that

already. What he’s really done is to stop you getting

out of here safely.

“Second problem: You’re underage, which means

you’ve still got the Trace on you.”

“I don’t —”

“The Trace, the Trace!” said Mad-Eye impatiently.

“The charm that detects magical activity around

under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out

about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you,

casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is

going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters.

“We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the

moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the

protection your mother gave you. In short: Pius

Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and

proper.”

Harry could not help but agree with the unknown

Thicknesse.

“So what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to use the only means of transport left to

us, the only ones the Trace can’t detect, because we

don’t need to cast spells to use them: brooms,

thestrals, and Hagrid’s motorbike.”

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

them.

“Now, your mother’s charm will only break under two

conditions: when you come of age, or” — Moody

gestured around the pristine kitchen — “you no

longer call this place home. You and your aunt and

uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full

understanding that you’re never going to live together

again, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“So this time, when you leave, there’ll be no going

back, and the charm will break the moment you get

outside its range. We’re choosing to break it early,

because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who

to come and seize you the moment you turn

seventeen.

“The one thing we’ve got on our side is that You-

Know-Who doesn’t know we’re moving you tonight.

We’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think

you’re not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is

You-Know-Who we’re dealing with, so we can’t just

rely on him getting the date wrong; he’s bound to

have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in

this general area, just in case. So, we’ve given a dozen

different houses every protection we can throw at

them. They all look like they could be the place we’re

going to hide you, they’ve all got some connection

with the Order: my house, Kingsley’s place, Molly’s

Auntie Muriel’s — you get the idea.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, not entirely truthfully, because he

could still spot a gaping hole in the plan.

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“You’ll be going to Tonks’s parents. Once you’re

within the boundaries of the protective enchantments

we’ve put on their house, you’ll be able to use a

Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?”

“Er — yes,” said Harry. “Maybe they won’t know

which of the twelve secure houses I’m heading for at

first, but won’t it be sort of obvious once” — he

performed a quick headcount — “fourteen of us fly off

toward Tonks’s parents’?”

“Ah,” said Moody, “I forgot to mention the key point.

Fourteen of us won’t be flying to Tonks’s parents’.

There will be seven Harry Potters moving through the

skies tonight, each of them with a companion, each

pair heading for a different safe house.”

From inside his cloak Moody now withdrew a flask of

what looked like mud. There was no need for him to

say another word; Harry understood the rest of the

plan immediately.

“No!” he said loudly, his voice ringing through the

kitchen. “No way!”

“I told them you’d take it like this,” said Hermione

with a hint of complacency.

“If you think I’m going to let six people risk their lives

— !”

“— because it’s the first time for all of us,” said Ron.

“This is different, pretending to be me —”

“Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry,” said Fred

earnestly. “Imagine if something went wrong and we

were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever.”

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Harry did not smile.

“You can’t do it if I don’t cooperate, you need me to

give you some hair.”

“Well, that’s that plan scuppered,” said George.

“Obviously there’s no chance at all of us getting a bit

of your hair unless you cooperate.”

“Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who’s not

allowed to use magic; we’ve got no chance,” said Fred.

“Funny,” said Harry, “really amusing.”

“If it has to come to force, then it will,” growled

Moody, his magical eye now quivering a little in its

socket as he glared at Harry. “Everyone here’s

overage, Potter, and they’re all prepared to take the

risk.”

Mundungus shrugged and grimaced; the magical eye

swerved sideways to glare at him out of the side of

Moody’s head.

“Let’s have no more arguments. Time’s wearing on. I

want a few of your hairs, boy, now.”

“But this is mad, there’s no need —”

“No need!” snarled Moody. “With You-Know-Who out

there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if

we’re lucky he’ll have swallowed the fake bait and

he’ll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but

he’d be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping

an eye out, it’s what I’d do. They might not be able to

get at you or this house while your mother’s charm

holds, but it’s about to break and they know the

rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use

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decoys. Even You-Know-Who can’t split himself into

seven.”

Harry caught Hermione’s eye and looked away at

once.

“So, Potter — some of your hair, if you please.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced at him in a just-

do-it sort of way.

“Now!” barked Moody.

With all of their eyes upon him, Harry reached up to

the top of his head, grabbed a hank of hair, and

pulled.

“Good,” said Moody, limping forward as he pulled the

stopper out of the flask of potion. “Straight in here, if

you please.”

Harry dropped the hair into the mudlike liquid. The

moment it made contact with its surface, the potion

began to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turned

a clear, bright gold.

“Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle,

Harry,” said Hermione, before catching sight of Ron’s

raised eyebrows, blushing slightly, and saying, “Oh,

you know what I mean — Goyle’s potion looked like

bogies.”

“Right then, fake Potters line up over here, please,”

said Moody.

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Fleur lined up in

front of Aunt Petunia’s gleaming sink.

“We’re one short,” said Lupin.

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“Here,” said Hagrid gruffly, and he lifted Mundungus by the scruff of the neck and dropped him down

beside Fleur, who wrinkled her nose pointedly and

moved along to stand between Fred and George

instead.

“I’ve toldjer, I’d sooner be a protector,” said

Mundungus.

“Shut it,” growled Moody. “As I’ve already told you,

you spineless worm, any Death Eaters we run into

will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him.

Dumbledore always said You-Know-Who would want

to finish Potter in person. It’ll be the protectors who

have got the most to worry about, the Death Eaters’ll

want to kill them.”

Mundungus did not look particularly reassured, but

Moody was already pulling half a dozen eggcup-sized

glasses from inside his cloak, which he handed out,

before pouring a little Polyjuice Potion into each one.

“Altogether, then …”

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, and Mundungus

drank. All of them gasped and grimaced as the potion

hit their throats: At once, their features began to

bubble and distort like hot wax. Hermione and

Mundungus were shooting upward; Ron, Fred, and

George were shrinking; their hair was darkening,

Hermione’s and Fleur’s appearing to shoot backward

into their skulls.

Moody, quite unconcerned, was now loosening the

ties of the large sacks he had brought with him. When

he straightened up again, there were six Harry Potters

gasping and panting in front of him.

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Fred and George turned to each other and said

together, “Wow — we’re identical!”

“I dunno, though, I think I’m still better-looking,” said

Fred, examining his reflection in the kettle.

“Bah,” said Fleur, checking herself in the microwave

door, “Bill, don’t look at me — I’m ’ideous.”

“Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I’ve got smaller

here,” said Moody, indicating the first sack, “and vice

versa. Don’t forget the glasses, there’s six pairs in the

side pocket. And when you’re dressed, there’s luggage

in the other sack.”

The real Harry thought that this might just be the

most bizarre thing he had ever seen, and he had seen

some extremely odd things. He watched as his six

doppelgangers rummaged in the sacks, pulling out

sets of clothes, putting on glasses, stuffing their own

things away. He felt like asking them to show a little

more respect for his privacy as they all began

stripping off with impunity, clearly much more at ease

with displaying his body than they would have been

with their own.

“I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo,” said Ron,

looking down at his bare chest.

“Harry, your eyesight really is awful,” said Hermione,

as she put on glasses.

Once dressed, the fake Harrys took rucksacks and

owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from

the second sack.

“Good,” said Moody, as at last seven dressed,

bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys faced him.

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“The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be

traveling with me, by broom —”

“Why’m I with you?” grunted the Harry nearest the

back door.

“Because you’re the one that needs watching,”

growled Moody, and sure enough, his magical eye did

not waver from Mundungus as he continued, “Arthur

and Fred —”

“I’m George,” said the twin at whom Moody was

pointing. “Can’t you even tell us apart when we’re

Harry?”

“Sorry, George —”

“I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really —”

“Enough messing around!” snarled Moody. “The other

one — George or Fred or whoever you are — you’re

with Remus. Miss Delacour —”

“I’m taking Fleur on a thestral,” said Bill. “She’s not

that fond of brooms.”

Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a

soppy, slavish look that Harry hoped with all his

heart would never appear on his face again.

“Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral —”

Hermione looked reassured as she answered

Kingsley’s smile; Harry knew that Hermione too

lacked confidence on a broomstick.

“Which leaves you and me, Ron!” said Tonks brightly,

knocking over a mug tree as she waved at him.

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Ron did not look quite as pleased as Hermione.

“An’ you’re with me, Harry. That all righ’?” said

Hagrid, looking a little anxious. “We’ll be on the bike,

brooms an’ thestrals can’t take me weight, see. Not a

lot o’ room on the seat with me on it, though, so you’ll

be in the sidecar.”

“That’s great,” said Harry, not altogether truthfully.

“We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a

broom,” said Moody, who seemed to guess how Harry

was feeling. “Snape’s had plenty of time to tell them

everything about you he’s never mentioned before, so

if we do run into any Death Eaters, we’re betting

they’ll choose one of the Potters who look at home on

a broomstick. All right then,” he went on, tying up the

sack with the fake Potters’ clothes in it and leading

the way back to the door, “I make it three minutes

until we’re supposed to leave. No point locking the

back door, it won’t keep the Death Eaters out when

they come looking. … Come on. …”

Harry hurried into the hall to fetch his rucksack,

Firebolt, and Hedwig’s cage before joining the others

in the dark back garden. On every side broomsticks

were leaping into hands; Hermione had already been

helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley,

Fleur onto the other by Bill. Hagrid was standing

ready beside the motorbike, goggles on.

“Is this it? Is this Sirius’s bike?”

“The very same,” said Hagrid, beaming down at Harry.

“An’ the last time yeh was on it, Harry, I could fit yeh

in one hand!”

Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he

got into the sidecar. It placed him several feet below

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everybody else: Ron smirked at the sight of him

sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry

stuffed his rucksack and broomstick down by his feet

and rammed Hedwig’s cage between his knees. It was

extremely uncomfortable.

“Arthur’s done a bit o’ tinkerin’,” said Hagrid, quite

oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. He settled himself

astride the motorcycle, which creaked slightly and

sank inches into the ground. “It’s got a few tricks up

its handlebars now. Tha’ one was my idea.”

He pointed a thick finger at a purple button near the

speedometer.

“Please be careful, Hagrid,” said Mr. Weasley, who

was standing beside them, holding his broomstick.

“I’m still not sure that was advisable and it’s certainly

only to be used in emergencies.”

“All right then,” said Moody. “Everyone ready, please;

I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the

whole point of the diversion’s lost.”

Everybody mounted their brooms.

“Hold tight now, Ron,” said Tonks, and Harry saw

Ron throw a furtive, guilty look at Lupin before

placing his hands on either side of her waist. Hagrid

kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon,

and the sidecar began to vibrate.

“Good luck, everyone,” shouted Moody. “See you all in

about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three.

One … two … THREE.”

There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry

felt the sidecar give a nasty lurch: He was rising

through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, hair

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whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were

soaring upward too; the long black tail of a thestral

flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar by

Hedwig’s cage and his rucksack, were already sore

and starting to go numb. So great was his discomfort

that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number

four, Privet Drive; by the time he looked over the edge

of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it

was. Higher and higher they climbed into the sky —

And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they were

surrounded. At least thirty hooded figures, suspended

in midair, formed a vast circle in the midst of which

the Order members had risen, oblivious —

Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: Hagrid

gave a yell and the motorbike rolled over. Harry lost

any sense of where they were: Streetlights above him,

yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for

dear life. Hedwig’s cage, the Firebolt, and his

rucksack slipped from beneath his knees —

“No — HEDWIG!”

The broomstick spun to earth, but he just managed

to seize the strap of his rucksack and the top of the

cage as the motorbike swung the right way up again.

A second’s relief, and then another burst of green

light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the

cage.

“No — NO!”

The motorbike zoomed forward; Harry glimpsed

hooded Death Eaters scattering as Hagrid blasted

through their circle.

“Hedwig — Hedwig —”

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But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on

the floor of her cage. He could not take it in, and his

terror for the others was paramount. He glanced over

his shoulder and saw a mass of people moving, flares

of green light, two pairs of people on brooms soaring

off into the distance, but he could not tell who they

were —

“Hagrid, we’ve got to go back, we’ve got to go back!” he

yelled over the thunderous roar of the engine, pulling

out his wand, ramming Hedwig’s cage onto the floor,

refusing to believe that she was dead. “Hagrid, TURN

AROUND!”

“My job’s ter get you there safe, Harry!” bellowed

Hagrid, and he opened the throttle.

“Stop — STOP!” Harry shouted, but as he looked back

again two jets of green light flew past his left ear: Four

Death Eaters had broken away from the circle and

were pursuing them, aiming for Hagrid’s broad back.

Hagrid swerved, but the Death Eaters were keeping

up with the bike; more curses shot after them, and

Harry had to sink low into the sidecar to avoid them.

Wriggling around he cried, “Stupefy!” and a red bolt of

light shot from his own wand, cleaving a gap between

the four pursuing Death Eaters as they scattered to

avoid it.

“Hold on, Harry, this’ll do for ’em!” roared Hagrid, and

Harry looked up just in time to see Hagrid slamming

a thick finger into a green button near the fuel gauge.

A wall, a solid brick wall, erupted out of the exhaust

pipe. Craning his neck, Harry saw it expand into

being in midair. Three of the Death Eaters swerved

and avoided it, but the fourth was not so lucky: He

vanished from view and then dropped like a boulder

from behind it, his broomstick broken into pieces.

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One of his fellows slowed up to save him, but they

and the airborne wall were swallowed by darkness as

Hagrid leaned low over the handlebars and sped up.

More Killing Curses flew past Harry’s head from the

two remaining Death Eaters’ wands; they were aiming

for Hagrid. Harry responded with further Stunning

Spells: Red and green collided in midair in a shower

of multicolored sparks, and Harry thought wildly of

fireworks, and the Muggles below who would have no

idea what was happening —

“Here we go again, Harry, hold on!” yelled Hagrid, and

he jabbed at a second button. This time a great net

burst from the bike’s exhaust, but the Death Eaters

were ready for it. Not only did they swerve to avoid it,

but the companion who had slowed to save their

unconscious friend had caught up. He bloomed

suddenly out of the darkness and now three of them

were pursuing the motorbike, all shooting curses after

it.

“This’ll do it, Harry, hold on tight!” yelled Hagrid, and

Harry saw him slam his whole hand onto the purple

button beside the speedometer.

With an unmistakable bellowing roar, dragon fire

burst from the exhaust, white-hot and blue, and the

motorbike shot forward like a bullet with a sound of

wrenching metal. Harry saw the Death Eaters swerve

out of sight to avoid the deadly trail of flame, and at

the same time felt the sidecar sway ominously: Its

metal connections to the bike had splintered with the

force of acceleration.

“It’s all righ’, Harry!” bellowed Hagrid, now thrown flat

onto his back by the surge of speed; nobody was

steering now, and the sidecar was starting to twist

violently in the bike’s slipstream.

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“I’m on it, Harry, don’ worry!” Hagrid yelled, and from inside his jacket pocket he pulled his flowery pink

umbrella.

“Hagrid! No! Let me!”

“REPARO!”

There was a deafening bang and the sidecar broke

away from the bike completely: Harry sped forward,

propelled by the impetus of the bike’s flight, then the

sidecar began to lose height —

In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar

and shouted, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The sidecar rose like a cork, unsteerable but at least

still airborne: He had but a split second’s relief,

however, as more curses streaked past him: The three

Death Eaters were closing in.

“I’m comin’, Harry!” Hagrid yelled from out of the

darkness, but Harry could feel the sidecar beginning

to sink again: Crouching as low as he could, he

pointed at the middle of the oncoming figures and

yelled, “Impedimenta!”

The jinx hit the middle Death Eater in the chest: For

a moment the man was absurdly spread-eagled in

midair as though he had hit an invisible barrier: One

of his fellows almost collided with him —

Then the sidecar began to fall in earnest, and the

remaining Death Eater shot a curse so close to Harry

that he had to duck below the rim of the car,

knocking out a tooth on the edge of his seat —

“I’m comin’, Harry, I’m comin’!”

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A huge hand seized the back of Harry’s robes and

hoisted him out of the plummeting sidecar; Harry

pulled his rucksack with him as he dragged himself

onto the motorbike’s seat and found himself back-to-

back with Hagrid. As they soared upward, away from

the two remaining Death Eaters, Harry spat blood out

of his mouth, pointed his wand at the falling sidecar,

and yelled, “Confringo!”

He knew a dreadful, gut-wrenching pang for Hedwig

as it exploded; the Death Eater nearest it was blasted

off his broom and fell from sight; his companion fell

back and vanished.

“Harry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” moaned Hagrid, “I

shouldn’ta tried ter repair it meself — yeh’ve got no

room —”

“It’s not a problem, just keep flying!” Harry shouted

back, as two more Death Eaters emerged out of the

darkness, drawing closer.

As the curses came shooting across the intervening

space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry

knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire

button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry

sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their

pursuers, barely holding them off. He shot another

blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater

swerved to avoid it and his hood slipped, and by the

red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the

strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike — Stan —

“Expelliarmus!” Harry yelled.

“That’s him, it’s him, it’s the real one!”

The hooded Death Eater’s shout reached Harry even

above the thunder of the motorbike’s engine: Next

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moment, both pursuers had fallen back and

disappeared from view.

“Harry, what’s happened?” bellowed Hagrid.

“Where’ve they gone?”

“I don’t know!”

But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had

shouted “It’s the real one!”; how had he known? He

gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and

felt its menace. Where were they?

He clambered around on the seat to face forward and

seized hold of the back of Hagrid’s jacket.

“Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let’s get out of

here!”

“Hold on tight, then, Harry!”

There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the

white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt

himself slipping backward off what little of the seat he

had, Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely

maintaining his grip on the handlebars —

“I think we’ve lost ’em Harry, I think we’ve done it!”

yelled Hagrid.

But Harry was not convinced: Fear lapped at him as

he looked left and right for pursuers he was sure

would come. … Why had they fallen back? One of

them had still had a wand. … It’s him … it’s the real

one. … They had said it right after he had tried to

Disarm Stan. …

“We’re nearly there, Harry, we’ve nearly made it!”

shouted Hagrid.

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

Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire; as a

Death Eater appeared on either side of the bike, two

Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, cast from

behind —

And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like

smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to

hold him, his snakelike face gleaming out of the

blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again —

Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the

motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear

life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into

the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and

knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a

bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike

spiraled through the air, completely out of control —

Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no

idea which way was up, which down: His scar was

still burning; he expected to die at any second. A

hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he

saw it raise its arm —

“NO!”

With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the

bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both

Hagrid and the Death Eater falling out of sight, their

combined weight too much for the broomstick —

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees,

Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine!”

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It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out

of the way and heard, “Avada —”

As the pain from Harry’s scar forced his eyes shut,

his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his

hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of

golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a

crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death

Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, “No!”: Somehow,

Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire

button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and

the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling

straight toward the ground.

“Hagrid!” Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear

life. “Hagrid — Accio Hagrid!”

The motorbike sped up, sucked toward the earth.

Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see

nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer:

He was going to crash and there was nothing he could

do about it. Behind him came another scream, “Your

wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!”

He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking

sideways, he stared into the red eyes and was sure

they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort

preparing to curse him once more —

And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down

and saw Hagrid spread-eagled on the ground below

him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to avoid hitting

him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting,

ground-trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy

pond.

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FALLEN WARRIOR

“Hagrid?”

Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of

metal and leather that surrounded him; his hands

sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stand.

He could not understand where Voldemort had gone

and expected him to swoop out of the darkness at any

moment. Something hot and wet was trickling down

his chin and from his forehead. He crawled out of the

pond and stumbled toward the great dark mass on

the ground that was Hagrid.

“Hagrid? Hagrid, talk to me —”

But the dark mass did not stir.

“Who’s there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?”

Harry did not recognize the man’s voice. Then a

woman shouted, “They’ve crashed, Ted! Crashed in

the garden!”

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Harry’s head was swimming.

“Hagrid,” he repeated stupidly, and his knees

buckled.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on

what felt like cushions, with a burning sensation in

his ribs and right arm. His missing tooth had been

regrown. The scar on his forehead was still throbbing.

“Hagrid?”

He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a

sofa in an unfamiliar, lamplit sitting room. His

rucksack lay on the floor a short distance away, wet

and muddy. A fair-haired, big-bellied man was

watching Harry anxiously.

“Hagrid’s fine, son,” said the man, “the wife’s seeing

to him now. How are you feeling? Anything else

broken? I’ve fixed your ribs, your tooth, and your

arm. I’m Ted, by the way, Ted Tonks — Dora’s father.”

Harry sat up too quickly: Lights popped in front of his

eyes and he felt sick and giddy.

“Voldemort —”

“Easy, now,” said Ted Tonks, placing a hand on

Harry’s shoulder and pushing him back against the

cushions. “That was a nasty crash you just had. What

happened, anyway? Something go wrong with the

bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again, him

and his Muggle contraptions?”

“No,” said Harry, as his scar pulsed like an open

wound. “Death Eaters, loads of them — we were

chased —”

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“Death Eaters?” said Ted sharply. “What d’you mean,

Death Eaters? I thought they didn’t know you were

being moved tonight, I thought —”

“They knew,” said Harry.

Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could

see through it to the sky above.

“Well, we know our protective charms hold, then,

don’t we? They shouldn’t be able to get within a

hundred yards of the place in any direction.”

Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished;

it had been at the point when the motorbike crossed

the barrier of the Order’s charms. He only hoped they

would continue to work: He imagined Voldemort, a

hundred yards above them as they spoke, looking for

a way to penetrate what Harry visualized as a great

transparent bubble.

He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see

Hagrid with his own eyes before he would believe that

he was alive. He had barely stood up, however, when

a door opened and Hagrid squeezed through it, his

face covered in mud and blood, limping a little but

miraculously alive.

“Harry!”

Knocking over two delicate tables and an aspidistra,

he covered the floor between them in two strides and

pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly

repaired ribs. “Blimey, Harry, how did yeh get out o’

that? I thought we were both goners.”

“Yeah, me too. I can’t believe —”

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Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who

had entered the room behind Hagrid.

“You!” he shouted, and he thrust his hand into his

pocket, but it was empty.

“Your wand’s here, son,” said Ted, tapping it on

Harry’s arm. “It fell right beside you, I picked it up.

And that’s my wife you’re shouting at.”

“Oh, I’m — I’m sorry.”

As she moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks’s

resemblance to her sister Bellatrix became much less

pronounced: Her hair was a light, soft brown and her

eyes were wider and kinder. Nevertheless, she looked

a little haughty after Harry’s exclamation.

“What happened to our daughter?” she asked. “Hagrid

said you were ambushed; where is Nymphadora?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “We don’t know what

happened to anyone else.”

She and Ted exchanged looks. A mixture of fear and

guilt gripped Harry at the sight of their expressions; if

any of the others had died, it was his fault, all his

fault. He had consented to the plan, given them his

hair. …

“The Portkey,” he said, remembering all of a sudden.

“We’ve got to get back to the Burrow and find out —

then we’ll be able to send you word, or — or Tonks

will, once she’s —”

“Dora’ll be okay, ’Dromeda,” said Ted. “She knows her

stuff, she’s been in plenty of tight spots with the

Aurors. The Portkey’s through here,” he added to

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Harry. “It’s supposed to leave in three minutes, if you want to take it.”

“Yeah, we do,” said Harry. He seized his rucksack,

swung it onto his shoulders. “I —”

He looked at Mrs. Tonks, wanting to apologize for the

state of fear in which he left her and for which he felt

so terribly responsible, but no words occurred to him

that did not seem hollow and insincere.

“I’ll tell Tonks — Dora — to send word, when she …

Thanks for patching us up, thanks for everything. I —

”

He was glad to leave the room and follow Ted Tonks

along a short hallway and into a bedroom. Hagrid

came after them, bending low to avoid hitting his

head on the door lintel.

“There you go, son. That’s the Portkey.”

Mr. Tonks was pointing to a small, silver-backed

hairbrush lying on the dressing table.

“Thanks,” said Harry, reaching out to place a finger

on it, ready to leave.

“Wait a moment,” said Hagrid, looking around.

“Harry, where’s Hedwig?”

“She … she got hit,” said Harry.

The realization crashed over him: He felt ashamed of

himself as the tears stung his eyes. The owl had been

his companion, his one great link with the magical

world whenever he had been forced to return to the

Dursleys.

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Hagrid reached out a great hand and patted him

painfully on the shoulder.

“Never mind,” he said gruffly. “Never mind. She had a

great old life —”

“Hagrid!” said Ted Tonks warningly, as the hairbrush

glowed bright blue, and Hagrid only just got his

forefinger to it in time.

With a jerk behind the navel as though an invisible

hook and line had dragged him forward, Harry was

pulled into nothingness, spinning uncontrollably, his

finger glued to the Portkey as he and Hagrid hurtled

away from Mr. Tonks. Seconds later Harry’s feet

slammed onto hard ground and he fell onto his hands

and knees in the yard of the Burrow. He heard

screams. Throwing aside the no longer glowing

hairbrush, Harry stood up, swaying slightly, and saw

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny running down the steps by

the back door as Hagrid, who had also collapsed on

landing, clambered laboriously to his feet.

“Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened?

Where are the others?” cried Mrs. Weasley.

“What d’you mean? Isn’t anyone else back?” Harry

panted.

The answer was clearly etched in Mrs. Weasley’s pale

face.

“The Death Eaters were waiting for us,” Harry told

her. “We were surrounded the moment we took off —

they knew it was tonight — I don’t know what

happened to anyone else, four of them chased us, it

was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort

caught up with us —”

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

had happened to her sons, but —

“Thank goodness you’re all right,” she said, pulling

him into a hug he did not feel he deserved.

“Haven’t go’ any brandy, have yeh, Molly?” asked

Hagrid a little shakily. “Fer medicinal purposes?”

She could have summoned it by magic, but as she

hurried back toward the crooked house, Harry knew

that she wanted to hide her face. He turned to Ginny

and she answered his unspoken plea for information

at once.

“Ron and Tonks should have been back first, but they

missed their Portkey, it came back without them,” she

said, pointing at a rusty oil can lying on the ground

nearby. “And that one,” she pointed at an ancient

sneaker, “should have been Dad and Fred’s, they

were supposed to be second. You and Hagrid were

third and,” she checked her watch, “if they made it,

George and Lupin ought to be back in about a

minute.”

Mrs. Weasley reappeared carrying a bottle of brandy,

which she handed to Hagrid. He uncorked it and

drank it straight down in one.

“Mum!” shouted Ginny, pointing to a spot several feet

away.

A blue light had appeared in the darkness: It grew

larger and brighter, and Lupin and George appeared,

spinning and then falling. Harry knew immediately

that there was something wrong: Lupin was

supporting George, who was unconscious and whose

face was covered in blood.

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Harry ran forward and seized George’s legs. Together, he and Lupin carried George into the house and

through the kitchen to the sitting room, where they

laid him on the sofa. As the lamplight fell across

George’s head, Ginny gasped and Harry’s stomach

lurched: One of George’s ears was missing. The side

of his head and neck were drenched in wet,

shockingly scarlet blood.

No sooner had Mrs. Weasley bent over her son than

Lupin grabbed Harry by the upper arm and dragged

him, none too gently, back into the kitchen, where

Hagrid was still attempting to ease his bulk through

the back door.

“Oi!” said Hagrid indignantly. “Le’ go of him! Le’ go of

Harry!”

Lupin ignored him.

“What creature sat in the corner the first time that

Harry Potter visited my office at Hogwarts?” he said,

giving Harry a small shake. “Answer me!”

“A — a grindylow in a tank, wasn’t it?”

Lupin released Harry and fell back against a kitchen

cupboard.

“Wha’ was tha’ about?” roared Hagrid.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I had to check,” said Lupin

tersely. “We’ve been betrayed. Voldemort knew that

you were being moved tonight and the only people

who could have told him were directly involved in the

plan. You might have been an impostor.”

“So why aren’ you checkin’ me?” panted Hagrid, still

struggling to fit through the door.

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“You’re half-giant,” said Lupin, looking up at Hagrid.

“The Polyjuice Potion is designed for human use

only.”

“None of the Order would have told Voldemort we

were moving tonight,” said Harry. The idea was

dreadful to him, he could not believe it of any of them.

“Voldemort only caught up with me toward the end,

he didn’t know which one I was in the beginning. If

he’d been in on the plan he’d have known from the

start I was the one with Hagrid.”

“Voldemort caught up with you?” said Lupin sharply.

“What happened? How did you escape?”

Harry explained briefly how the Death Eaters

pursuing them had seemed to recognize him as the

true Harry, how they had abandoned the chase, how

they must have summoned Voldemort, who had

appeared just before he and Hagrid had reached the

sanctuary of Tonks’s parents.

“They recognized you? But how? What had you

done?”

“I …” Harry tried to remember; the whole journey

seemed like a blur of panic and confusion. “I saw

Stan Shunpike. … You know, the bloke who was the

conductor on the Knight Bus? And I tried to Disarm

him instead of — well, he doesn’t know what he’s

doing, does he? He must be Imperiused!”

Lupin looked aghast.

“Harry, the time for Disarming is past! These people

are trying to capture and kill you! At least Stun if you

aren’t prepared to kill!”

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“We were hundreds of feet up! Stan’s not himself, and if I Stunned him and he’d fallen, he’d have died the

same as if I’d used Avada Kedavra! Expelliarmus

saved me from Voldemort two years ago,” Harry added

defiantly. Lupin was reminding him of the sneering

Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith, who had jeered at Harry

for wanting to teach Dumbledore’s Army how to

Disarm.

“Yes, Harry,” said Lupin with painful restraint, “and a

great number of Death Eaters witnessed that

happening! Forgive me, but it was a very unusual

move then, under imminent threat of death.

Repeating it tonight in front of Death Eaters who

either witnessed or heard about the first occasion was

close to suicidal!”

“So you think I should have killed Stan Shunpike?”

said Harry angrily.

“Of course not,” said Lupin, “but the Death Eaters —

frankly, most people! — would have expected you to

attack back! Expelliarmus is a useful spell, Harry, but

the Death Eaters seem to think it is your signature

move, and I urge you not to let it become so!”

Lupin was making Harry feel idiotic, and yet there

was still a grain of defiance inside him.

“I won’t blast people out of my way just because

they’re there,” said Harry. “That’s Voldemort’s job.”

Lupin’s retort was lost: Finally succeeding in

squeezing through the door, Hagrid staggered to a

chair and sat down; it collapsed beneath him.

Ignoring his mingled oaths and apologies, Harry

addressed Lupin again.

“Will George be okay?”

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All Lupin’s frustration with Harry seemed to drain

away at the question.

“I think so, although there’s no chance of replacing

his ear, not when it’s been cursed off —”

There was a scuffling from outside. Lupin dived for

the back door; Harry leapt over Hagrid’s legs and

sprinted into the yard.

Two figures had appeared in the yard, and as Harry

ran toward them he realized they were Hermione, now

returning to her normal appearance, and Kingsley,

both clutching a bent coat hanger. Hermione flung

herself into Harry’s arms, but Kingsley showed no

pleasure at the sight of any of them. Over Hermione’s

shoulder Harry saw him raise his wand and point it

at Lupin’s chest.

“The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair

of us?”

“ ‘Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,’ ” said

Lupin calmly.

Kingsley turned his wand on Harry, but Lupin said,

“It’s him, I’ve checked!”

“All right, all right!” said Kingsley, stowing his wand

back beneath his cloak. “But somebody betrayed us!

They knew, they knew it was tonight!”

“So it seems,” replied Lupin, “but apparently they did

not realize that there would be seven Harrys.”

“Small comfort!” snarled Kingsley. “Who else is back?”

“Only Harry, Hagrid, George, and me.”

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Hermione stifled a little moan behind her hand.

“What happened to you?” Lupin asked Kingsley.

“Followed by five, injured two, might’ve killed one,”

Kingsley reeled off, “and we saw You-Know-Who as

well, he joined the chase halfway through but

vanished pretty quickly. Remus, he can —”

“Fly,” supplied Harry. “I saw him too, he came after

Hagrid and me.”

“So that’s why he left, to follow you!” said Kingsley. “I

couldn’t understand why he’d vanished. But what

made him change targets?”

“Harry behaved a little too kindly to Stan Shunpike,”

said Lupin.

“Stan?” repeated Hermione. “But I thought he was in

Azkaban?”

Kingsley let out a mirthless laugh.

“Hermione, there’s obviously been a mass breakout

which the Ministry has hushed up. Travers’s hood fell

off when I cursed him, he’s supposed to be inside too.

But what happened to you, Remus? Where’s George?”

“He lost an ear,” said Lupin.

“Lost an — ?” repeated Hermione in a high voice.

“Snape’s work,” said Lupin.

“Snape?” shouted Harry. “You didn’t say —”

“He lost his hood during the chase. Sectumsempra

was always a specialty of Snape’s. I wish I could say

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I’d paid him back in kind, but it was all I could do to keep George on the broom after he was injured, he

was losing so much blood.”

Silence fell between the four of them as they looked

up at the sky. There was no sign of movement; the

stars stared back, unblinking, indifferent,

unobscured by flying friends. Where was Ron? Where

were Fred and Mr. Weasley? Where were Bill, Fleur,

Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus?

“Harry, give us a hand!” called Hagrid hoarsely from

the door, in which he was stuck again. Glad of

something to do, Harry pulled him free, then headed

through the empty kitchen and back into the sitting

room, where Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were still

tending to George. Mrs. Weasley had staunched his

bleeding now, and by the lamplight Harry saw a

clean, gaping hole where George’s ear had been.

“How is he?”

Mrs. Weasley looked around and said, “I can’t make it

grow back, not when it’s been removed by Dark

Magic. But it could have been so much worse. … He’s

alive.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Thank God.”

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

“Hermione and Kingsley,” said Harry.

“Thank goodness,” Ginny whispered. They looked at

each other; Harry wanted to hug her, hold on to her;

he did not even care much that Mrs. Weasley was

there, but before he could act on the impulse there

was a great crash from the kitchen.

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

Harry had never heard Mr. Weasley shout like that

before. He burst into the living room, his bald patch

gleaming with sweat, his spectacles askew, Fred right

behind him, both pale but uninjured.

“Arthur!” sobbed Mrs. Weasley. “Oh thank goodness!”

“How is he?”

Mr. Weasley dropped to his knees beside George. For

the first time since Harry had known him, Fred

seemed to be lost for words. He gaped over the back

of the sofa at his twin’s wound as if he could not

believe what he was seeing.

Perhaps roused by the sound of Fred and their

father’s arrival, George stirred.

“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley.

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

“Saintlike,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking

terrified. “Is his mind affected?”

“Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and

looking up at his brother. “You see … I’m holy. Holey,

Fred, geddit?”

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded

Fred’s pale face.

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

holey?”

“Ah well,” said George, grinning at his tear-soaked

mother. “You’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway,

Mum.”

He looked around.

“Hi, Harry — you are Harry, right?”

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

“Well, at least we got you back okay,” said George.

“Why aren’t Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?”

“They’re not back yet, George,” said Mrs. Weasley.

George’s grin faded.

Harry glanced at Ginny and motioned to her to

accompany him back outside. As they walked through

the kitchen she said in a low voice, “Ron and Tonks

should be back by now. They didn’t have a long

journey; Auntie Muriel’s not that far from here.”

Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at

bay ever since reaching the Burrow, but now it

enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin,

throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat. As they

walked down the back steps into the dark yard, Ginny

took his hand.

Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing

up at the sky every time he turned. Harry was

reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a

million years ago. Hagrid, Hermione, and Lupin stood

shoulder to shoulder, gazing upward in silence. None

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of them looked around when Harry and Ginny joined

their silent vigil.

The minutes stretched into what might as well have

been years. The slightest breath of wind made them

all jump and turn toward the whispering bush or tree

in the hope that one of the missing Order members

might leap unscathed from its leaves —

And then a broom materialized directly above them

and streaked toward the ground —

“It’s them!” screamed Hermione.

Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and

pebbles everywhere.

“Remus!” Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom

into Lupin’s arms. His face was set and white: He

seemed unable to speak. Ron tripped dazedly toward

Harry and Hermione.

“You’re okay,” he mumbled, before Hermione flew at

him and hugged him tightly.

“I thought — I thought —”

“ ’M all right,” said Ron, patting her on the back. “ ’M

fine.”

“Ron was great,” said Tonks warmly, relinquishing

her hold on Lupin. “Wonderful. Stunned one of the

Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re

aiming at a moving target from a flying broom —”

“You did?” said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her

arms still around his neck.

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“Always the tone of surprise,” he said a little

grumpily, breaking free. “Are we the last back?”

“No,” said Ginny, “we’re still waiting for Bill and Fleur

and Mad-Eye and Mundungus. I’m going to tell Mum

and Dad you’re okay, Ron —”

She ran back inside.

“So what kept you? What happened?” Lupin sounded

almost angry at Tonks.

“Bellatrix,” said Tonks. “She wants me quite as much

as she wants Harry, Remus, she tried very hard to kill

me. I just wish I’d got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we

definitely injured Rodolphus. … Then we got to Ron’s

Auntie Muriel’s and we’d missed our Portkey and she

was fussing over us —”

A muscle was jumping in Lupin’s jaw. He nodded, but

seemed unable to say anything else.

“So what happened to you lot?” Tonks asked, turning

to Harry, Hermione, and Kingsley.

They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but

all the time the continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Mad-

Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon them like a

frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.

“I’m going to have to get back to Downing Street, I

should have been there an hour ago,” said Kingsley

finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. “Let me

know when they’re back.”

Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley

walked away into the darkness toward the gate. Harry

thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley

Disapparated just beyond the Burrow’s boundaries.

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Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came racing down the back

steps, Ginny behind them. Both parents hugged Ron

before turning to Lupin and Tonks.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley, “for our sons.”

“Don’t be silly, Molly,” said Tonks at once.

“How’s George?” asked Lupin.

“What’s wrong with him?” piped up Ron.

“He’s lost —”

But the end of Mrs. Weasley’s sentence was drowned

in a general outcry: A thestral had just soared into

sight and landed a few feet from them. Bill and Fleur

slid from its back, windswept but unhurt.

“Bill! Thank God, thank God —”

Mrs. Weasley ran forward, but the hug Bill bestowed

upon her was perfunctory. Looking directly at his

father, he said, “Mad-Eye’s dead.”

Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Harry felt as though

something inside him was falling, falling through the

earth, leaving him forever.

“We saw it,” said Bill; Fleur nodded, tear tracks

glittering on her cheeks in the light from the kitchen

window. “It happened just after we broke out of the

circle: Mad-Eye and Dung were close by us, they were

heading north too. Voldemort — he can fly — went

straight for them. Dung panicked, I heard him cry

out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated.

Voldemort’s curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell

backward off his broom and — there was nothing we

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could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our own tail —”

Bill’s voice broke.

“Of course you couldn’t have done anything,” said

Lupin.

They all stood looking at each other. Harry could not

quite comprehend it. Mad-Eye dead; it could not be.

… Mad-Eye, so tough, so brave, the consummate

survivor …

At last it seemed to dawn on everyone, though nobody

said it, that there was no point waiting in the yard

anymore, and in silence they followed Mr. and Mrs.

Weasley back into the Burrow, and into the living

room, where Fred and George were laughing together.

“What’s wrong?” said Fred, scanning their faces as

they entered. “What’s happened? Who’s — ?”

“Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Weasley. “Dead.”

The twins’ grins turned to grimaces of shock. Nobody

seemed to know what to do. Tonks was crying silently

into a handkerchief: She had been close to Mad-Eye,

Harry knew, his favorite and his protégée at the

Ministry of Magic. Hagrid, who had sat down on the

floor in the corner where he had most space, was

dabbing at his eyes with his tablecloth-sized

handkerchief.

Bill walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a

bottle of fire-whisky and some glasses.

“Here,” he said, and with a wave of his wand he sent

twelve full glasses soaring through the room to each

of them, holding the thirteenth aloft. “Mad-Eye.”

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“Mad-Eye,” they all said, and drank.

“Mad-Eye,” echoed Hagrid, a little late, with a hiccup.

The firewhisky seared Harry’s throat. It seemed to

burn feeling back into him, dispelling the numbness

and sense of unreality, firing him with something that

was like courage.

“So Mundungus disappeared?” said Lupin, who had

drained his own glass in one.

The atmosphere changed at once. Everybody looked

tense, watching Lupin, both wanting him to go on, it

seemed to Harry, and slightly afraid of what they

might hear.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Bill, “and I

wondered that too, on the way back here, because

they seemed to be expecting us, didn’t they? But

Mundungus can’t have betrayed us. They didn’t know

there would be seven Harrys, that confused them the

moment we appeared, and in case you’ve forgotten, it

was Mundungus who suggested that little bit of

skullduggery. Why wouldn’t he have told them the

essential point? I think Dung panicked, it’s as simple

as that. He didn’t want to come in the first place, but

Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went

straight for them. It was enough to make anyone

panic.”

“You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected

him to,” sniffed Tonks. “Mad-Eye said he’d expect the

real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled

Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, and when

Mundungus gave them away he switched to Kingsley.

…”

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“Yes, and zat eez all very good,” snapped Fleur, “but still eet does not explain ’ow zey knew we were moving

’Arry tonight, does eet? Somebody must ’ave been

careless. Somebody let slip ze date to an outsider. It is

ze only explanation for zem knowing ze date but not

ze ’ole plan.”

She glared around at them all, tear tracks still etched

on her beautiful face, silently daring any of them to

contradict her. Nobody did. The only sound to break

the silence was that of Hagrid hiccuping from behind

his handkerchief. Harry glanced at Hagrid, who had

just risked his own life to save Harry’s — Hagrid,

whom he loved, whom he trusted, who had once been

tricked into giving Voldemort crucial information in

exchange for a dragon’s egg. …

“No,” Harry said aloud, and they all looked at him,

surprised: The firewhisky seemed to have amplified

his voice. “I mean … if somebody made a mistake,”

Harry went on, “and let something slip, I know they

didn’t mean to do it. It’s not their fault,” he repeated,

again a little louder than he would usually have

spoken. “We’ve got to trust each other. I trust all of

you, I don’t think anyone in this room would ever sell

me to Voldemort.”

More silence followed his words. They were all looking

at him; Harry felt a little hot again, and drank some

more firewhisky for something to do. As he drank, he

thought of Mad-Eye. Mad-Eye had always been

scathing about Dumbledore’s willingness to trust

people.

“Well said, Harry,” said Fred unexpectedly.

“Yeah, ’ear, ’ear,” said George, with half a glance at

Fred, the corner of whose mouth twitched.

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Lupin was wearing an odd expression as he looked at

Harry. It was close to pitying.

“You think I’m a fool?” demanded Harry.

“No, I think you’re like James,” said Lupin, “who

would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to

mistrust his friends.”

Harry knew what Lupin was getting at: that his father

had been betrayed by his friend, Peter Pettigrew. He

felt irrationally angry. He wanted to argue, but Lupin

had turned away from him, set down his glass upon a

side table, and addressed Bill, “There’s work to do. I

can ask Kingsley whether —”

“No,” said Bill at once, “I’ll do it, I’ll come.”

“Where are you going?” said Tonks and Fleur

together.

“Mad-Eye’s body,” said Lupin. “We need to recover it.”

“Can’t it — ?” began Mrs. Weasley with an appealing

look at Bill.

“Wait?” said Bill. “Not unless you’d rather the Death

Eaters took it?”

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

The rest of them now dropped into chairs, all except

for Harry, who remained standing. The suddenness

and completeness of death was with them like a

presence.

“I’ve got to go too,” said Harry.

Ten pairs of startled eyes looked at him.

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“Don’t be silly, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t stay here.”

He rubbed his forehead; it was prickling again, it had

not hurt like this for more than a year.

“You’re all in danger while I’m here. I don’t want —”

“But don’t be so silly!” said Mrs. Weasley. “The whole

point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank

goodness it worked. And Fleur’s agreed to get married

here rather than in France, we’ve arranged everything

so that we can all stay together and look after you —”

She did not understand; she was making him feel

worse, not better.

“If Voldemort finds out I’m here —”

“But why should he?” asked Mrs. Weasley.

“There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry,”

said Mr. Weasley. “He’s got no way of knowing which

safe house you’re in.”

“It’s not me I’m worried for!” said Harry.

“We know that,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “but it

would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless

if you left.”

“Yer not goin’ anywhere,” growled Hagrid. “Blimey,

Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?”

“Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” said George,

hoisting himself up on his cushions.

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“I know that —”

“Mad-Eye wouldn’t want —”

“I KNOW!” Harry bellowed.

He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think

he did not know what they had done for him, didn’t

they understand that it was for precisely that reason

that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer

any more on his behalf? There was a long and

awkward silence in which his scar continued to

prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by

Mrs. Weasley.

“Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she said coaxingly. “We can

put her up with Pigwidgeon and give her something to

eat.”

His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her

the truth. He drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid

answering.

“Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” said

Hagrid. “Escaped him, fought him off when he was

right on top of yeh!”

“It wasn’t me,” said Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My

wand acted of its own accord.”

After a few moments, Hermione said gently, “But

that’s impossible, Harry. You mean that you did

magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively.”

“No,” said Harry. “The bike was falling, I couldn’t have

told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in

my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and

it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made

gold flames appear before.”

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“Often,” said Mr. Weasley, “when you’re in a

pressured situation you can produce magic you never

dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re

trained —”

“It wasn’t like that,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

His scar was burning: He felt angry and frustrated; he

hated the idea that they were all imagining him to

have power to match Voldemort’s.

No one said anything. He knew that they did not

believe him. Now that he came to think of it, he had

never heard of a wand performing magic on its own

before.

His scar seared with pain; it was all he could do not

to moan aloud. Muttering about fresh air, he set

down his glass and left the room.

As he crossed the dark yard, the great skeletal

thestral looked up, rustled its enormous batlike

wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the

gate into the garden, staring out at its overgrown

plants, rubbing his pounding forehead and thinking

of Dumbledore.

Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it.

Dumbledore would have known how and why Harry’s

wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore

always had the answers; he had known about wands,

had explained to Harry the strange connection that

existed between his wand and Voldemort’s. … But

Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his

parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry

could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in

his throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky …

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And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar

peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his

eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.

“You told me the problem would be solved by using

another’s wand!”

And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated

old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a

horrible, drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable

agony. …

“No! No! I beg you, I beg you. …”

“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!”

“I did not. … I swear I did not. …”

“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!”

“I swear I did not. … I believed a different wand would

work. …”

“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is

destroyed!”

“I cannot understand. … The connection … exists

only … between your two wands. …”

“Lies!”

“Please … I beg you. …”

And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt

Voldemort’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old

man on the floor writhe in agony —

“Harry?”

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It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood

shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the

garden, his heart racing, his scar still tingling. It was

several moments before he realized that Ron and

Hermione were at his side.

“Harry, come back in the house,” Hermione

whispered. “You aren’t still thinking of leaving?”

“Yeah, you’ve got to stay, mate,” said Ron, thumping

Harry on the back.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, close enough

now to look into Harry’s face. “You look awful!”

“Well,” said Harry shakily, “I probably look better

than Ollivander. …”

When he had finished telling them what he had seen,

Ron looked appalled, but Hermione downright

terrified.

“But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar — it

wasn’t supposed to do this anymore! You mustn’t let

that connection open up again — Dumbledore wanted

you to close your mind!”

When he did not reply, she gripped his arm.

“Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the

newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let

him inside your head too!”

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THE GHOUL IN PAJAMAS

The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the house in

the days that followed; Harry kept expecting to see

him stumping in through the back door like the other

Order members, who passed in and out to relay news.

Harry felt that nothing but action would assuage his

feelings of guilt and grief and that he ought to set out

on his mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon

as possible.

“Well, you can’t do anything about the” — Ron

mouthed the word Horcruxes — “till you’re seventeen.

You’ve still got the Trace on you. And we can plan

here as well as anywhere, can’t we? Or,” he dropped

his voice to a whisper, “d’you reckon you already

know where the You-Know-Whats are?”

“No,” Harry admitted.

“I think Hermione’s been doing a bit of research,” said

Ron. “She said she was saving it for when you got

here.”

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They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley and Bill had just left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone

upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while Fleur

had drifted off to take a bath.

“The Trace’ll break on the thirty-first,” said Harry.

“That means I only need to stay here four days. Then

I can —”

“Five days,” Ron corrected him firmly. “We’ve got to

stay for the wedding. They’ll kill us if we miss it.”

Harry understood “they” to mean Fleur and Mrs.

Weasley.

“It’s one extra day,” said Ron, when Harry looked

mutinous.

“Don’t they realize how important — ?”

“ ’Course they don’t,” said Ron. “They haven’t got a

clue. And now you mention it, I wanted to talk to you

about that.”

Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check

that Mrs. Weasley was not returning yet, then leaned

in closer to Harry.

“Mum’s been trying to get it out of Hermione and me.

What we’re off to do. She’ll try you next, so brace

yourself. Dad and Lupin’ve both asked as well, but

when we said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone

except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though. She’s

determined.”

Ron’s prediction came true within hours. Shortly

before lunch, Mrs. Weasley detached Harry from the

others by asking him to help identify a lone man’s

sock that she thought might have come out of his

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rucksack. Once she had him cornered in the tiny

scullery off the kitchen, she started.

“Ron and Hermione seem to think that the three of

you are dropping out of Hogwarts,” she began in a

light, casual tone.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, yeah. We are.”

The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner,

wringing out what looked like one of Mr. Weasley’s

vests.

“May I ask why you are abandoning your education?”

said Mrs. Weasley.

“Well, Dumbledore left me … stuff to do,” mumbled

Harry. “Ron and Hermione know about it, and they

want to come too.”

“What sort of ‘stuff’?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t —”

“Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to

know, and I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Granger would

agree!” said Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been afraid of

the “concerned parent” attack. He forced himself to

look directly into her eyes, noticing as he did so that

they were precisely the same shade of brown as

Ginny’s. This did not help.

“Dumbledore didn’t want anyone else to know, Mrs.

Weasley. I’m sorry. Ron and Hermione don’t have to

come, it’s their choice —”

“I don’t see that you have to go either!” she snapped,

dropping all pretense now. “You’re barely of age, any

of you! It’s utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed

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work doing, he had the whole Order at his command!

Harry, you must have misunderstood him. Probably

he was telling you something he wanted done, and

you took it to mean that he wanted you —”

“I didn’t misunderstand,” said Harry flatly. “It’s got to

be me.”

He handed her back the single sock he was supposed

to be identifying, which was patterned with golden

bulrushes.

“And that’s not mine, I don’t support Puddlemere

United.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden

and rather unnerving return to her casual tone. “I

should have realized. Well, Harry, while we’ve still got

you here, you won’t mind helping with the

preparations for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, will you?

There’s still so much to do.”

“No — I — of course not,” said Harry, disconcerted by

this sudden change of subject.

“Sweet of you,” she replied, and she smiled as she left

the scullery.

From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Ron,

and Hermione so busy with preparations for the

wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The

kindest explanation of this behavior would have been

that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them all from

thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent

journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of

color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de-

gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook

vast batches of canapés, however, Harry started to

suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she

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handed out seemed to keep him, Ron, and Hermione

away from one another; he had not had a chance to

speak to the two of them alone since the first night,

when he had told them about Voldemort torturing

Ollivander.

“I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of

you getting together and planning, she’ll be able to

delay you leaving,” Ginny told Harry in an undertone,

as they laid the table for dinner on the third night of

his stay.

“And then what does she think’s going to happen?”

Harry muttered. “Someone else might kill off

Voldemort while she’s holding us here making vol-au-

vents?”

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Ginny’s

face whiten.

“So it’s true?” she said. “That’s what you’re trying to

do?”

“I — not — I was joking,” said Harry evasively.

They stared at each other, and there was something

more than shock in Ginny’s expression. Suddenly

Harry became aware that this was the first time that

he had been alone with her since those stolen hours

in secluded corners of the Hogwarts grounds. He was

sure she was remembering them too. Both of them

jumped as the door opened, and Mr. Weasley,

Kingsley, and Bill walked in.

They were often joined by other Order members for

dinner now, because the Burrow had replaced

number twelve, Grimmauld Place as the

headquarters. Mr. Weasley had explained that after

the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of

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the people to whom Dumbledore had confided

Grimmauld Place’s location had become a Secret-

Keeper in turn.

“And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly

dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty times

as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the

secret out of somebody. We can’t expect it to hold

much longer.”

“But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the

address by now?” asked Harry.

“Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against

Snape in case he turns up there again. We hope

they’ll be strong enough both to keep him out and to

bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but

we can’t be sure. It would have been insane to keep

using the place as headquarters now that its

protection has become so shaky.”

The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was

difficult to maneuver knives and forks. Harry found

himself crammed beside Ginny; the unsaid things

that had just passed between them made him wish

they had been separated by a few more people. He

was trying so hard to avoid brushing her arm he

could barely cut his chicken.

“No news about Mad-Eye?” Harry asked Bill.

“Nothing,” replied Bill.

They had not been able to hold a funeral for Moody,

because Bill and Lupin had failed to recover his body.

It had been difficult to know where he might have

fallen, given the darkness and the confusion of the

battle.

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“The Daily Prophet hasn’t said a word about him dying or about finding the body,” Bill went on. “But

that doesn’t mean much. It’s keeping a lot quiet these

days.”

“And they still haven’t called a hearing about all the

underage magic I used escaping the Death Eaters?”

Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who

shook his head.

“Because they know I had no choice or because they

don’t want me to tell the world Voldemort attacked

me?”

“The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn’t want to admit

that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that

Azkaban’s seen a mass breakout.”

“Yeah, why tell the public the truth?” said Harry,

clenching his knife so tightly that the faint scars on

the back of his right hand stood out, white against his

skin: I must not tell lies.

“Isn’t anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to

him?” asked Ron angrily.

“Of course, Ron, but people are terrified,” Mr. Weasley

replied, “terrified that they will be next to disappear,

their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty

rumors going around; I for one don’t believe the

Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She

hasn’t been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile

Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day: I

just hope he’s working on a plan.”

There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked

the empty plates onto the work surface and served

apple tart.

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“We must decide ’ow you will be disguised, ’Arry,” said Fleur, once everyone had pudding. “For ze wedding,”

she added, when he looked confused. “Of course,

none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot

guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey

’ave ’ad champagne.”

From this, Harry gathered that she still suspected

Hagrid.

“Yes, good point,” said Mrs. Weasley from the top of

the table, where she sat, spectacles perched on the

end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that

she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment.

“Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?”

“Why?” exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and

glaring at his mother. “Why does my room have to be

cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!”

“We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few

days’ time, young man —”

“And are they getting married in my bedroom?” asked

Ron furiously. “No! So why in the name of Merlin’s

saggy left —”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” said Mr. Weasley

firmly. “And do as you’re told.”

Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his

spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his

apple tart.

“I can help, some of it’s my mess,” Harry told Ron,

but Mrs. Weasley cut across him.

“No, Harry, dear, I’d much rather you helped Arthur

muck out the chickens, and Hermione, I’d be ever so

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grateful if you’d change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they’re arriving at

eleven tomorrow morning.”

But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the

chickens. “There’s no need to, er, mention it to Molly,”

Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the

coop, “but, er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was

left of Sirius’s bike and, er, I’m hiding — that’s to say,

keeping — it in here. Fantastic stuff: There’s an

exhaust gaskin, as I believe it’s called, the most

magnificent battery, and it’ll be a great opportunity to

find out how brakes work. I’m going to try and put it

all back together again when Molly’s not — I mean,

when I’ve got time.”

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was

nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to

Ron’s attic bedroom.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing — ! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in

relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down

on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The

room was just as messy as it had been all week; the

only change was that Hermione was now sitting in the

far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her

feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized

as his own, into two enormous piles.

“Hi, Harry,” she said, as he sat down on his camp

bed.

“And how did you manage to get away?”

“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me

to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She

threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and

The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.

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“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told

Harry. “I reckon he might have survived.”

“But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse,” said

Harry.

“Yeah, but Bill was under attack too,” said Ron. “How

can he be sure what he saw?”

“Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell

about a thousand feet,” said Hermione, now weighing

Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.

“He could have used a Shield Charm —”

“Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand,”

said Harry.

“Well, all right, if you want him to be dead,” said Ron

grumpily, punching his pillow into a more

comfortable shape.

“Of course we don’t want him to be dead!” said

Hermione, looking shocked. “It’s dreadful that he’s

dead! But we’re being realistic!”

For the first time, Harry imagined Mad-Eye’s body,

broken as Dumbledore’s had been, yet with that one

eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of

revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.

“The Death Eaters probably tidied up after

themselves, that’s why no one’s found him,” said Ron

wisely.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a

bone and buried in Hagrid’s front garden. They

probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him —”

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“Don’t!” squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked

over just in time to see her burst into tears over her

copy of Spellman’s Syllabary.

“Oh no,” said Harry, struggling to get up from the old

camp bed. “Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset —”

But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron

bounded off the bed and got there first. One arm

around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and

withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he

had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling

out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said,

“Tergeo. ”

The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking

rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly

smoking handkerchief to Hermione.

“Oh … thanks, Ron. … I’m sorry. …” She blew her

nose and hiccuped. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R-

right after Dumbledore … I j-just n-never imagined

Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But

you know what he’d say to us if he was here?”

“ ‘C-constant vigilance,’ ” said Hermione, mopping her

eyes.

“That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn

from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is

not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.”

Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to

pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had

snatched his arm back from around her shoulders;

she had dropped The Monster Book of Monsters on his

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foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry

wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shut.

“What are you doing with all those books anyway?”

Ron asked, limping back to his bed.

“Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,”

said Hermione. “When we’re looking for the

Horcruxes.”

“Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his

forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in

a mobile library.”

“Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s

Syllabary. “I wonder … will we need to translate

runes? It’s possible. … I think we’d better take it, to

be safe.”

She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two

piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History.

“Listen,” said Harry.

He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at

him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.

“I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you

wanted to come with me,” Harry began.

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

“As we knew he would,” she sighed, turning back to

the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A

History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t

think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with —”

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“Listen!” said Harry again.

“No, Harry, you listen,” said Hermione. “We’re coming

with you. That was decided months ago — years,

really.”

“But —”

“Shut up,” Ron advised him.

“— are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry

persisted.

“Let’s see,” said Hermione, slamming Travels with

Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look.

“I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to leave at

a moment’s notice, which for your information has

included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to

mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of

Polyjuice Potion right under Ron’s mum’s nose.

“I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that

they’re convinced they’re really called Wendell and

Monica Wilkins, and that their life’s ambition is to

move to Australia, which they have now done. That’s

to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them

down and interrogate them about me — or you,

because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit

about you.

“Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll

find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t

— well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep

them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins

don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.”

Hermione’s eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron

got back off the bed, put his arm around her once

more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching

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him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for

Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

“I — Hermione, I’m sorry — I didn’t —”

“Didn’t realize that Ron and I know perfectly well

what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do.

Ron, show Harry what you’ve done.”

“Nah, he’s just eaten,” said Ron.

“Go on, he needs to know!”

“Oh, all right. Harry, come here.”

For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from

around Hermione and stumped over to the door.

“C’mon.”

“Why?” Harry asked, following Ron out of the room

onto the tiny landing.

“Descendo, ” muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the

low ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and

a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half-

sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square

hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains.

“That’s your ghoul, isn’t it?” asked Harry, who had

never actually met the creature that sometimes

disrupted the nightly silence.

“Yeah, it is,” said Ron, climbing the ladder. “Come

and have a look at him.”

Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the

tiny attic space. His head and shoulders were in the

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room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its

large mouth wide open.

“But it … it looks … do ghouls normally wear

pajamas?”

“No,” said Ron. “Nor have they usually got red hair or

that number of pustules.”

Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was

human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now

that Harry’s eyes became used to the darkness, was

clearly an old pair of Ron’s pajamas. He was also sure

that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald,

rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry

purple blisters.

“He’s me, see?” said Ron.

“No,” said Harry. “I don’t.”

“I’ll explain it back in my room, the smell’s getting to

me,” said Ron. They climbed back down the ladder,

which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined

Hermione, who was still sorting books.

“Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and live

down here in my room,” said Ron. “I think he’s really

looking forward to it — well, it’s hard to tell, because

all he can do is moan and drool — but he nods a lot

when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be me

with spattergroit. Good, eh?”

Harry merely looked his confusion.

“It is!” said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not

grasped the brilliance of the plan. “Look, when we

three don’t turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone’s

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going to think Hermione and I must be with you,

right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight

for our families to see if they’ve got information on

where you are.”

“But hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum

and Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about

going into hiding at the moment,” said Hermione.

“We can’t hide my whole family, it’ll look too fishy and

they can’t all leave their jobs,” said Ron. “So we’re

going to put out the story that I’m seriously ill with

spattergroit, which is why I can’t go back to school. If

anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can

show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules.

Spattergroit’s really contagious, so they’re not going

to want to go near him. It won’t matter that he can’t

say anything, either, because apparently you can’t

once the fungus has spread to your uvula.”

“And your mum and dad are in on this plan?” asked

Harry.

“Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the

ghoul. Mum … well, you’ve seen what she’s like. She

won’t accept we’re going till we’ve gone.”

There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle

thuds as Hermione continued to throw books onto

one pile or the other. Ron sat watching her, and Harry

looked from one to the other, unable to say anything.

The measures they had taken to protect their families

made him realize, more than anything else could have

done, that they really were going to come with him

and that they knew exactly how dangerous that would

be. He wanted to tell them what that meant to him,

but he simply could not find words important enough.

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Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs.

Weasley shouting from four floors below.

“Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy

napkin ring,” said Ron. “I dunno why the Delacours

have got to come two days before the wedding.”

“Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for

the rehearsal, and she’s too young to come on her

own,” said Hermione, as she pored indecisively over

Break with a Banshee.

“Well, guests aren’t going to help Mum’s stress levels,”

said Ron.

“What we really need to decide,” said Hermione,

tossing Defensive Magical Theory into the bin without

a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of

Magical Education in Europe, “is where we’re going

after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go

to Godric’s Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why,

but … well … shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our

priority?”

“If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I’d

agree with you,” said Harry, who did not believe that

Hermione really understood his desire to return to

Godric’s Hollow. His parents’ graves were only part of

the attraction: He had a strong, though inexplicable,

feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it

was simply because it was there that he had survived

Voldemort’s Killing Curse; now that he was facing the

challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to

the place where it had happened, wanting to

understand.

“Don’t you think there’s a possibility that Voldemort’s

keeping a watch on Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione

asked. “He might expect you to go back and visit your

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parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever you like?”

This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to

find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently

following his own train of thought.

“This R.A.B. person,” he said. “You know, the one who

stole the real locket?”

Hermione nodded.

“He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn’t

he?”

Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled

out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.’s note was still

folded.

“ ‘ I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy

it as soon as I can, ’ ” Harry read out.

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

“Or she,” interposed Hermione.

“Whichever,” said Ron, “it’d be one less for us to do!”

“Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace the

real locket, aren’t we?” said Hermione, “to find out

whether or not it’s destroyed.”

“And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a

Horcrux?” asked Ron.

“Well,” said Hermione, “I’ve been researching that.”

“How?” asked Harry. “I didn’t think there were any

books on Horcruxes in the library?”

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“There weren’t,” said Hermione, who had turned pink.

“Dumbledore removed them all, but he — he didn’t

destroy them.”

Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed.

“How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you

managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?”

“It — it wasn’t stealing!” said Hermione, looking from

Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. “They were

still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken

them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want

anyone to get at them, I’m sure he would have made

it much harder to —”

“Get to the point!” said Ron.

“Well … it was easy,” said Hermione in a small voice.

“I just did a Summoning Charm. You know — Accio.

And — they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study

window right into the girls’ dormitory.”

“But when did you do this?” Harry asked, regarding

Hermione with a mixture of admiration and

incredulity.

“Just after his — Dumbledore’s — funeral,” said

Hermione in an even smaller voice. “Right after we

agreed we’d leave school and go and look for the

Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my

things it — it just occurred to me that the more we

knew about them, the better it would be … and I was

alone in there … so I tried … and it worked. They flew

straight in through the open window and I — I packed

them.”

She swallowed and then said imploringly, “I can’t

believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it’s not

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as though we’re going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?”

“Can you hear us complaining?” said Ron. “Where are

these books anyway?”

Hermione rummaged for a moment and then

extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded

black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held

it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead.

“This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how

to make a Horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art — it’s a

horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder

when Dumbledore removed it from the library. … If he

didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I bet Voldemort

got all the instruction he needed from here.”

“Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a

Horcrux, then, if he’d already read that?” asked Ron.

“He only approached Slughorn to find out what would

happen if you split your soul into seven,” said Harry.

“Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to

make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about

them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that could easily

have been where he got the information.”

“And the more I’ve read about them,” said Hermione,

“the more horrible they seem, and the less I can

believe that he actually made six. It warns in this

book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by

ripping it, and that’s just by making one Horcrux!”

Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about

Voldemort moving beyond “usual evil.”

“Isn’t there any way of putting yourself back

together?” Ron asked.

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“Yes,” said Hermione with a hollow smile, “but it

would be excruciatingly painful.”

“Why? How do you do it?” asked Harry.

“Remorse,” said Hermione. “You’ve got to really feel

what you’ve done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the

pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort

attempting it somehow, can you?”

“No,” said Ron, before Harry could answer. “So does it

say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as

if examining rotting entrails, “because it warns Dark

wizards how strong they have to make the

enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read, what

Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really

foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.”

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

“Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of

basilisk fangs, then,” said Ron. “I was wondering

what we were going to do with them.”

“It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” said Hermione

patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that

the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only

has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare —

“— phoenix tears,” said Harry, nodding.

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “Our problem is that there

are very few substances as destructive as basilisk

venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around

with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to

solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or

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crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.”

“But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” said Ron,

“why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in

something else?”

“Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a

human being.”

Seeing that Harry and Ron looked thoroughly

confused, Hermione hurried on, “Look, if I picked up

a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it,

I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.”

“Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said

Ron. Harry laughed.

“It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever

happens to your body, your soul will survive,

untouched,” said Hermione. “But it’s the other way

round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it

depends on its container, its enchanted body, for

survival. It can’t exist without it.”

“That diary sort of died when I stabbed it,” said Harry,

remembering ink pouring like blood from the

punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of

Voldemort’s soul as it vanished.

“And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of

soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to

get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away,

but obviously it came back good as new.”

“Hang on,” said Ron, frowning. “The bit of soul in that

diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that

work, then?”

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“While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get

too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too

long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she added

before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally.

Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made

herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you

get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”

“I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said

Harry. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really …”

His voice tailed away: He was thinking of all the

things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of

how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to

Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities

when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more …

to find out everything. …

The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew

open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked

and dropped Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks

streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron

jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate

Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite

wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before

realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley,

whose hair was disheveled and whose face was

contorted with rage.

“I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,”

she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need

your rest … but there are wedding presents stacked

in my room that need sorting out and I was under the

impression that you had agreed to help.”

“Oh yes,” said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt

to her feet, sending books flying in every direction,

“we will … we’re sorry …”

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With an anguished look at Harry and Ron, Hermione

hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley.

“It’s like being a house-elf,” complained Ron in an

undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry

followed. “Except without the job satisfaction. The

sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do

except find Horcruxes. … It’ll be like a holiday, won’t

it?”

Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous

pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs.

Weasley’s room, stopped quite abruptly.

The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven

o’clock. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were feeling

quite resentful toward Fleur’s family by this time, and

it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs

to put on matching socks, and Harry attempted to

flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart

enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to

await the visitors.

Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The

rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually

littered the steps by the back door were gone,

replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either

side of the door in large pots; though there was no

breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive

rippling effect. The chickens had been shut away, the

yard had been swept, and the nearby garden had

been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up,

although Harry, who liked it in its overgrown state,

thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual

contingent of capering gnomes.

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He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order

and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no

longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly

into the place. Mr. Weasley had therefore gone to

meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they

were to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their

approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh,

which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, who

appeared at the gate moments later, laden with

luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in

long, leaf-green robes, who could only be Fleur’s

mother.

“Maman!” cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace

her. “Papa!”

Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as

his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plump,

with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked

good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on

high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek,

leaving her flustered.

“You ’ave been to much trouble,” he said in a deep

voice. “Fleur tells us you ’ave been working very ’ard.”

“Oh, it’s been nothing, nothing!” trilled Mrs. Weasley.

“No trouble at all!”

Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome

who was peering out from behind one of the new

Flutterby bushes.

“Dear lady!” said Monsieur Delacour, still holding

Mrs. Weasley’s hand between his own two plump

ones and beaming. “We are most honored at the

approaching union of our two families! Let me present

my wife, Apolline.”

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Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss

Mrs. Weasley too.

“Enchantée, ” she said. “Your ’usband ’as been telling

us such amusing stories!”

Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley

threw him a look, upon which he became immediately

silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the

sickbed of a close friend.

“And, of course, you ’ave met my leetle daughter,

Gabrielle!” said Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle was

Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with waist-length

hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a

dazzling smile and hugged her, then threw Harry a

glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Ginny cleared her

throat loudly.

“Well, come in, do!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, and

she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many

“No, please!”s and “After you!”s and “Not at all!”s.

The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful,

pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything

and keen to assist with the preparations for the

wedding. Monsieur Delacour pronounced everything

from the seating plan to the bridesmaids’ shoes

“Charmant!” Madame Delacour was most

accomplished at household spells and had the oven

properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her

elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she

could and jabbering away in rapid French.

On the downside, the Burrow was not built to

accommodate so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley

were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted

down Monsieur and Madame Delacour’s protests and

insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was

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sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room, and Bill

would be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once

Charlie arrived from Romania. Opportunities to make

plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it

was in desperation that Harry, Ron, and Hermione

took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to

escape the overcrowded house.

“But she still won’t leave us alone!” snarled Ron, as

their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was

foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a

large basket of laundry in her arms.

“Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she called as she

approached them. “We’d better shut them away again

before the men arrive tomorrow … to put up the tent

for the wedding,” she explained, pausing to lean

against the henhouse. She looked exhausted.

“Millamant’s Magic Marquees … they’re very good,

Bill’s escorting them. … You’d better stay inside while

they’re here, Harry. I must say it does complicate

organizing a wedding, having all these security spells

around the place.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry humbly.

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I

didn’t mean — well, your safety’s much more

important! Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you how

you want to celebrate your birthday, Harry.

Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day. …”

“I don’t want a fuss,” said Harry quickly, envisaging

the additional strain this would put on them all.

“Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be

fine. … It’s the day before the wedding. …”

“Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite Remus and

Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?”

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“That’d be great,” said Harry. “But please don’t go to loads of trouble.”

“Not at all, not at all … It’s no trouble. …”

She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled

a little sadly, straightened up, and walked away.

Harry watched as she waved her wand near the

washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air

to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great

wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain

he was giving her.

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THE WILL OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

He was walking along a mountain road in the cool

blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was

the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought

down there, the man he needed so badly he could

think of little else, the man who held the answer, the

answer to his problem … ?

“Oi, wake up.”

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the

camp bed in Ron’s dingy attic room. The sun had not

yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon

was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The

scar on Harry’s forehead was prickling.

“You were muttering in your sleep.”

“Was I?”

“Yeah. ‘Gregorovitch.’ You kept saying ‘Gregorovitch.’

”

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Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron’s face

appeared slightly blurred.

“Who’s Gregorovitch?”

“I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it.”

Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague

idea he had heard the name before, but he could not

think where.

“I think Voldemort’s looking for him.”

“Poor bloke,” said Ron fervently.

Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake.

He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the

dream, but all that came back was a mountainous

horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a

deep valley.

“I think he’s abroad.”

“Who, Gregorovitch?”

“Voldemort. I think he’s somewhere abroad, looking

for Gregorovitch. It didn’t look like anywhere in

Britain.”

“You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?”

Ron sounded worried.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell Hermione,” said Harry.

“Although how she expects me to stop seeing stuff in

my sleep …”

He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon’s cage, thinking …

Why was the name “Gregorovitch” familiar?

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“I think,” he said slowly, “he’s got something to do with Quidditch. There’s some connection, but I can’t

— I can’t think what it is.”

“Quidditch?” said Ron. “Sure you’re not thinking of

Gorgovitch?”

“Who?”

“Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the

Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago.

Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season.”

“No,” said Harry. “I’m definitely not thinking of

Gorgovitch.”

“I try not to either,” said Ron. “Well, happy birthday

anyway.”

“Wow — that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!”

Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed,

pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his

glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were

only around a foot away, there was something

immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward

him, at least until they poked him in the eye.

“Slick,” snorted Ron.

Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron’s

possessions flying around the room, causing

Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around

his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his

trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several

minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the

pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron’s

Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.

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“I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it.

“Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for

my mother’s eyes.”

“A book?” said Harry as he took the rectangular

parcel. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t your average book,” said Ron. “It’s pure

gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches.

Explains everything you need to know about girls. If

only I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how

to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to

get going with … Well, Fred and George gave me a

copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s

not all about wandwork, either.”

When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of

presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur

Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs.

Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan.

“Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth,

Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley, beaming at him. “He had

to leave early for work, but he’ll be back for dinner.

That’s our present on top.”

Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had

indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very

like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for

his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling

around the face instead of hands.

“It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he

comes of age,” said Mrs. Weasley, watching him

anxiously from beside the cooker. “I’m afraid that one

isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother

Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his

possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but —”

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The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her. He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into

the hug and perhaps she understood them, because

she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her,

then waved her wand in a slightly random way,

causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying

pan onto the floor.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” said Hermione, hurrying

into the kitchen and adding her own present to the

top of the pile. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it.

What did you get him?” she added to Ron, who

seemed not to hear her.

“Come on, then, open Hermione’s!” said Ron.

She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other

packages contained an enchanted razor from Bill and

Fleur (“Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave

you will ever ’ave,” Monsieur Delacour assured him,

“but you must tell it clearly what you want …

ozzerwise you might find you ’ave a leetle less hair

zan you would like. …”), chocolates from the

Delacours, and an enormous box of the latest

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred

and George.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger at the table,

as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and

Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

“I’ll pack these for you,” Hermione said brightly,

taking Harry’s presents out of his arms as the three of

them headed back upstairs. “I’m nearly done, I’m just

waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of

the wash, Ron —”

Ron’s splutter was interrupted by the opening of a

door on the first-floor landing.

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“Harry, will you come in here a moment?”

It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt, but

Hermione took him by the elbow and tugged him on

up the stairs. Feeling nervous, Harry followed Ginny

into her room.

He had never been inside it before. It was small, but

bright. There was a large poster of the Wizarding

band the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture of

Gwenog Jones, Captain of the all-witch Quidditch

team the Holyhead Harpies, on the other. A desk

stood facing the open window, which looked out over

the orchard where he and Ginny had once played

two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and Hermione, and

which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The

golden flag on top was level with Ginny’s window.

Ginny looked up into Harry’s face, took a deep breath,

and said, “Happy seventeenth.”

“Yeah … thanks.”

She was looking at him steadily; he, however, found it

difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a

brilliant light.

“Nice view,” he said feebly, pointing toward the

window.

She ignored this. He could not blame her.

“I couldn’t think what to get you,” she said.

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

She disregarded this too.

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“I didn’t know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn’t be able to take it with you.”

He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that

was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny,

she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that

having six brothers must have toughened her up.

She took a step closer to him.

“So then I thought, I’d like you to have something to

remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela

when you’re off doing whatever you’re doing.”

“I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty

thin on the ground, to be honest.”

“There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for,” she

whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had

never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her

back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than

firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world,

Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one

in her long, sweet-smelling hair —

The door banged open behind them and they jumped

apart.

“Oh,” said Ron pointedly. “Sorry.”

“Ron!” Hermione was just behind him, slightly out of

breath. There was a strained silence, then Ginny said

in a flat little voice,

“Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry.”

Ron’s ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous.

Harry wanted to slam the door in their faces, but it

felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when

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the door opened, and his shining moment had popped

like a soap bubble. All the reasons for ending his

relationship with Ginny, for staying well away from

her, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron,

and all happy forgetfulness was gone.

He looked at Ginny, wanting to say something,

though he hardly knew what, but she had turned her

back on him. He thought that she might have

succumbed, for once, to tears. He could not do

anything to comfort her in front of Ron.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, and followed the other two

out of the bedroom.

Ron marched downstairs, through the still-crowded

kitchen and into the yard, and Harry kept pace with

him all the way, Hermione trotting along behind them

looking scared.

Once he reached the seclusion of the freshly mown

lawn, Ron rounded on Harry.

“You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing

her around?”

“I’m not messing her around,” said Harry, as

Hermione caught up with them.

“Ron —”

But Ron held up a hand to silence her.

“She was really cut up when you ended it —”

“So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn’t

because I wanted to.”

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“Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she’s just

going to get her hopes up again —”

“She’s not an idiot, she knows it can’t happen, she’s

not expecting us to — to end up married, or —”

As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry’s mind of

Ginny in a white dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and

unpleasant stranger. In one spiraling moment it

seemed to hit him: Her future was free and

unencumbered, whereas his … he could see nothing

but Voldemort ahead.

“If you keep groping her every chance you get —”

“It won’t happen again,” said Harry harshly. The day

was cloudless, but he felt as though the sun had gone

in. “Okay?”

Ron looked half resentful, half sheepish; he rocked

backward and forward on his feet for a moment, then

said, “Right then, well, that’s … yeah.”

Ginny did not seek another one-to-one meeting with

Harry for the rest of the day, nor by any look or

gesture did she show that they had shared more than

polite conversation in her room. Nevertheless,

Charlie’s arrival came as a relief to Harry. It provided

a distraction, watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie

into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and

announce that he was about to get a proper haircut.

As Harry’s birthday dinner would have stretched the

Burrow’s kitchen to breaking point even before the

arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, several

tables were placed end to end in the garden. Fred and

George bewitched a number of purple lanterns, all

emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in

midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley’s

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ministrations, George’s wound was neat and clean,

but Harry was not yet used to the dark hole in the

side of his head, despite the twins’ many jokes about

it.

Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from

the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically

over the trees and bushes.

“Nice,” said Ron, as with one final flourish of her

wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple

tree to gold. “You’ve really got an eye for that sort of

thing.”

“Thank you, Ron!” said Hermione, looking both

pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away,

smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he

would find a chapter on compliments when he found

time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to

Charm Witches; he caught Ginny’s eye and grinned at

her before remembering his promise to Ron and

hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur

Delacour.

“Out of the way, out of the way!” sang Mrs. Weasley,

coming through the gate with what appeared to be a

giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her.

Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday

cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her

wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven

ground. When the cake had finally landed in the

middle of the table, Harry said, “That looks amazing,

Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she said fondly. Over her

shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and

mouthed, Good one.

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By seven o’clock all the guests had arrived, led into the house by Fred and George, who had waited for

them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored the

occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy

brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook

Harry’s hand, Harry thought he looked rather

unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him,

looked simply radiant.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, hugging him

tightly.

“Seventeen, eh!” said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-

sized glass of wine from Fred. “Six years ter the day

since we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?”

“Vaguely,” said Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you

smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail,

and tell me I was a wizard?”

“I forge’ the details,” Hagrid chortled. “All righ’, Ron,

Hermione?”

“We’re fine,” said Hermione. “How are you?”

“Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn

unicorns, I’ll show yeh when yeh get back —” Harry

avoided Ron’s and Hermione’s gazes as Hagrid

rummaged in his pocket. “Here, Harry — couldn’

think what ter get yeh, but then I remembered this.”

He pulled out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch

with a long string, evidently intended to be worn

around the neck. “Mokeskin. Hide anythin’ in there

an’ no one but the owner can get it out. They’re rare,

them.”

“Hagrid, thanks!”

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“ ’S’nothin’,” said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. “An’ there’s Charlie! Always liked him —

hey! Charlie!”

Charlie approached, running his hand slightly

ruefully over his new, brutally short haircut. He was

shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns

and scratches up his muscley arms.

“Hi, Hagrid, how’s it going?”

“Bin meanin’ ter write fer ages. How’s Norbert doin’?”

“Norbert?” Charlie laughed. “The Norwegian

Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now.”

“Wha — Norbert’s a girl?”

“Oh yeah,” said Charlie.

“How can you tell?” asked Hermione.

“They’re a lot more vicious,” said Charlie. He looked

over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “Wish Dad

would hurry up and get here. Mum’s getting edgy.”

They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying

to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly

at the gate.

“I think we’d better start without Arthur,” she called

to the garden at large after a moment or two. “He

must have been held up at — oh!”

They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that

came flying across the yard and onto the table, where

it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel, which

stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley’s

voice.

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“Minister of Magic coming with me.”

The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur’s

family peering in astonishment at the place where it

had vanished.

“We shouldn’t be here,” said Lupin at once. “Harry —

I’m sorry — I’ll explain another time —”

He seized Tonks’s wrist and pulled her away; they

reached the fence, climbed over it, and vanished from

sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.

“The Minister — but why — ? I don’t understand —”

But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second

later, Mr. Weasley had appeared out of thin air at the

gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly

recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.

The two newcomers marched across the yard toward

the garden and the lantern-lit table, where everybody

sat in silence, watching them draw closer. As

Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light,

Harry saw that he looked much older than the last

time they had met, scraggy and grim.

“Sorry to intrude,” said Scrimgeour, as he limped to a

halt before the table. “Especially as I can see that I

am gate-crashing a party.”

His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch

cake.

“Many happy returns.”

“Thanks,” said Harry.

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“I require a private word with you,” Scrimgeour went on. “Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss

Hermione Granger.”

“Us?” said Ron, sounding surprised. “Why us?”

“I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more

private,” said Scrimgeour. “Is there such a place?” he

demanded of Mr. Weasley.

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked

nervous. “The, er, sitting room, why don’t you use

that?”

“You can lead the way,” Scrimgeour said to Ron.

“There will be no need for you to accompany us,

Arthur.”

Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with

Mrs. Weasley as he, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As

they led the way back to the house in silence, Harry

knew that the other two were thinking the same as he

was: Scrimgeour must, somehow, have learned that

the three of them were planning to drop out of

Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through

the messy kitchen and into the Burrow’s sitting room.

Although the garden had been full of soft golden

evening light, it was already dark in here: Harry

flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he entered and

they illuminated the shabby but cozy room.

Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that

Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron,

and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa.

Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke.

“I have some questions for the three of you, and I

think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two”

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— he pointed at Harry and Hermione — “can wait

upstairs, I will start with Ronald.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Harry, while

Hermione nodded vigorously. “You can speak to us

together, or not at all.”

Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry

had the impression that the Minister was wondering

whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this

early.

“Very well then, together,” he said, shrugging. He

cleared his throat. “I am here, as I’m sure you know,

because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.

“A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that

Dumbledore had left you anything?”

“A-all of us?” said Ron. “Me and Hermione too?”

“Yes, all of —”

But Harry interrupted.

“Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken

this long to give us what he left us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, before Scrimgeour

could answer. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s

left us. You had no right to do that!” she said, and her

voice trembled slightly.

“I had every right,” said Scrimgeour dismissively. “The

Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry

the power to confiscate the contents of a will —”

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“That law was created to stop wizards passing on

Dark artifacts,” said Hermione, “and the Ministry is

supposed to have powerful evidence that the

deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them!

Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was

trying to pass us something cursed?”

“Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law,

Miss Granger?” asked Scrimgeour.

“No, I’m not,” retorted Hermione. “I’m hoping to do

some good in the world!”

Ron laughed. Scrimgeour’s eyes flickered toward him

and away again as Harry spoke.

“So why have you decided to let us have our things

now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?”

“No, it’ll be because the thirty-one days are up,” said

Hermione at once. “They can’t keep the objects longer

than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous.

Right?”

“Would you say you were close to Dumbledore,

Ronald?” asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione. Ron

looked startled.

“Me? Not — not really … It was always Harry who …”

Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see

Hermione giving him a stop-talking-now! sort of look,

but the damage was done: Scrimgeour looked as

though he had heard exactly what he had expected,

and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey

upon Ron’s answer.

“If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you

account for the fact that he remembered you in his

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will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests.

The vast majority of his possessions — his private

library, his magical instruments, and other personal

effects — were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you

were singled out?”

“I … dunno,” said Ron. “I … when I say we weren’t

close … I mean, I think he liked me. …”

“You’re being modest, Ron,” said Hermione.

“Dumbledore was very fond of you.”

This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far

as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been

alone together, and direct contact between them had

been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to

be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and

drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the

one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a

scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read

aloud.

“ ‘ The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival

Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’ … Yes, here we are. … ‘ To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the

hope that he will remember me when he uses it. ’ ”

Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry

had seen before: It looked something like a silver

cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to

suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a

simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed

the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it

over in his fingers, looking stunned.

“That is a valuable object,” said Scrimgeour, watching

Ron. “It may even be unique. Certainly it is of

Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left

you an item so rare?”

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Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.

“Dumbledore must have taught thousands of

students,” Scrimgeour persevered. “Yet the only ones

he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that?

To what use did he think you would put his

Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?”

“Put out lights, I s’pose,” mumbled Ron. “What else

could I do with it?”

Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After

squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back

to Dumbledore’s will.

“ ‘ To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of

The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will

find it entertaining and instructive. ’ ”

Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book

that looked as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the

Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained and

peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour

without a word. She held the book in her lap and

gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he

had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear

splashed onto the embossed symbols.

“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book,

Miss Granger?” asked Scrimgeour.

“He … he knew I liked books,” said Hermione in a

thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

“But why that particular book?”

“I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it.”

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“Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on

her sleeve. “And if the Ministry hasn’t found any

hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt

that I will.”

She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so

tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to

put it around Hermione’s shoulders. Scrimgeour

turned back to the will.

“ ‘ To Harry James Potter, ’ ” he read, and Harry’s

insides contracted with a sudden excitement, “ ‘ I leave

the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at

Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of

perseverance and skill. ’ ”

As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized

golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly,

and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of

anticlimax.

“Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?” asked

Scrimgeour.

“No idea,” said Harry. “For the reasons you just read

out, I suppose … to remind me what you can get if

you … persevere and whatever it was.”

“You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?”

“I suppose so,” said Harry. “What else could it be?”

“I’m asking the questions,” said Scrimgeour, shifting

his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really

falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows

towered ghostly white over the hedge.

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“I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch,” Scrimgeour said to Harry. “Why is that?”

Hermione laughed derisively.

“Oh, it can’t be a reference to the fact Harry’s a great

Seeker, that’s way too obvious,” she said. “There must

be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the

icing!”

“I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing,”

said Scrimgeour, “but a Snitch would be a very good

hiding place for a small object. You know why, I’m

sure?”

Harry shrugged. Hermione, however, answered: Harry

thought that answering questions correctly was such

a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the

urge.

“Because Snitches have flesh memories,” she said.

“What?” said Harry and Ron together; both

considered Hermione’s Quidditch knowledge

negligible.

“Correct,” said Scrimgeour. “A Snitch is not touched

by bare skin before it is released, not even by the

maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment

by which it can identify the first human to lay hands

upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch” —

he held up the tiny golden ball — “will remember your

touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who

had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other

faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it

will open only for you.”

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Harry’s heart was beating rather fast. He was sure

that Scrimgeour was right. How could he avoid taking

the Snitch with his bare hand in front of the Minister?

“You don’t say anything,” said Scrimgeour. “Perhaps

you already know what the Snitch contains?”

“No,” said Harry, still wondering how he could appear

to touch the Snitch without really doing so. If only he

knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read

Hermione’s mind; he could practically hear her brain

whirring beside him.

“Take it,” said Scrimgeour quietly.

Harry met the Minister’s yellow eyes and knew he had

no option but to obey. He held out his hand, and

Scrimgeour leaned forward again and placed the

Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry’s palm.

Nothing happened. As Harry’s fingers closed around

the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and were still.

Scrimgeour, Ron, and Hermione continued to gaze

avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still

hoping it might transform in some way.

“That was dramatic,” said Harry coolly. Both Ron and

Hermione laughed.

“That’s all, then, is it?” asked Hermione, making to

prise herself off the sofa.

“Not quite,” said Scrimgeour, who looked bad-

tempered now. “Dumbledore left you a second

bequest, Potter.”

“What is it?” asked Harry, excitement rekindling.

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Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.

“The sword of Godric Gryffindor,” he said.

Hermione and Ron both stiffened. Harry looked

around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but

Scrimgeour did not pull the sword from the leather

pouch, which in any case looked much too small to

contain it.

“So where is it?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Unfortunately,” said Scrimgeour, “that sword was

not Dumbledore’s to give away. The sword of Godric

Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as

such, belongs —”

“It belongs to Harry!” said Hermione hotly. “It chose

him, he was the one who found it, it came to him out

of the Sorting Hat —”

“According to reliable historical sources, the sword

may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor,” said

Scrimgeour. “That does not make it the exclusive

property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may

have decided.” Scrimgeour scratched his badly

shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. “Why do you think

— ?”

“— Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?” said

Harry, struggling to keep his temper. “Maybe he

thought it would look nice on my wall.”

“This is not a joke, Potter!” growled Scrimgeour. “Was

it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of

Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin?

Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he

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believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Interesting theory,” said Harry. “Has anyone ever

tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the

Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of

wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or

covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what

you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office,

trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying — I

was nearly one of them — Voldemort chased me

across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but

there’s been no word about any of that from the

Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to

cooperate with you!”

“You go too far!” shouted Scrimgeour, standing up;

Harry jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped

toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with

the point of his wand: It singed a hole in Harry’s T-

shirt like a lit cigarette.

“Oi!” said Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand,

but Harry said,

“No! D’you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?”

“Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” said

Scrimgeour, breathing hard into Harry’s face.

“Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave

your insolence and insubordination? You may wear

that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a

seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job!

It’s time you learned some respect!”

“It’s time you earned it,” said Harry.

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The floor trembled; there was a sound of running

footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst

open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.

“We — we thought we heard —” began Mr. Weasley,

looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and

the Minister virtually nose to nose.

“— raised voices,” panted Mrs. Weasley.

Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry,

glancing at the hole he had made in Harry’s T-shirt.

He seemed to regret his loss of temper.

“It — it was nothing,” he growled. “I … regret your

attitude,” he said, looking Harry full in the face once

more. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not

desire what you — what Dumbledore — desired. We

ought to be working together.”

“I don’t like your methods, Minister,” said Harry.

“Remember?”

For the second time, he raised his right fist and

displayed to Scrimgeour the scars that still showed

white on the back of it, spelling I must not tell lies.

Scrimgeour’s expression hardened. He turned away

without another word and limped from the room. Mrs.

Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at

the back door. After a minute or so she called, “He’s

gone!”

“What did he want?” Mr. Weasley asked, looking

around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley

came hurrying back to them.

“To give us what Dumbledore left us,” said Harry.

“They’ve only just released the contents of his will.”

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Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the

three objects Scrimgeour had given them were passed

from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the

Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard and

lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to

pass on the sword, but none of them could offer any

suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left

Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the

Deluminator for the third or fourth time, Mrs.

Weasley said tentatively, “Harry, dear, everyone’s

awfully hungry, we didn’t like to start without you. …

Shall I serve dinner now?”

They all ate rather hurriedly and then, after a hasty

chorus of “Happy Birthday” and much gulping of

cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to

the wedding the following day, but was far too bulky

to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a

tent for himself in a neighboring field.

“Meet us upstairs,” Harry whispered to Hermione,

while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to

its normal state. “After everyone’s gone to bed.”

Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator,

and Harry filled Hagrid’s mokeskin purse, not with

gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently

worthless though some of them were: the Marauder’s

Map, the shard of Sirius’s enchanted mirror, and

R.A.B.’s locket. He pulled the strings tight and slipped

the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old

Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last,

Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.

“Muffliato, ” she whispered, waving her wand in the

direction of the stairs.

“Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?” said Ron.

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“Times change,” said Hermione. “Now, show us that

Deluminator.”

Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he

clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at

once.

“The thing is,” whispered Hermione through the dark,

“we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant

Darkness Powder.”

There was a small click, and the ball of light from the

lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all

once more.

“Still, it’s cool,” said Ron, a little defensively. “And

from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!”

“I know, but surely he wouldn’t have singled you out

in his will just to help us turn out the lights!”

“D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate

his will and examine everything he’d left us?” asked

Harry.

“Definitely,” said Hermione. “He couldn’t tell us in the

will why he was leaving us these things, but that still

doesn’t explain …”

“… why he couldn’t have given us a hint when he was

alive?” asked Ron.

“Well, exactly,” said Hermione, now flicking through

The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “If these things are

important enough to pass on right under the nose of

the Ministry, you’d think he’d have let us know why

… unless he thought it was obvious?”

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“Thought wrong, then, didn’t he?” said Ron. “I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but

cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch — what the hell

was that about?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Hermione. “When Scrimgeour

made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something

was going to happen!”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry, his pulse quickening as he

raised the Snitch in his fingers. “I wasn’t going to try

too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?”

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione.

“The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch

match?” said Harry. “Don’t you remember?”

Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however,

gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch

and back again until he found his voice.

“That was the one you nearly swallowed!”

“Exactly,” said Harry, and with his heart beating fast,

he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.

It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment

welled up inside him: He lowered the golden sphere,

but then Hermione cried out.

“Writing! There’s writing on it, quick, look!”

He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and

excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon

the smooth golden surface, where seconds before

there had been nothing, were five words written in the

thin, slanting handwriting that Harry recognized as

Dumbledore’s:

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I open at the close.

He had barely read them when the words vanished

again.

“ ‘I open at the close …’ What’s that supposed to

mean?”

Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

“I open at the close … at the close … I open at the

close …”

But no matter how often they repeated the words,

with many different inflections, they were unable to

wring any more meaning from them.

“And the sword,” said Ron finally, when they had at

last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in

the Snitch’s inscription. “Why did he want Harry to

have the sword?”

“And why couldn’t he just have told me?” Harry said

quietly. “It was there, it was right there on the wall of

his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted

me to have it, why didn’t he just give it to me then?”

He felt as though he were sitting in an examination

with a question he ought to have been able to answer

in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was

there something he had missed in the long talks with

Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all

meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to

understand?

“And as for this book,” said Hermione, “The Tales of

Beedle the Bard … I’ve never even heard of them!”

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“You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?”

said Ron incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not!” said Hermione in surprise. “Do you

know them, then?”

“Well, of course I do!”

Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron

having read a book that Hermione had not was

unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by

their surprise.

“Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to

be Beedle’s, aren’t they? ‘The Fountain of Fair

Fortune’ … ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’ …

‘Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump’ …”

“Excuse me?” said Hermione, giggling. “What was that

last one?

“Come off it!” said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry

to Hermione. “You must’ve heard of Babbitty Rabbitty

—”

“Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up

by Muggles!” said Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories

like that when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White

and the Seven Dwarfs’ and ‘Cinderella’ —”

“What’s that, an illness?” asked Ron.

“So these are children’s stories?” asked Hermione,

bending again over the runes.

“Yeah,” said Ron uncertainly, “I mean, that’s just

what you hear, you know, that all these old stories

came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the

original versions.”

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“But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read

them?”

Something creaked downstairs.

“Probably just Charlie, now Mum’s asleep, sneaking

off to regrow his hair,” said Ron nervously.

“All the same, we should get to bed,” whispered

Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.”

“No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the

bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of a damper on

the wedding. I’ll get the lights.”

And he clicked the Deluminator once more as

Hermione left the room.

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THE WEDDING

Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry,

Ron, Fred, and George standing outside the great

white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of

the wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of

Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a

redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery

St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using

a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce

Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great

number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.

All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that

they could help show people to the right seats. A host

of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier,

along with a golden-jacketed band, and all of these

wizards were currently sitting a short distance away

under a tree; Harry could see a blue haze of pipe

smoke issuing from the spot.

Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed

rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either

side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles

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were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden

balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur

would shortly become husband and wife. Outside,

butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the

grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable.

The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting

was slightly fatter than him, and his dress robes felt

hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day.

“When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar

of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of

this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll

put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all

over.”

“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said

George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but

who wants him? Oh blimey, brace yourselves — here

they come, look.”

Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one,

out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard.

Within minutes a procession had formed, which

began to snake its way up through the garden toward

the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds

fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems

glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of

excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the

sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.

“Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said

George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll

need help understanding our English customs, I’ll

look after them. …”

“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting

past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading the

procession, he said, “Here — permettez-moi to assister

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vous, ” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to

deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took

charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry colleague

Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s

lot.

“Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the

marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the

front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the

occasion. “Arthur told us you were the one with the

curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added in a

whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The

Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at the moment

and we thought our presence might not do you any

favors.”

“It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to

Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but

as they turned away, Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again

into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but

there was no time to dwell on the matter: Hagrid was

causing a certain amount of disruption. Having

misunderstood Fred’s directions he had sat himself,

not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat

set aside for him in the back row, but on five seats

that now resembled a large pile of golden

matchsticks.

While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid

shouted apologies to anybody who would listen, Harry

hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face

with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-

eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of

candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in

front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade

of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a

triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around

his neck.

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“Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to Harry, “my daughter and I live just over the hill, so

kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think

you know my Luna?” he added to Ron.

“Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”

“She lingered in that charming little garden to say

hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How

few wizards realize just how much we can learn from

the wise little gnomes — or, to give them their correct

name, the Gernumbli gardensi. ”

“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said

Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them

those.”

He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna

rushed up.

“Hello, Harry!” she said.

“Er — my name’s Barny,” said Harry, flummoxed.

“Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly.

“How did you know — ?”

“Oh, just your expression,” she said.

Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow

robes, which she had accessorized with a large

sunflower in her hair. Once you got over the

brightness of it all, the general effect was quite

pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling

from her ears.

Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an

acquaintance, had missed the exchange between

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Luna and Harry. Bidding the wizard farewell, he

turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and

said, “Daddy, look — one of the gnomes actually bit

me!”

“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously

beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s

outstretched finger and examining the bleeding

puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel

any burgeoning talent today — perhaps an

unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in

Mermish — do not repress it! You may have been

gifted by the Gernumblies!”

Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a

loud snort.

“Ron can laugh,” said Luna serenely as Harry led her

and Xenophilius toward their seats, “but my father

has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.”

“Really?” said Harry, who had long since decided not

to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. “Are

you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite,

though?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” said Luna, sucking her finger in a

dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. “You

look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably

wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear

sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know.”

As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared

with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky

nose, red-rimmed eyes, and feathery pink hat gave

her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.

“… and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a

moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard,

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what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry.

“Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny.”

“Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry

Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he

was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely

been boasting?”

“No — he couldn’t come —”

“Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as

he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been

instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,”

she shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made, you know, and

been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking

girl, but still — French. Well, well, find me a good

seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought

not to be on my feet too long.”

Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and

did not reappear for some time: When next they met

at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more

people to their places. The marquee was nearly full

now, and for the first time there was no queue

outside.

“Nightmare, Muriel is,” said Ron, mopping his

forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for

Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took

offense because Fred and George set off a Dung-bomb

under her chair at dinner. Dad always says she’ll

have written them out of her will — like they care,

they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the

family, rate they’re going. … Wow,” he added, blinking

rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward

them. “You look great!”

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“Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-colored

dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek

and shiny. “Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree, I

just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the

tiara. She said, ‘Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?’

and then, ‘Bad posture and skinny ankles.’ ”

“Don’t take it personally, she’s rude to everyone,” said

Ron.

“Talking about Muriel?” inquired George, reemerging

from the marquee with Fred. “Yeah, she’s just told me

my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius

was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at

weddings.”

“Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-

four hours later?” asked Hermione.

“Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end,”

conceded George.

“But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of

the party,” said Fred. “He used to down an entire

bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor,

hoist up his robes, and start pulling bunches of

flowers out of his —”

“Yes, he sounds a real charmer,” said Hermione,

while Harry roared with laughter.

“Never married, for some reason,” said Ron.

“You amaze me,” said Hermione.

They were all laughing so much that none of them

noticed the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with

a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until

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he held out his invitation to Ron and said, with his eyes on Hermione, “You look vunderful.”

“Viktor!” she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded

bag, which made a loud thump quite disproportionate

to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up,

she said, “I didn’t know you were — goodness — it’s

lovely to see — how are you?”

Ron’s ears had turned bright red again. After glancing

at Krum’s invitation as if he did not believe a word of

it, he said, much too loudly, “How come you’re here?”

“Fleur invited me,” said Krum, eyebrows raised.

Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook

hands; then, feeling that it would be prudent to

remove Krum from Ron’s vicinity, offered to show him

his seat.

“Your friend is not pleased to see me,” said Krum as

they entered the now packed marquee. “Or is he a

relative?” he added with a glance at Harry’s red curly

hair.

“Cousin,” Harry muttered, but Krum was not really

listening. His appearance was causing a stir,

particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was, after

all, a famous Quidditch player. While people were still

craning their necks to get a good look at him, Ron,

Hermione, Fred, and George came hurrying down the

aisle.

“Time to sit down,” Fred told Harry, “or we’re going to

get run over by the bride.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their seats in the

second row behind Fred and George. Hermione looked

rather pink and Ron’s ears were still scarlet. After a

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few moments he muttered to Harry, “Did you see he’s grown a stupid little beard?”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.

A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm

tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional

spurts of excited laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley

strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives;

Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of

amethyst-colored robes with a matching hat.

A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front

of the marquee, both wearing dress robes, with large

white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled

and there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela

cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled

from what seemed to be the golden balloons.

“Ooooh!” said Hermione, swiveling around in her seat

to look at the entrance.

A great collective sigh issued from the assembled

witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur

came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur

Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur was wearing a

very simple white dress and seemed to be emitting a

strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually

dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it

beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny and Gabrielle,

both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier

than usual, and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did

not look as though he had ever met Fenrir Greyback.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a slightly singsong

voice, and with a slight shock, Harry saw the same

small, tufty-haired wizard who had presided at

Dumbledore’s funeral, now standing in front of Bill

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and Fleur. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls …”

“Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely,” said

Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. “But I

must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low cut.”

Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry,

then quickly faced the front again. Harry’s mind

wandered a long way from the marquee, back to

afternoons spent alone with Ginny in lonely parts of

the school grounds. They seemed so long ago; they

had always seemed too good to be true, as though he

had been stealing shining hours from a normal

person’s life, a person without a lightning-shaped

scar on his forehead. …

“Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle … ?”

In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour

were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace.

Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee

told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of his

own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turned

and beamed at Harry; her eyes too were full of tears.

“… then I declare you bonded for life.”

The tufty-haired wizard waved his wand high over the

heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars

fell upon them, spiraling around their now entwined

figures. As Fred and George led a round of applause,

the golden balloons overhead burst: Birds of paradise

and tiny golden bells flew and floated out of them,

adding their songs and chimes to the din.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” called the tufty-haired

wizard. “If you would please stand up!”

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They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wand again. The seats on which they had

been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas

walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood

beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a

glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding

countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from

the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor;

the hovering chairs grouped themselves around

small, white-clothed tables, which all floated

gracefully back to earth around it, and the golden-

jacketed band trooped toward a podium.

“Smooth,” said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped

up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin

juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering

piles of tarts and sandwiches.

“We should go and congratulate them!” said

Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where

Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-

wishers.

“We’ll have time later,” shrugged Ron, snatching three

butter-beers from a passing tray and handing one to

Harry. “Hermione, cop hold, let’s grab a table. … Not

there! Nowhere near Muriel —”

Ron led the way across the empty dance floor,

glancing left and right as he went: Harry felt sure that

he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they

had reached the other side of the marquee, most of

the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one

where Luna sat alone.

“All right if we join you?” asked Ron.

“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Daddy’s just gone to give

Bill and Fleur our present.”

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“What is it, a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?” asked Ron.

Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but

caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain, Harry

lost track of the conversation for a few moments.

The band had begun to play. Bill and Fleur took to

the dance floor first, to great applause; after a while,

Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the floor,

followed by Mrs. Weasley and Fleur’s father.

“I like this song,” said Luna, swaying in time to the

waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later she stood up

and glided onto the dance floor, where she revolved

on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her

arms.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” said Ron admiringly. “Always

good value.”

But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor

Krum had dropped into Luna’s vacant seat. Hermione

looked pleasurably flustered, but this time Krum had

not come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face

he said, “Who is that man in the yellow?”

“That’s Xenophilius Lovegood, he’s the father of a

friend of ours,” said Ron. His pugnacious tone

indicated that they were not about to laugh at

Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. “Come and

dance,” he added abruptly to Hermione.

She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up.

They vanished together into the growing throng on

the dance floor.

“Ah, they are together now?” asked Krum,

momentarily distracted.

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“Er — sort of,” said Harry.

“Who are you?” Krum asked.

“Barny Weasley.”

They shook hands.

“You, Barny — you know this man Lovegood vell?”

“No, I only met him today. Why?”

Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching

Xenophilius, who was chatting to several warlocks on

the other side of the dance floor.

“Because,” said Krum, “if he vos not a guest of

Fleur’s, I vould duel him, here and now, for vearing

that filthy sign upon his chest.”

“Sign?” said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too.

The strange triangular eye was gleaming on his chest.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.”

“Grindelwald … the Dark wizard Dumbledore

defeated?”

“Exactly.”

Krum’s jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing,

then he said, “Grindelvald killed many people, my

grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never

poverful in this country, they said he feared

Dumbledore — and rightly, seeing how he vos

finished. But this” — he pointed a finger at

Xenophilius — “this is his symbol, I recognized it at

vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang

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ven he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and clothes, thinking to shock, make

themselves impressive — until those of us who had

lost family members to Grindelvald taught them

better.”

Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered

at Xenophilius. Harry felt perplexed. It seemed

incredibly unlikely that Luna’s father was a supporter

of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed

to have recognized the triangular, runelike shape.

“Are you — er — quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s — ?”

“I am not mistaken,” said Krum coldly. “I valked past

that sign for several years, I know it vell.”

“Well, there’s a chance,” said Harry, “that Xenophilius

doesn’t actually know what the symbol means. The

Lovegoods are quite … unusual. He could easily have

picked it up somewhere and think it’s a cross section

of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or

something.”

“The cross section of a vot?”

“Well, I don’t know what they are, but apparently he

and his daughter go on holiday looking for them. …”

Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna and

her father.

“That’s her,” he said, pointing at Luna, who was still

dancing alone, waving her arms around her head like

someone attempting to beat off midges.

“Vy is she doing that?” asked Krum.

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“Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt,” said

Harry, who recognized the symptoms.

Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was

making fun of him. He drew his wand from inside his

robes and tapped it menacingly on his thigh; sparks

flew out of the end.

“Gregorovitch!” said Harry loudly, and Krum started,

but Harry was too excited to care; the memory had

come back to him at the sight of Krum’s wand:

Ollivander taking it and examining it carefully before

the Triwizard Tournament.

“Vot about him?” asked Krum suspiciously.

“He’s a wandmaker!”

“I know that,” said Krum.

“He made your wand! That’s why I thought —

Quidditch —”

Krum was looking more and more suspicious.

“How do you know Gregorovitch made my vand?”

“I … I read it somewhere, I think,” said Harry. “In a —

a fan magazine,” he improvised wildly and Krum

looked mollified.

“I had not realized I ever discussed my vand with

fans,” he said.

“So … er … where is Gregorovitch these days?”

Krum looked puzzled.

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“He retired several years ago. I vos one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the best —

although I know, of course, that you Britons set much

store by Ollivander.”

Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the

dancers, like Krum, but he was thinking hard. So

Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker,

and Harry did not have to search far for a reason: It

was surely because of what Harry’s wand had done

on the night that Voldemort had pursued him across

the skies. The holly and phoenix feather wand had

conquered the borrowed wand, something that

Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would

Gregorovitch know better? Was he truly more skilled

than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands that

Ollivander did not?

“This girl is very nice-looking,” Krum said, recalling

Harry to his surroundings. Krum was pointing at

Ginny, who had just joined Luna. “She is also a

relative of yours?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, suddenly irritated, “and she’s

seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You

wouldn’t want to cross him.”

Krum grunted.

“Vot,” he said, draining his goblet and getting to his

feet again, “is the point of being an international

Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are

taken?”

And he strode off, leaving Harry to take a sandwich

from a passing waiter and make his way around the

edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find

Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but Ron was

dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor.

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Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars and watched Ginny, who was now dancing with Fred and

George’s friend Lee Jordan, trying not to feel resentful

about the promise he had given Ron.

He had never been to a wedding before, so he could

not judge how Wizarding celebrations differed from

Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the

latter would not involve a wedding cake topped with

two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake

was cut, or bottles of champagne that floated

unsupported through the crowd. As evening drew in,

and moths began to swoop under the canopy, now lit

with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became

more and more uncontained. Fred and George had

long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair

of Fleur’s cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a squat

wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing “Odo the

Hero” in a corner.

Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a

drunken uncle of Ron’s who seemed unsure whether

or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard

sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made

him look rather like an aged dandelion clock and was

topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar:

Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realized that this

was Elphias Doge, member of the Order of the

Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore’s obituary.

Harry approached him.

“May I sit down?”

“Of course, of course,” said Doge; he had a rather

high-pitched, wheezy voice.

Harry leaned in.

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“Mr. Doge, I’m Harry Potter.”

Doge gasped.

“My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here,

disguised. … I am so glad, so honored!”

In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a

goblet of champagne.

“I thought of writing to you,” he whispered, “after

Dumbledore … the shock … and for you, I am sure

…”

Doge’s tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.

“I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet, ’’

said Harry. “I didn’t realize you knew Professor

Dumbledore so well.”

“As well as anyone,” said Doge, dabbing his eyes with

a napkin. “Certainly I knew him longest, if you don’t

count Aberforth — and somehow, people never do

seem to count Aberforth.”

“Speaking of the Daily Prophet … I don’t know

whether you saw, Mr. Doge — ?”

“Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy.”

“Elphias, I don’t know whether you saw the interview

Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?”

Doge’s face flooded with angry color.

“Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture

might be a more accurate term, positively pestered me

to talk to her. I am ashamed to say that I became

rather rude, called her an interfering trout, which

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resulted, as you may have seen, in aspersions cast

upon my sanity.”

“Well, in that interview,” Harry went on, “Rita Skeeter

hinted that Professor Dumbledore was involved in the

Dark Arts when he was young.”

“Don’t believe a word of it!” said Doge at once. “Not a

word, Harry! Let nothing tarnish your memories of

Albus Dumbledore!”

Harry looked into Doge’s earnest, pained face and felt,

not reassured, but frustrated. Did Doge really think it

was that easy, that Harry could simply choose not to

believe? Didn’t Doge understand Harry’s need to be

sure, to know everything?

Perhaps Doge suspected Harry’s feelings, for he

looked concerned and hurried on, “Harry, Rita

Skeeter is a dreadful —”

But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle.

“Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!”

Harry and Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel

standing there, the plumes dancing on her hat, a

goblet of champagne in her hand. “She’s written a

book about Dumbledore, you know!”

“Hello, Muriel,” said Doge. “Yes, we were just

discussing —”

“You there! Give me your chair, I’m a hundred and

seven!”

Another redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his

seat, looking alarmed, and Auntie Muriel swung it

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around with surprising strength and plopped herself down upon it between Doge and Harry.

“Hello again, Barry, or whatever your name is,” she

said to Harry. “Now, what were you saying about Rita

Skeeter, Elphias? You know she’s written a biography

of Dumbledore? I can’t wait to read it, I must

remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!”

Doge looked stiff and solemn at this, but Auntie

Muriel drained her goblet and clicked her bony fingers

at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took

another large gulp of champagne, belched, and then

said, “There’s no need to look like a pair of stuffed

frogs! Before he became so respected and respectable

and all that tosh, there were some mighty funny

rumors about Albus!”

“Ill-informed sniping,” said Doge, turning radish-

colored again.

“You would say that, Elphias,” cackled Auntie Muriel.

“I noticed how you skated over the sticky patches in

that obituary of yours!”

“I’m sorry you think so,” said Doge, more coldly still.

“I assure you I was writing from the heart.”

“Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I

daresay you’ll still think he was a saint even if it does

turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!”

“Muriel!” exclaimed Doge.

A chill that had nothing to do with the iced

champagne was stealing through Harry’s chest.

“What do you mean?” he asked Muriel. “Who said his

sister was a Squib? I thought she was ill?”

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“Thought wrong, then, didn’t you, Barry!” said Auntie Muriel, looking delighted at the effect she had

produced. “Anyway, how could you expect to know

anything about it? It all happened years and years

before you were even thought of, my dear, and the

truth is that those of us who were alive then never

knew what really happened. That’s why I can’t wait to

find out what Skeeter’s unearthed! Dumbledore kept

that sister of his quiet for a long time!”

“Untrue!” wheezed Doge. “Absolutely untrue!”

“He never told me his sister was a Squib,” said Harry,

without thinking, still cold inside.

“And why on earth would he tell you?” screeched

Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she attempted

to focus upon Harry.

“The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana,” began

Elphias in a voice stiff with emotion, “is, I should have

thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her

death —”

“Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?” squawked

Muriel. “Why did half of us never even know she

existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house

and held a funeral for her? Where was saintly Albus

while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being

brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going

on in his own house!”

“What d’you mean, locked in the cellar?” asked Harry.

“What is this?”

Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again

and answered Harry.

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“Dumbledore’s mother was a terrifying woman, simply terrifying. Muggle-born, though I heard she pretended

otherwise —”

“She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra

was a fine woman,” whispered Doge miserably, but

Auntie Muriel ignored him.

“— proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who

would have been mortified to produce a Squib —”

“Ariana was not a Squib!” wheezed Doge.

“So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she

never attended Hogwarts!” said Auntie Muriel. She

turned back to Harry. “In our day, Squibs were often

hushed up, though to take it to the extreme of

actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and

pretending she didn’t exist —”

“I tell you, that’s not what happened!” said Doge, but

Auntie Muriel steamrollered on, still addressing

Harry.

“Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools

and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle

community … much kinder than trying to find them a

place in the Wizarding world, where they must always

be second class; but naturally Kendra Dumbledore

wouldn’t have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a

Muggle school —”

“Ariana was delicate!” said Doge desperately. “Her

health was always too poor to permit her —”

“— to permit her to leave the house?” cackled Muriel.

“And yet she was never taken to St. Mungo’s and no

Healer was ever summoned to see her!”

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“Really, Muriel, how you can possibly know whether

—”

“For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot

was a Healer at St. Mungo’s at the time, and he told

my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had

never been seen there. All most suspicious, Lancelot

thought!”

Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel,

who seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, snapped

her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry

thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up,

locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for the

crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore’s sister

suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her

lack of magic? And had Dumbledore truly left her to

her fate while he went off to Hogwarts, to prove

himself brilliant and talented?

“Now, if Kendra hadn’t died first,” Muriel resumed,

“I’d have said that it was she who finished off Ariana

—”

“How can you, Muriel?” groaned Doge. “A mother kill

her own daughter? Think what you are saying!”

“If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning

her daughter for years on end, why not?” shrugged

Auntie Muriel. “But as I say, it doesn’t fit, because

Kendra died before Ariana — of what, nobody ever

seemed sure —”

“Oh, no doubt Ariana murdered her,” said Doge with

a brave attempt at scorn. “Why not?”

“Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for

freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle,” said

Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. “Shake your head all you

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like, Elphias! You were at Ariana’s funeral, were you not?”

“Yes I was,” said Doge, through trembling lips. “And a

more desperately sad occasion I cannot remember.

Albus was heartbroken —”

“His heart wasn’t the only thing. Didn’t Aberforth

break Albus’s nose halfway through the service?”

If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was

nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have

stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another

swig of champagne, which dribbled down her chin.

“How do you — ?” croaked Doge.

“My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot,”

said Auntie Muriel happily. “Bathilda described the

whole thing to Mother while I was listening at the

door. A coffin-side brawl! The way Bathilda told it,

Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’s fault that

Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face.

According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend

himself, and that’s odd enough in itself, Albus could

have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands

tied behind his back.”

Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of

these old scandals seemed to elate her as much as

they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to

think, what to believe: He wanted the truth, and yet

all Doge did was sit there and bleat feebly that Ariana

had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that

Dumbledore would not have intervened if such

cruelty was happening inside his own house, and yet

there was undoubtedly something odd about the

story.

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“And I’ll tell you something else,” Muriel said,

hiccuping slightly as she lowered her goblet. “I think

Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All

those hints in Skeeter’s interview about an important

source close to the Dumbledores — goodness knows

she was there all through the Ariana business, and it

would fit!”

“Bathilda would never talk to Rita Skeeter!” whispered

Doge.

“Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry said. “The author of A

History of Magic?”

The name was printed on the front of one of Harry’s

textbooks, though admittedly not one of the ones he

had read most attentively.

“Yes,” said Doge, clutching at Harry’s question like a

drowning man at a life belt. “A most gifted magical

historian and an old friend of Albus’s.”

“Quite gaga these days, I’ve heard,” said Auntie

Muriel cheerfully.

“If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter

to have taken advantage of her,” said Doge, “and no

reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have

said!”

“Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and

I’m sure Rita Skeeter knows them all,” said Auntie

Muriel. “But even if Bathilda’s completely cuckoo, I’m

sure she’d still have old photographs, maybe even

letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years. … Well

worth a trip to Godric’s Hollow, I’d have thought.”

Harry, who had been taking a sip of butterbeer,

choked. Doge banged him on the back as Harry

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coughed, looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming eyes. Once he had control of his voice again, he

asked, “Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Oh yes, she’s been there forever! The Dumbledores

moved there after Percival was imprisoned, and she

was their neighbor.”

“The Dumbledores lived in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yes, Barry, that’s what I just said,” said Auntie

Muriel testily.

Harry felt drained, empty. Never once, in six years,

had Dumbledore told Harry that they had both lived

and lost loved ones in Godric’s Hollow. Why? Were

Lily and James buried close to Dumbledore’s mother

and sister? Had Dumbledore visited their graves,

perhaps walked past Lily’s and James’s to do so? And

he had never once told Harry … never bothered to say

…

And why it was so important, Harry could not explain

even to himself, yet he felt it had been tantamount to

a lie not to tell him that they had this place and these

experiences in common. He stared ahead of him,

barely noticing what was going on around him, and

did not realize that Hermione had appeared out of the

crowd until she drew up a chair beside him.

“I simply can’t dance anymore,” she panted, slipping

off one of her shoes and rubbing the sole of her foot.

“Ron’s gone looking to find more butterbeers. It’s a bit

odd, I’ve just seen Viktor storming away from Luna’s

father, it looked like they’d been arguing —” She

dropped her voice, staring at him. “Harry, are you

okay?”

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Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not

matter. At that moment, something large and silver

came falling through the canopy over the dance floor.

Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the

middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as

those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then

the Patronus’s mouth opened wide and it spoke in the

loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are

coming. ”

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A PLACE TO HIDE

Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione

jumped to their feet and drew their wands. Many

people were only just realizing that something strange

had happened; heads were still turning toward the

silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread outward in

cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had

landed. Then somebody screamed.

Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the

panicking crowd. Guests were sprinting in all

directions; many were Disapparating; the protective

enchantments around the Burrow had broken.

“Ron!” Hermione cried. “Ron, where are you?”

As they pushed their way across the dance floor,

Harry saw cloaked and masked figures appearing in

the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands

raised, and heard both of them shout, “Protego!”, a

cry that was echoed on all sides —

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“Ron! Ron!” Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffeted by terrified guests: Harry seized

her hand to make sure they weren’t separated as a

streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a

protective charm or something more sinister he did

not know —

And then Ron was there. He caught hold of

Hermione’s free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the

spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness

pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione’s

hand as he was squeezed through space and time,

away from the Burrow, away from the descending

Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort

himself. …

“Where are we?” said Ron’s voice.

Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they

had not left the wedding after all: They still seemed to

be surrounded by people.

“Tottenham Court Road,” panted Hermione. “Walk,

just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to

change.”

Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up

the wide dark street thronged with late-night revelers

and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above

them. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group

of merry pub-goers ogled them as they passed; Harry

and Ron were still wearing dress robes.

“Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into,”

Ron told her, as a young woman burst into raucous

giggles at the sight of him.

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“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?” said Harry, inwardly cursing his own

stupidity. “All last year I kept it on me and —”

“It’s okay, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for both

of you,” said Hermione. “Just try and act naturally

until — this will do.”

She led them down a side street, then into the shelter

of a shadowy alleyway.

“When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes …”

said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was carrying

nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which

she was now rummaging.

“Yes, they’re here,” said Hermione, and to Harry and

Ron’s utter astonishment, she pulled out a pair of

jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally

the silvery Invisibility Cloak.

“How the ruddy hell — ?”

“Undetectable Extension Charm,” said Hermione.

“Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I

managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave

the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like

a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled

around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she

said, peering into it, “and I had them all stacked by

subject. … Oh well. … Harry, you’d better take the

Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. …”

“When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron

stripped off his robes.

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials

packed for days, you know, in case we needed to

make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this

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morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here.

… I just had a feeling. …”

“You’re amazing, you are,” said Ron, handing her his

bundled-up robes.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, managing a small smile

as she pushed the robes into the bag. “Please, Harry,

get that Cloak on!”

Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak around his

shoulders and pulled it up over his head, vanishing

from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate

what had happened.

“The others — everyone at the wedding —”

“We can’t worry about that now,” whispered

Hermione. “It’s you they’re after, Harry, and we’ll just

put everyone in even more danger by going back.”

“She’s right,” said Ron, who seemed to know that

Harry was about to argue, even if he could not see his

face. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after

everyone.”

Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not

see him, and said, “Yeah.” But he thought of Ginny,

and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach.

“Come on, I think we ought to keep moving,” said

Hermione.

They moved back up the side street and onto the

main road again, where a group of men on the

opposite side was singing and weaving across the

pavement.

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“Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court

Road?” Ron asked Hermione.

“I’ve no idea, it just popped into my head, but I’m

sure we’re safer out in the Muggle world, it’s not

where they’ll expect us to be.”

“True,” said Ron, looking around, “but don’t you feel a

bit — exposed?”

“Where else is there?” asked Hermione, cringing as

the men on the other side of the road started wolf-

whistling at her. “We can hardly book rooms at the

Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out

if Snape can get in there. … I suppose we could try

my parents’ house, though I think there’s a chance

they might check there. … Oh, I wish they’d shut up!”

“All right, darling?” the drunkest of the men on the

other pavement was yelling. “Fancy a drink? Ditch

ginger and come and have a pint!”

“Let’s sit down somewhere,” Hermione said hastily as

Ron opened his mouth to shout back across the road.

“Look, this will do, in here!”

It was a small and shabby all-night café. A light layer

of grease lay on all the Formica-topped tables, but it

was at least empty. Harry slipped into a booth first

and Ron sat next to him opposite Hermione, who had

her back to the entrance and did not like it: She

glanced over her shoulder so frequently she appeared

to have a twitch. Harry did not like being stationary;

walking had given the illusion that they had a goal.

Beneath the Cloak he could feel the last vestiges of

Polyjuice leaving him, his hands returning to their

usual length and shape. He pulled his glasses out of

his pocket and put them on again.

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After a minute or two, Ron said, “You know, we’re not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it’s only in Charing

Cross —”

“Ron, we can’t!” said Hermione at once.

“Not to stay there, but to find out what’s going on!”

“We know what’s going on! Voldemort’s taken over the

Ministry, what else do we need to know?”

“Okay, okay, it was just an idea!”

They relapsed into a prickly silence. The gum-chewing

waitress shuffled over and Hermione ordered two

cappuccinos: As Harry was invisible, it would have

looked odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen

entered the café and squeezed into the next booth.

Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head

for the countryside. Once we’re there, we could send a

message to the Order.”

“Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?”

asked Ron.

“I’ve been practicing and I think so,” said Hermione.

“Well, as long as it doesn’t get them into trouble,

though they might’ve been arrested already. God,

that’s revolting,” Ron added after one sip of the

foamy, grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she

shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the

new customers’ orders. The larger of the two

workmen, who was blond and quite huge, now that

Harry came to look at him, waved her away. She

stared, affronted.

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“Let’s get going, then, I don’t want to drink this

muck,” said Ron. “Hermione, have you got Muggle

money to pay for this?”

“Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before

I came to the Burrow. I’ll bet all the change is at the

bottom,” sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded

bag.

The two workmen made identical movements, and

Harry mirrored them without conscious thought: All

three of them drew their wands. Ron, a few seconds

late in realizing what was going on, lunged across the

table, pushing Hermione sideways onto her bench.

The force of the Death Eaters’ spells shattered the

tiled wall where Ron’s head had just been, as Harry,

still invisible, yelled, “Stupefy!”

The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a

jet of red light: He slumped sideways, unconscious.

His companion, unable to see who had cast the spell,

fired another at Ron: Shining black ropes flew from

his wand-tip and bound Ron head to foot — the

waitress screamed and ran for the door — Harry sent

another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the

twisted face who had tied up Ron, but the spell

missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the

waitress, who collapsed in front of the door.

“Expulso!” bellowed the Death Eater, and the table

behind which Harry was standing blew up: The force

of the explosion slammed him into the wall and he felt

his wand leave his hand as the Cloak slipped off him.

“Petrificus Totalus!” screamed Hermione from out of

sight, and the Death Eater fell forward like a statue to

land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken

china, table, and coffee. Hermione crawled out from

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underneath the bench, shaking bits of glass ashtray out of her hair and trembling all over.

“D-diffindo, ” she said, pointing her wand at Ron, who

roared in pain as she slashed open the knee of his

jeans, leaving a deep cut. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ron, my

hand’s shaking! Diffindo!”

The severed ropes fell away. Ron got to his feet,

shaking his arms to regain feeling in them. Harry

picked up his wand and climbed over all the debris to

where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled

across the bench.

“I should’ve recognized him, he was there the night

Dumbledore died,” he said. He turned over the darker

Death Eater with his foot; the man’s eyes moved

rapidly between Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“That’s Dolohov,” said Ron. “I recognize him from the

old wanted posters. I think the big one’s Thorfinn

Rowle.”

“Never mind what they’re called!” said Hermione a

little hysterically. “How did they find us? What are we

going to do?”

Somehow her panic seemed to clear Harry’s head.

“Lock the door,” he told her, “and Ron, turn out the

lights.”

He looked down at the paralyzed Dolohov, thinking

fast as the lock clicked and Ron used the

Deluminator to plunge the café into darkness. Harry

could hear the men who had jeered at Hermione

earlier, yelling at another girl in the distance.

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“What are we going to do with them?” Ron whispered

to Harry through the dark; then, even more quietly,

“Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just

now.”

Hermione shuddered and took a step backward.

Harry shook his head.

“We just need to wipe their memories,” said Harry.

“It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If

we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.”

“You’re the boss,” said Ron, sounding profoundly

relieved. “But I’ve never done a Memory Charm.”

“Nor have I,” said Hermione, “but I know the theory.”

She took a deep, calming breath, then pointed her

wand at Dolohov’s forehead and said, “Obliviate. ”

At once, Dolohov’s eyes became unfocused and

dreamy.

“Brilliant!” said Harry, clapping her on the back.

“Take care of the other one and the waitress while

Ron and I clear up.”

“Clear up?” said Ron, looking around at the partly

destroyed café. “Why?”

“Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened

if they wake up and find themselves in a place that

looks like it’s just been bombed?”

“Oh right, yeah …”

Ron struggled for a moment before managing to

extract his wand from his pocket.

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“It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you

packed my old jeans, they’re tight.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” hissed Hermione, and as she

dragged the waitress out of sight of the windows,

Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron

could stick his wand instead.

Once the café was restored to its previous condition,

they heaved the Death Eaters back into their booth

and propped them up facing each other.

“But how did they find us?” Hermione asked, looking

from one inert man to the other. “How did they know

where we were?”

She turned to Harry.

“You — you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on

you, do you, Harry?”

“He can’t have,” said Ron. “The Trace breaks at

seventeen, that’s Wizarding law, you can’t put it on

an adult.”

“As far as you know,” said Hermione. “What if the

Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a

seventeen-year-old?”

“But Harry hasn’t been near a Death Eater in the last

twenty-four hours. Who’s supposed to have put a

Trace back on him?”

Hermione did not reply. Harry felt contaminated,

tainted: Was that really how the Death Eaters had

found them?

“If I can’t use magic, and you can’t use magic near

me, without us giving away our position —” he began.

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“We’re not splitting up!” said Hermione firmly.

“We need a safe place to hide,” said Ron. “Give us

time to think things through.”

“Grimmauld Place,” said Harry.

The other two gaped.

“Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!”

“Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him —

and even if they haven’t worked,” he pressed on as

Hermione began to argue, “so what? I swear, I’d like

nothing better than to meet Snape!”

“But —”

“Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance

we’ve got. Snape’s only one Death Eater. If I’ve still

got the Trace on me, we’ll have whole crowds of them

on us wherever else we go.”

She could not argue, though she looked as if she

would have liked to. While she unlocked the café

door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the

café’s light. Then, on Harry’s count of three, they

reversed the spells upon their three victims, and

before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters could

do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron, and Hermione

had turned on the spot and vanished into the

compressing darkness once more.

Seconds later Harry’s lungs expanded gratefully and

he opened his eyes: They were now standing in the

middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall,

dilapidated houses looked down on them from every

side. Number twelve was visible to them, for they had

been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-

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Keeper, and they rushed toward it, checking every few yards that they were not being followed or observed.

They raced up the stone steps, and Harry tapped the

front door once with his wand. They heard a series of

metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the

door swung open with a creak and they hurried over

the threshold.

As Harry closed the door behind them, the old-

fashioned gas lamps sprang into life, casting

flickering light along the length of the hallway. It

looked just as Harry remembered it: eerie,

cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the

wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long

dark curtains concealed the portrait of Sirius’s

mother. The only thing that was out of place was the

troll’s leg umbrella stand, which was lying on its side

as if Tonks had just knocked it over again.

“I think somebody’s been in here,” Hermione

whispered, pointing toward it.

“That could’ve happened as the Order left,” Ron

murmured back.

“So where are these jinxes they put up against

Snape?” Harry asked.

“Maybe they’re only activated if he shows up?”

suggested Ron.

Yet they remained close together on the doormat,

backs against the door, scared to move farther into

the house.

“Well, we can’t stay here forever,” said Harry, and he

took a step forward.

“Severus Snape?”

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Mad-Eye Moody’s voice whispered out of the

darkness, making all three of them jump back in

fright. “We’re not Snape!” croaked Harry, before

something whooshed over him like cold air and his

tongue curled backward on itself, making it

impossible to speak. Before he had time to feel inside

his mouth, however, his tongue had unraveled again.

The other two seemed to have experienced the same

unpleasant sensation. Ron was making retching

noises; Hermione stammered, “That m-must have b-

been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for

Snape!”

Gingerly Harry took another step forward. Something

shifted in the shadows at the end of the hall, and

before any of them could say another word, a figure

had risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and

terrible: Hermione screamed and so did Mrs. Black,

her curtains flying open; the gray figure was gliding

toward them, faster and faster, its waist-length hair

and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken,

fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar,

dreadfully altered, it raised a wasted arm, pointing at

Harry.

“No!” Harry shouted, and though he had raised his

wand no spell occurred to him. “No! It wasn’t us! We

didn’t kill you —”

On the word kill, the figure exploded in a great cloud

of dust: Coughing, his eyes watering, Harry looked

around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the

door with her arms over her head, and Ron, who was

shaking from head to foot, patting her clumsily on the

shoulder and saying, “It’s all r-right. … It’s g-gone. …”

Dust swirled around Harry like mist, catching the

blue gaslight, as Mrs. Black continued to scream.

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“Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers —”

“SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, directing his wand at her,

and with a bang and a burst of red sparks, the

curtains swung shut again, silencing her.

“That … that was …” Hermione whimpered, as Ron

helped her to her feet.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but it wasn’t really him, was it?

Just something to scare Snape.”

Had it worked, Harry wondered, or had Snape already

blasted the horror-figure aside as casually as he had

killed the real Dumbledore? Nerves still tingling, he

led the other two up the hall, half-expecting some new

terror to reveal itself, but nothing moved except for a

mouse skittering along the skirting board.

“Before we go any farther, I think we’d better check,”

whispered Hermione, and she raised her wand and

said, “Homenum revelio. ”

Nothing happened.

“Well, you’ve just had a big shock,” said Ron kindly.

“What was that supposed to do?”

“It did what I meant it to do!” said Hermione rather

crossly. “That was a spell to reveal human presence,

and there’s nobody here except us!”

“And old Dusty,” said Ron, glancing at the patch of

carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen.

“Let’s go up,” said Hermione with a frightened look at

the same spot, and she led the way up the creaking

stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.

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Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she

perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around

her. Ron crossed to the window and moved the heavy

velvet curtain aside an inch.

“Can’t see anyone out there,” he reported. “And you’d

think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they’d have

followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house,

but — what’s up, Harry?”

Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned

again as something flashed across his mind like a

bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and felt

a fury that was not his own pound through his body,

violent and brief as an electric shock.

“What did you see?” Ron asked, advancing on Harry.

“Did you see him at my place?”

“No, I just felt anger — he’s really angry —”

“But that could be at the Burrow,” said Ron loudly.

“What else? Didn’t you see anything? Was he cursing

someone?”

“No, I just felt anger — I couldn’t tell —”

Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not

help as she said in a frightened voice, “Your scar,

again? But what’s going on? I thought that

connection had closed!”

“It did, for a while,” muttered Harry; his scar was still

painful, which made it hard to concentrate. “I — I

think it’s started opening again whenever he loses

control, that’s how it used to —”

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“But then you’ve got to close your mind!” said

Hermione shrilly. “Harry, Dumbledore didn’t want you

to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it

down, that’s why you were supposed to use

Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false

images in your mind, remember —”

“Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” said Harry through

gritted teeth; he did not need Hermione to tell him

that Voldemort had once used this selfsame

connection between them to lead him into a trap, nor

that it had resulted in Sirius’s death. He wished that

he had not told them what he had seen and felt; it

made Voldemort more threatening, as though he were

pressing against the window of the room, and still the

pain in his scar was building and he fought it: It was

like resisting the urge to be sick.

He turned his back on Ron and Hermione, pretending

to examine the old tapestry of the Black family tree on

the wall. Then Hermione shrieked: Harry drew his

wand again and spun around to see a silver Patronus

soar through the drawing room window and land

upon the floor in front of them, where it solidified into

the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron’s father.

“Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched. ”

The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out

a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped

onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm.

“They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispered,

and Ron half laughed and hugged her.

“Harry,” he said over Hermione’s shoulder, “I —”

“It’s not a problem,” said Harry, sickened by the pain

in his head. “It’s your family, ’course you’re worried.

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I’d feel the same way.” He thought of Ginny. “I do feel the same way.”

The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as

it had done in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he

heard Hermione say, “I don’t want to be on my own.

Could we use the sleeping bags I’ve brought and

camp in here tonight?”

He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much

longer: He had to succumb.

“Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast

as he could without running.

He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with

trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and

fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt

the rage that did not belong to him possess his soul,

saw a long room lit only by firelight, and the great

blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming and

writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him,

wand outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold,

merciless voice.

“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to

Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive

this time. … You called me back for this, to tell me

that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give

Rowle another taste of our displeasure. … Do it, or

feel my wrath yourself!”

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting

across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense

of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving

breaths and opened his eyes.

He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor,

his nose inches from one of the silver serpent tails

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that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of

his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by

the use to which Draco was now being put by

Voldemort.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped

as Hermione’s voice rang out.

“Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it

here.”

“Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his

voice casual as he stood up to let her in.

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KREACHER’S TALE

Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping

bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was

visible between the heavy curtains: It was the cool,

clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night

and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron

and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced

over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside

him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that

Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that

her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved

to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry

wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding

hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.

He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed

chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had

been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the

marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It

seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen

now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the

Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission

Dumbledore had left him. … Dumbledore …

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The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had

heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have

nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his

memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could

Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he

been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse

as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned

his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and

hidden?

Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves

Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought

of mysterious objects left without explanation in

Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the

darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why

hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared

about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more

than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted,

never confided in?

Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but

bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something

to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping

bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room.

On the landing he whispered, “Lumos, ” and started to

climb the stairs by wandlight.

On the second landing was the bedroom in which he

and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he

glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and

the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry

remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs.

Somebody had searched the house since the Order

had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had

pilfered plenty from this house both before and after

Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait

that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black,

Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, but it was empty,

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showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop.

Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in

the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.

Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the

topmost landing, where there were only two doors.

The one facing him bore a nameplate reading SIRIUS.

Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom

before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand

high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was

spacious and must once have been handsome. There

was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a

tall window obscured by long velvet curtains, and a

chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle stubs

still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in

frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures

on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spider’s web

stretched between the chandelier and the top of the

large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper

into the room, he heard a scurrying of disturbed mice.

The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so

many posters and pictures that little of the walls’

silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume

that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the

Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the

wall, because he was sure they would not have

appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration.

Sirius seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy

his parents. There were several large Gryffindor

banners, faded scarlet and gold, just to underline his

difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family.

There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and

also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several

posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls; Harry could tell

that they were Muggles because they remained quite

stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and

glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast

to the only Wizarding photograph on the walls, which

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was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.

With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father;

his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like

Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was

Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face

so much younger and happier than Harry had ever

seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more

than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed

with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs,

with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius

had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a

little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of

delighted surprise at finding himself liked and

included … or was it simply because Harry knew how

it had been, that he saw these things in the picture?

He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after

all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not

budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his

parents from redecorating his room.

Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was

growing brighter: A shaft of light revealed bits of

paper, books, and small objects scattered over the

carpet. Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been searched

too, although its contents seemed to have been

judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the

books had been shaken roughly enough to part

company with their covers, and sundry pages littered

the floor.

Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of

paper, and examined them. He recognized one as part

of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda

Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle

maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and

crumpled. He smoothed it out.

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Dear Padfoot,

Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It

was his favorite by far. One year old and already

zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so

pleased with himself, I’m enclosing a picture so you

can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the

ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a

horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no

complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so

funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player,

but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and

make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets

going.

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old

Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who

dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come,

but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old

enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is

getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to

show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If

you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy

was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down,

but that was probably the news about the McKinnons;

I cried all evening when I heard.

Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old

thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore,

I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know

how much to believe, actually, because it seems

incredible that Dumbledore

Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He

stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his

nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet

eruption sent joy and grief thundering in equal

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measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he

sat down.

He read the letter again, but could not take in any

more meaning than he had done the first time, and

was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She

had made her “g”s the same way he did: He searched

through the letter for every one of them, and each felt

like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil.

The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily

Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had

once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into

these letters, these words, words about him, Harry,

her son.

Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he

reread the letter, this time concentrating on the

meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered

voice.

They had had a cat … perhaps it had perished, like

his parents, at Godric’s Hollow … or else fled when

there was nobody left to feed it. … Sirius had bought

him his first broomstick. … His parents had known

Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them?

Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak … There was something funny there. …

Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why

had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak?

Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling

him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become

invisible.” Perhaps some less gifted Order member

had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted

as carrier? Harry passed on. …

Wormy was here … Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed

“down,” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing

James and Lily alive for the last time?

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And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that

Dumbledore —

That Dumbledore what? But there were any number

of things that would seem incredible about

Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks

in a Transfiguration test, for instance, or had taken

up goat-charming like Aberforth. …

Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps

the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized

papers, treating them, in his eagerness, with as little

consideration as the original searcher; he pulled open

drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his

hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under

the bed and armchair.

At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what

looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of

drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most

of the photograph Lily had described in her letter. A

black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the

picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a

pair of legs that must have belonged to James was

chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into

his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for

the second sheet.

After another quarter of an hour, however, he was

forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter

was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years

that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it

been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry

read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues

as to what might have made the second sheet

valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be

considered interesting to the Death Eaters. … The

only potentially useful thing he could see here was

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possible information on Dumbledore. It seems

incredible that Dumbledore — what?

“Harry? Harry! Harry!”

“I’m here!” he called. “What’s happened?”

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and

Hermione burst inside.

“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she

said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her

shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him!”

Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several

floors below.

“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”

“Harry, don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified!

Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed

around the ransacked room. “What have you been

doing?”

“Look what I’ve just found.”

He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it and

read it while Harry watched her. When she reached

the end of the page she looked up at him.

“Oh, Harry …”

“And there’s this too.”

He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione

smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the

toy broom.

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“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry said, “but it’s not here.”

Hermione glanced around.

“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done

when you got here?”

“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry.

“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up

had been disturbed. What were they after, do you

think?”

“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.”

“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed, I

mean, he was in the Order, wasn’t he?”

“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory,

“what about information on Dumbledore? The second

page of this letter, for instance. You know this

Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”

“Who?”

“Bathilda Bagshot, the author of —”

“A History of Magic, ” said Hermione, looking

interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an

incredible magical historian.”

“And she’s still alive,” said Harry, “and she lives in

Godric’s Hollow, Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking

about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s

family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t

she?”

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There was a little too much understanding in the

smile Hermione gave him for Harry’s liking. He took

back the letter and the photograph and tucked them

inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have

to look at her and give himself away.

“I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your

mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” said Hermione.

“But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the

Horcruxes, would it?” Harry did not answer, and she

rushed on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to

Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared, I’m scared at how

easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just

makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid

the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure

they’d be expecting you to visit it.”

“It’s not just that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at

her. “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the

wedding. I want to know the truth. …”

He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told

him. When he had finished, Hermione said, “Of

course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry —”

“I’m not upset,” he lied, “I’d just like to know whether

or not it’s true or —”

“Harry, do you really think you’ll get the truth from a

malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita

Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew

Dumbledore!”

“I thought I did,” he muttered.

“But you know how much truth there was in

everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how

can you let these people tarnish your memories of

Dumbledore?”

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He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He

wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined

that he should not get it?

“Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione

suggested after a little pause. “Find something for

breakfast?”

He agreed, but grudgingly, and followed her out onto

the landing and past the second door that led off it.

There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork

below a small sign that he had not noticed in the

dark. He paused at the top of the stairs to read it. It

was a pompous little sign, neatly lettered by hand,

the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck

on his bedroom door:

Do Not Enter

Without the Express Permission of

Regulus Arcturus Black

Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not

immediately sure why. He read the sign again.

Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.

“Hermione,” he said, and he was surprised that his

voice was so calm. “Come back up here.”

“What’s the matter?”

“R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.”

There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up

the stairs.

“In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see —”

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Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he

winced.

“Sirius’s brother?” she whispered.

“He was a Death Eater,” said Harry, “Sirius told me

about him, he joined up when he was really young

and then got cold feet and tried to leave — so they

killed him.”

“That fits!” gasped Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater

he had access to Voldemort, and if he became

disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring

Voldemort down!”

She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and

screamed, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!”

Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand

ready in his hand.

“What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want

breakfast before I —”

He frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, to which

Hermione was silently pointing.

“What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus

Arcturus … Regulus … R.A.B. ! The locket — you don’t

reckon — ?”

“Let’s find out,” said Harry. He pushed the door: It

was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle

and said, “Alohomora. ” There was a click, and the

door swung open.

They moved over the threshold together, gazing

around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than

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Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former

grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his

difference from the rest of the family, Regulus had

striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin

colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping

the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family

crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along

with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a

collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck

together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed

the room to examine them.

“They’re all about Voldemort,” she said. “Regulus

seems to have been a fan for a few years before he

joined the Death Eaters. …”

A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat

down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had

noticed another photograph; a Hogwarts Quidditch

team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He

moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on

their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly

recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the

front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly

haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller,

slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had

been.

“He played Seeker,” said Harry.

“What?” said Hermione vaguely; she was still

immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings.

“He’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s

where the Seeker … Never mind,” said Harry, realizing

that nobody was listening: Ron was on his hands and

knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked

around the room for likely hiding places and

approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had

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searched before them. The drawers’ contents had

been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but

there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-

date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly

handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky

residue covering the contents of the drawer.

“There’s an easier way,” said Hermione, as Harry

wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her

wand and said, “Accio Locket!”

Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the

folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.

“Is that it, then? It’s not here?”

“Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-

enchantments,” said Hermione. “Charms to prevent it

being summoned magically, you know.”

“Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,”

said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to

Summon the fake locket.

“How are we supposed to find it then?” asked Ron.

“We search manually,” said Hermione.

“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he

resumed his examination of the curtains.

They combed every inch of the room for more than an

hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the

locket was not there.

The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even

through the grimy landing windows.

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“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,”

said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back

downstairs: As Harry and Ron had become more

discouraged, she seemed to have become more

determined. “Whether he’d managed to destroy it or

not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort,

wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had

to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock

that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that

tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them

there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though

we didn’t realize it at … at …”

Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with

one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one

who had just been Obliviated; her eyes had even

drifted out of focus.

“… at the time,” she finished in a whisper.

“Something wrong?” asked Ron.

“There was a locket.”

“What?” said Harry and Ron together.

“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could

open it. And we … we …”

Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through

his chest into his stomach. He remembered: He had

even handled the thing as they passed it around, each

trying in turn to prise it open. It had been tossed into

a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap

powder and the music box that had made everyone

sleepy. …

“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said

Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope

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left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his

cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”

He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the

other two thundering along in his wake. They made

so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s

mother as they passed through the hall.

“Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and

slammed the door behind them.

Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at

the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it

open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in

which the house-elf had once slept, but they were no

longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had

salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of

Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to

believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and

shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled

dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw

himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her

eyes.

“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice

and called, “Kreacher!”

There was a loud crack and the house-elf that Harry

had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out

of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace:

tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him

in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his

batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in

which they had first met him, and the contemptuous

look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to

his change of ownership had altered no more than his

outfit.

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“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bowed low, muttering to his knees, “back in my

Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley

and the Mudblood —”

“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or

‘Mudblood,’ ” growled Harry. He would have found

Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes,

a distinctly unlovable object even if the elf had not

betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.

“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart

beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and

I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”

“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again: Harry

saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing

the insults he was now forbidden to utter.

“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now

hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold

locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out.

Did you steal it back?”

There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher

straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he

said, “Yes.”

“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and

Hermione looked gleeful.

Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear

to see their reactions to his next word.

“Gone.”

“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation flooding out of him.

“What do you mean, it’s gone?”

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The elf shivered. He swayed.

“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you —”

“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still

tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all: Miss

Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s

gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets

with the family crest, and — and —”

Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was

rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and

he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.

“— and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket, Kreacher

did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”

Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for

the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself

upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream

mingled with Kreacher’s, but Harry bellowed louder

than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay

still!”

He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay

flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his

sagging eyes.

“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered.

“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted

Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right,

Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know

Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”

“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured

over his snout and into his mouth full of graying

teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s

cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures.

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Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran. …”

“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’ ” said Harry.

“Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus

have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me

everything you know about that locket, and

everything Regulus had to do with it!”

The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face

between his knees, and began to rock backward and

forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but

quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a

bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his

lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride;

he knew what was due to the name of Black and the

dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the

Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of

hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns …

and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus

joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to

serve …

“And one day, a year after he had joined, Master

Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher.

Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master

Regulus said … he said …”

The old elf rocked faster than ever.

“… he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”

“Voldemort needed an elf?” Harry repeated, looking

around at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as

puzzled as he did.

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“Oh yes,” moaned Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had

volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master

Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who

must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered

him to do … and then to c-come home.”

Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in

sobs.

“So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord

did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took

Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And

beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the

cavern was a great black lake …”

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood up.

Kreacher’s croaking voice seemed to come to him from

across that dark water. He saw what had happened

as clearly as though he had been present.

“… There was a boat …”

Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the

boat, ghostly green and tiny, bewitched so as to carry

one wizard and one victim toward the island in the

center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the

defenses surrounding the Horcrux: by borrowing a

disposable creature, a house-elf …

“There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The

D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it. …”

The elf quaked from head to foot.

“Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible

things. … Kreacher’s insides burned. … Kreacher

cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his

Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed. …

He made Kreacher drink all the potion. … He dropped

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a locket into the empty basin. … He filled it with more potion.

“And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving

Kreacher on the island. …”

Harry could see it happening. He watched

Voldemort’s white, snakelike face vanishing into

darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the

thrashing elf whose death would occur within

minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate

thirst that the burning potion caused its victim. …

But here, Harry’s imagination could go no further, for

he could not see how Kreacher had escaped.

“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s

edge and he drank from the black lake … and hands,

dead hands, came out of the water and dragged

Kreacher under the surface. …”

“How did you get away?” Harry asked, and he was not

surprised to hear himself whispering.

Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked at Harry

with his great, bloodshot eyes.

“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he

said.

“I know — but how did you escape the Inferi?”

Kreacher did not seem to understand.

“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he

repeated.

“I know, but —”

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“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Harry?” said Ron. “He Disapparated!”

“But … you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that

cave,” said Harry, “otherwise Dumbledore —”

“Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” said Ron. “I

mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out

of Hogwarts when we can’t.”

There was silence as Harry digested this. How could

Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as he

thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was icy.

“Of course, Voldemort would have considered the

ways of house-elves far beneath his notice, just like

all the purebloods who treat them like animals. … It

would never have occurred to him that they might

have magic that he didn’t.”

“The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,”

intoned Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home,

so Kreacher came home. …”

“Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?”

said Hermione kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at

all!”

Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever.

“So what happened when you got back?” Harry asked.

“What did Regulus say when you told him what had

happened?”

“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,”

croaked Kreacher. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to

stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then … it

was a little while later … Master Regulus came to find

Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master

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Regulus was strange, not as he usually was,

disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell … and he

asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave

where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord. …”

And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them

quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark

Seeker who had so resembled Sirius. … Kreacher

knew how to open the concealed entrance to the

underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat;

this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with

him to the island with its basin of poison. …

“And he made you drink the potion?” said Harry,

disgusted.

But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione’s

hands leapt to her mouth: She seemed to have

understood something.

“M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like

the one the Dark Lord had,” said Kreacher, tears

pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. “And

he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was

empty, to switch the lockets. …”

Kreacher’s sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had

to concentrate hard to understand him.

“And he ordered — Kreacher to leave — without him.

And he told Kreacher — to go home — and never to

tell my Mistress — what he had done — but to

destroy — the first locket. And he drank — all the

potion — and Kreacher swapped the lockets — and

watched … as Master Regulus … was dragged

beneath the water … and …”

“Oh, Kreacher!” wailed Hermione, who was crying.

She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to

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hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away

from her, quite obviously repulsed.

“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it,

what would his Mistress say?”

“I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” snarled Harry,

but the elf was already punishing himself: He fell to

the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.

“Stop him — stop him!” Hermione cried. “Oh, don’t

you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to

obey?”

“Kreacher — stop, stop!” shouted Harry.

The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green

mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already

blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck

himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and

swimming in tears. Harry had never seen anything so

pitiful.

“So you brought the locket home,” he said

relentlessly, for he was determined to know the full

story. “And you tried to destroy it?”

“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,”

moaned the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything

he knew, but nothing, nothing would work. … So

many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was

sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it

would not open. … Kreacher punished himself, he

tried again, he punished himself, he tried again.

Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not

destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with

grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and

Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no,

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because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave. …”

Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no

more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione’s

cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare

touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of

Kreacher’s, looked troubled. Harry sat back on his

heels and shook his head, trying to clear it.

“I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” he said finally.

“Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring

Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray

Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to

Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to

Voldemort through them. …”

“Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” said

Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

“He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even

brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher

wasn’t that far out of the common way. What do

wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal

to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must

have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served

them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what

you’re going to say,” she went on as Harry began to

protest, “that Regulus changed his mind … but he

doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does

he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus’s

family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood

line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.”

“Sirius —”

“Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no

good looking like that, you know it’s true. Kreacher

had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to

live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of

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affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he

did them a favor and told them everything they

wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would

pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort

did … and so did Sirius.”

Harry had no retort. As he watched Kreacher sobbing

on the floor, he remembered what Dumbledore had

said to him, mere hours after Sirius’s death: I do not

think Sirius ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings

as acute as a human’s. …

“Kreacher,” said Harry after a while, “when you feel

up to it, er … please sit up.”

It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccuped

himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a

sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his

eyes like a small child.

“Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,”

said Harry. He glanced at Hermione for assistance. He

wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time,

he could not pretend that it was not an order.

However, the change in his tone seemed to have

gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly.

“Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find

Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the

locket — where Master Regulus’s locket is. It’s really

important. We want to finish the work Master

Regulus started, we want to — er — ensure that he

didn’t die in vain.”

Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry.

“Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked.

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“And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said

Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?”

As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a

sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and

took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in

which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.

“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said,

pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged

to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a

token of gratitude for what you —”

“Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at

the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and

threw himself back onto the ground.

It took them nearly half an hour to calm down

Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with

a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was

too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally

he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied

him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket

safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that

they would make its protection their first priority

while he was away. He then made two low bows to

Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in

Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt

at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the

usual loud crack.

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THE BRIBE

If Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, Harry

was confident that the capture of Mundungus would

take a few hours at most, and he prowled the house

all morning in a state of high anticipation. However,

Kreacher did not return that morning or even that

afternoon. By nightfall, Harry felt discouraged and

anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy

bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of

unsuccessful Transfigurations, did nothing to help.

Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day

after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in

the square outside number twelve, and they remained

there into the night, gazing in the direction of the

house that they could not see.

“Death Eaters, for sure,” said Ron, as he, Harry, and

Hermione watched from the drawing room windows.

“Reckon they know we’re in here?”

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“I don’t think so,” said Hermione, though she looked frightened, “or they’d have sent Snape in after us,

wouldn’t they?”

“D’you reckon he’s been in here and had his tongue

tied by Moody’s curse?” asked Ron.

“Yes,” said Hermione, “otherwise he’d have been able

to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn’t he? But they’re

probably watching to see whether we turn up. They

know that Harry owns the house, after all.”

“How do they — ?” began Harry.

“Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry,

remember? They’ll know Sirius left you the place.”

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased

the ominous mood inside number twelve. They had

not heard a word from anyone beyond Grimmauld

Place since Mr. Weasley’s Patronus, and the strain

was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had

developed an annoying habit of playing with the

Deluminator in his pocket: This particularly

infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait

for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard

and did not appreciate the way the lights kept

flashing on and off.

“Will you stop it!” she cried on the third evening of

Kreacher’s absence, as all light was sucked from the

drawing room yet again.

“Sorry, sorry!” said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and

restoring the lights. “I don’t know I’m doing it!”

“Well, can’t you find something useful to occupy

yourself?”

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“What, like reading kids’ stories?”

“Dumbledore left me this book, Ron —”

“— and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I’m

supposed to use it!”

Unable to stand the bickering, Harry slipped out of

the room unnoticed by either of them. He headed

downstairs toward the kitchen, which he kept visiting

because he was sure that was where Kreacher was

most likely to reappear. Halfway down the flight of

stairs into the hall, however, he heard a tap on the

front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the

chain.

Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled

out his wand, moved into the shadows beside the

decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened:

He saw a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a

cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the door

behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and

Moody’s voice asked, “Severus Snape?” Then the dust

figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him,

raising its dead hand.

“It was not I who killed you, Albus,” said a quiet voice.

The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it

was impossible to make out the newcomer through

the dense gray cloud it left behind.

Harry pointed his wand into the middle of it.

“Don’t move!”

He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the

sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her flew open

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and she began to scream, “Mudbloods and filth

dishonoring my house —”

Ron and Hermione came crashing down the stairs

behind Harry, wands pointing, like his, at the

unknown man now standing with his arms raised in

the hall below.

“Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Hermione weakly,

pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang,

the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron

too lowered his wand, but Harry did not.

“Show yourself!” he called back.

Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still

held high in a gesture of surrender.

“I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known

as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder’s

Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as

Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus,

Harry, which takes the form of a stag.”

“Oh, all right,” said Harry, lowering his wand, “but I

had to check, didn’t I?”

“Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts

teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron,

Hermione, you shouldn’t be quite so quick to lower

your defenses.”

They ran down the stairs toward him. Wrapped in a

thick black traveling cloak, he looked exhausted, but

pleased to see them.

“No sign of Severus, then?” he asked.

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“No,” said Harry. “What’s going on? Is everyone

okay?”

“Yes,” said Lupin, “but we’re all being watched. There

are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside —”

“We know —”

“I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step

outside the front door to be sure that they would not

see me. They can’t know you’re in here or I’m sure

they’d have more people out there; they’re staking out

everywhere that’s got any connection with you, Harry.

Let’s go downstairs, there’s a lot to tell you, and I

want to know what happened after you left the

Burrow.”

They descended into the kitchen, where Hermione

pointed her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up

instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the stark

stone walls and glistened off the long wooden table.

Lupin pulled a few butterbeers from beneath his

traveling cloak and they sat down.

“I’d have been here three days ago but I needed to

shake off the Death Eater tailing me,” said Lupin. “So,

you came straight here after the wedding?”

“No,” said Harry, “only after we ran into a couple of

Death Eaters in a café on Tottenham Court Road.”

Lupin slopped most of his butterbeer down his front.

“What?”

They explained what had happened; when they had

finished, Lupin looked aghast.

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“But how did they find you so quickly? It’s impossible to track anyone who Apparates, unless you grab hold

of them as they disappear!”

“And it doesn’t seem likely they were just strolling

down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?”

said Harry.

“We wondered,” said Hermione tentatively, “whether

Harry could still have the Trace on him?”

“Impossible,” said Lupin. Ron looked smug, and

Harry felt hugely relieved. “Apart from anything else,

they’d know for sure Harry was here if he still had the

Trace on him, wouldn’t they? But I can’t see how they

could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road,

that’s worrying, really worrying.”

He looked disturbed, but as far as Harry was

concerned, that question could wait.

“Tell us what happened after we left, we haven’t heard

a thing since Ron’s dad told us the family were safe.”

“Well, Kingsley saved us,” said Lupin. “Thanks to his

warning most of the wedding guests were able to

Disapparate before they arrived.”

“Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?”

interjected Hermione.

“A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they’re the

same thing now,” said Lupin. “There were about a

dozen of them, but they didn’t know you were there,

Harry. Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture

your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed

him; if it’s true, he didn’t give you away.”

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Harry looked at Ron and Hermione; their expressions reflected the mingled shock and gratitude he felt. He

had never liked Scrimgeour much, but if what Lupin

said was true, the man’s final act had been to try to

protect Harry.

“The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to

bottom,” Lupin went on. “They found the ghoul, but

didn’t want to get too close — and then they

interrogated those of us who remained for hours.

They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but

of course nobody apart from the Order knew that you

had been there.

“At the same time that they were smashing up the

wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way

into every Order-connected house in the country. No

deaths,” he added quickly, forestalling the question,

“but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus

Diggle’s house, but as you know he wasn’t there, and

they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks’s family.

Again, trying to find out where you went after you

visited them. They’re all right — shaken, obviously,

but otherwise okay.”

“The Death Eaters got through all those protective

charms?” Harry asked, remembering how effective

these had been on the night he had crashed in

Tonks’s parents’ garden.

“What you’ve got to realize, Harry, is that the Death

Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their

side now,” said Lupin. “They’ve got the power to

perform brutal spells without fear of identification or

arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive

spell we’d cast against them, and once inside, they

were completely open about why they’d come.”

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“And are they bothering to give an excuse for

torturing Harry’s whereabouts out of people?” asked

Hermione, an edge to her voice.

“Well,” said Lupin. He hesitated, then pulled out a

folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Here,” he said, pushing it across the table to Harry,

“you’ll know sooner or later anyway. That’s their

pretext for going after you.”

Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of

his own face filled the front page. He read the

headline over it:

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT

THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Ron and Hermione gave roars of outrage, but Harry

said nothing. He pushed the newspaper away; he did

not want to read any more: He knew what it would

say. Nobody but those who had been on top of the

tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really

killed him and, as Rita Skeeter had already told the

Wizarding world, Harry had been seen running from

the place moments after Dumbledore had fallen.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin said.

“So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet

too?” asked Hermione furiously.

Lupin nodded.

“But surely people realize what’s going on?”

“The coup has been smooth and virtually silent,” said

Lupin. “The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is

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that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius

Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.”

“Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of

Magic?” asked Ron.

Lupin laughed.

“He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively he is the

Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the

Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of

everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend

his power beyond the Ministry.

“Naturally many people have deduced what has

happened: There has been such a dramatic change in

Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are

whispering that Voldemort must be behind it.

However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t

confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust;

they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions

are true and their families are targeted. Yes,

Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring

himself might have provoked open rebellion:

Remaining masked has created confusion,

uncertainty, and fear.”

“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” said

Harry, “involves warning the Wizarding world against

me instead of Voldemort?”

“That’s certainly part of it,” said Lupin, “and it is a

masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you —

the Boy Who Lived — were sure to be the symbol and

rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by

suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s

death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your

head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who

would have defended you.

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“Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns.”

Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet.

“Look at page two.”

Hermione turned the pages with much the same

expression of distaste she had worn when handling

Secrets of the Darkest Art.

“ ‘ Muggle-born Register, ’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘ The

Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called

“Muggle-borns, ” the better to understand how they

came to possess magical secrets.

“ ‘ Recent research undertaken by the Department of

Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from

person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no

proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-

called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical

power by theft or force.

“ ‘ The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers

of magical power, and to this end has issued an

invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present

themselves for interview by the newly appointed

Muggle-born Registration Commission. ’ ”

“People won’t let this happen,” said Ron.

“It is happening, Ron,” said Lupin. “Muggle-borns are

being rounded up as we speak.”

“But how are they supposed to have ‘stolen’ magic?”

said Ron. “It’s mental, if you could steal magic there

wouldn’t be any Squibs, would there?”

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“I know,” said Lupin. “Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at least one close Wizarding

relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your

magical power illegally and must suffer the

punishment.”

Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, “What if

purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggle-born’s

part of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione’s my

cousin —”

Hermione covered Ron’s hand with hers and squeezed

it.

“Thank you, Ron, but I couldn’t let you —”

“You won’t have a choice,” said Ron fiercely, gripping

her hand back. “I’ll teach you my family tree so you

can answer questions on it.

Hermione gave a shaky laugh.

“Ron, as we’re on the run with Harry Potter, the most

wanted person in the country, I don’t think it matters.

If I was going back to school it would be different.

What’s Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?” she asked

Lupin.

“Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch

and wizard,” he replied. “That was announced

yesterday. It’s a change, because it was never

obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and

wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but

their parents had the right to teach them at home or

send them abroad if they preferred. This way,

Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population

under his eye from a young age. And it’s also another

way of weeding out Muggle-borns, because students

must be given Blood Status — meaning that they

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have proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard descent — before they are allowed to attend.”

Harry felt sickened and angry: At this moment,

excited eleven-year-olds would be poring over stacks

of newly purchased spell-books, unaware that they

would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their

families again either.

“It’s … it’s …” he muttered, struggling to find words

that did justice to the horror of his thoughts, but

Lupin said quietly,

“I know.”

Lupin hesitated.

“I’ll understand if you can’t confirm this, Harry, but

the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore

left you a mission.”

“He did,” Harry replied, “and Ron and Hermione are

in on it and they’re coming with me.”

“Can you confide in me what the mission is?”

Harry looked into the prematurely lined face, framed

in thick but graying hair, and wished that he could

return a different answer.

“I can’t, Remus, I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell

you I don’t think I can.”

“I thought you’d say that,” said Lupin, looking

disappointed. “But I might still be of some use to you.

You know what I am and what I can do. I could come

with you to provide protection. There would be no

need to tell me exactly what you were up to.”

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Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer, though how they would be able to keep their mission secret

from Lupin if he were with them all the time he could

not imagine.

Hermione, however, looked puzzled.

“But what about Tonks?” she asked.

“What about her?” said Lupin.

“Well,” said Hermione, frowning, “you’re married! How

does she feel about you going away with us?”

“Tonks will be perfectly safe,” said Lupin. “She’ll be at

her parents’ house.”

There was something strange in Lupin’s tone; it was

almost cold. There was also something odd in the idea

of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents’ house; she

was, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as

Harry knew, was likely to want to be in the thick of

the action.

“Remus,” said Hermione tentatively, “is everything all

right … you know … between you and —”

“Everything is fine, thank you,” said Lupin pointedly.

Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an

awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin said,

with an air of forcing himself to admit something

unpleasant, “Tonks is going to have a baby.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” squealed Hermione.

“Excellent!” said Ron enthusiastically.

“Congratulations,” said Harry.

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Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, “So … do you accept my offer?

Will three become four? I cannot believe that

Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed

me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after

all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are

facing magic many of us have never encountered or

imagined.”

Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry.

“Just — just to be clear,” he said. “You want to leave

Tonks at her parents’ house and come away with us?”

“She’ll be perfectly safe there, they’ll look after her,”

said Lupin. He spoke with a finality bordering on

indifference. “Harry, I’m sure James would have

wanted me to stick with you.”

“Well,” said Harry slowly, “I’m not. I’m pretty sure my

father would have wanted to know why you aren’t

sticking with your own kid, actually.”

Lupin’s face drained of color. The temperature in the

kitchen might have dropped ten degrees. Ron stared

around the room as though he had been bidden to

memorize it, while Hermione’s eyes swiveled

backward and forward from Harry to Lupin.

“You don’t understand,” said Lupin at last.

“Explain, then,” said Harry.

Lupin swallowed.

“I — I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did

it against my better judgment and I have regretted it

very much ever since.”

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“I see,” said Harry, “so you’re just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?”

Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over

backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that

Harry saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the

wolf upon his human face.

“Don’t you understand what I’ve done to my wife and

my unborn child? I should never have married her,

I’ve made her an outcast!”

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.

“You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or

under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! You

don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees

creatures like me! When they know of my affliction,

they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve

done? Even her own family is disgusted by our

marriage, what parents want their only daughter to

marry a werewolf? And the child — the child —”

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he

looked quite deranged.

“My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am

convinced of it — how can I forgive myself, when I

knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an

innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like

me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so,

without a father of whom it must always be

ashamed!”

“Remus!” whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes.

“Don’t say that — how could any child be ashamed of

you?”

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“Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’d be

pretty ashamed of him.”

Harry did not know where his rage was coming from,

but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked

as though Harry had hit him.

“If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad,”

Harry said, “what will they do to a half-werewolf

whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to

protect my mother and me, and you reckon he’d tell

you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with

us?”

“How — how dare you?” said Lupin. “This is not about

a desire for — for danger or personal glory — how

dare you suggest such a —”

“I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil,” Harry said.

“You fancy stepping into Sirius’s shoes —”

“Harry, no!” Hermione begged him, but he continued

to glare into Lupin’s livid face.

“I’d never have believed this,” Harry said. “The man

who taught me to fight dementors — a coward.”

Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely

reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he

felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he

slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he

glimpsed the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing

around the door.

“Remus, Remus, come back!” Hermione cried, but

Lupin did not respond. A moment later they heard the

front door slam.

“Harry!” wailed Hermione. “How could you?”

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“It was easy,” said Harry. He stood up; he could feel a lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He

was still so full of anger he was shaking.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione.

“Don’t you start on her!” snarled Ron.

“No — no — we mustn’t fight!” said Hermione,

launching herself between them.

“You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin,” Ron

told Harry.

“He had it coming to him,” said Harry. Broken images

were racing each other through his mind: Sirius

falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended,

broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his

mother’s voice, begging for mercy …

“Parents,” said Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids

unless — unless they’ve got to.”

“Harry —” said Hermione, stretching out a consoling

hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his

eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once

spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking

reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled

him. Now Lupin’s tortured white face seemed to swim

in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of

remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry

felt sure that they were looking at each other behind

his back, communicating silently.

He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly

away from each other.

“I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.”

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“No, you shouldn’t,” said Ron at once.

“But he’s acting like one.”

“All the same …” said Hermione.

“I know,” said Harry. “But if it makes him go back to

Tonks, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?”

He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione

looked sympathetic, Ron uncertain. Harry looked

down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would James

have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or

would he have been angry at how his son had treated

his old friend?

The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of

the recent scene and with Ron and Hermione’s

unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had

brought was still lying on the table, Harry’s own face

staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He

walked over to it and sat down, opened the paper at

random, and pretended to read. He could not take in

the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter

with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and Hermione had

resumed their silent communications on the other

side of the Prophet. He turned a page loudly, and

Dumbledore’s name leapt out at him. It was a

moment or two before he took in the meaning of the

photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath

the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore

family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn

Ariana; Kendra; and Aberforth.

His attention caught, Harry examined the picture

more carefully. Dumbledore’s father, Percival, was a

good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle

even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana,

was little longer than a loaf of bread and no more

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distinctive-looking. The mother, Kendra, had jet-black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved

quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native

Americans he’d seen as he studied her dark eyes,

high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally

composed above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and

Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and

had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus

looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys

looked very alike, for this was before Albus’s nose had

been broken and before he started wearing glasses.

The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling

serenely up out of the newspaper. Baby Ariana’s arm

waved vaguely out of her shawl. Harry looked above

the picture and saw the headline:

EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE UPCOMING

BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

by Rita Skeeter

Thinking that it could hardly make him feel any worse

than he already did, Harry began to read:

Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not

bear to remain in Mould-on-the-Wold after her

husband Percival’s well-publicized arrest and

imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to

uproot the family and relocate to Godric’s Hollow, the

village that was later to gain fame as the scene of

Harry Potter’s strange escape from You-Know-Who.

Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric’s Hollow was home to

a number of Wizarding families, but as Kendra knew

none of them, she would be spared the curiosity

about her husband’s crime she had faced in her

former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the friendly

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advances of her new Wizarding neighbors, she soon

ensured that her family was left well alone.

“Slammed the door in my face when I went around to

welcome her with a batch of homemade Cauldron

Cakes,” says Bathilda Bagshot. “The first year they

were there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn’t

have known there was a daughter if I hadn’t been

picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they

moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the

back garden. Walked her round the lawn once, keeping

a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn’t

know what to make of it.”

It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric’s

Hollow was the perfect opportunity to hide Ariana

once and for all, something she had probably been

planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana

was barely seven years old when she vanished from

sight, and seven is the age by which most experts

agree that magic will have revealed itself, if present.

Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever

demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical

ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a

decision to hide her daughter’s existence rather than

suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced

a Squib. Moving away from the friends and neighbors

who knew Ariana would, of course, make imprisoning

her all the easier. The tiny number of people who

henceforth knew of Ariana’s existence could be

counted upon to keep the secret, including her two

brothers, who deflected awkward questions with the

answer their mother had taught them: “My sister is

too frail for school.”

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts — the

Prizes and the Pretense.

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Harry had been wrong: What he had read had indeed

made him feel worse. He looked back at the

photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it

true? How could he find out? He wanted to go to

Godric’s Hollow, even if Bathilda was in no fit state to

talk to him; he wanted to visit the place where he and

Dumbledore had both lost loved ones. He was in the

process of lowering the newspaper, to ask Ron’s and

Hermione’s opinions, when a deafening crack echoed

around the kitchen.

For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all

about Kreacher. His immediate thought was that

Lupin had burst back into the room, and for a split

second, he did not take in the mass of struggling

limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside

his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher

disentangled himself and, bowing low to Harry,

croaked, “Kreacher has returned with the thief

Mundungus Fletcher, Master.”

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand;

Hermione, however, was too quick for him.

“Expelliarmus!”

Mundungus’s wand soared into the air, and Hermione

caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs:

Ron rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the stone

floor with a muffled crunch.

“What?” he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free

himself from Ron’s grip. “Wha’ve I done? Setting a

bleedin’ ’ouse-elf on me, what are you playing at,

wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go, or —”

“You’re not in much of a position to make threats,”

said Harry. He threw aside the newspaper, crossed

the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees

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beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and

looked terrified. Ron got up, panting, and watched as

Harry pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus’s

nose. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco

smoke: His hair was matted and his robes stained.

“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the

thief, Master,” croaked the elf. “Fletcher knows how to

avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and

accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the

thief in the end.”

“You’ve done really well, Kreacher,” said Harry, and

the elf bowed low.

“Right, we’ve got a few questions for you,” Harry told

Mundungus, who shouted at once,

“I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no

offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you,

an’ that was bleedin’ You-Know-Who come flying at

me, anyone woulda got outta there, I said all along I

didn’t wanna do it —”

“For your information, none of the rest of us

Disapparated,” said Hermione.

“Well, you’re a bunch of bleedin’ ’eroes then, aren’t

you, but I never pretended I was up for killing meself

—”

“We’re not interested in why you ran out on Mad-

Eye,” said Harry, moving his wand a little closer to

Mundungus’s baggy, bloodshot eyes. “We already

knew you were an unreliable bit of scum.”

“Well then, why the ’ell am I being ’unted down by

’ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I

ain’t got none of ’em left, or you could ’ave ’em —”

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“It’s not about the goblets either, although you’re getting warmer,” said Harry. “Shut up and listen.”

It felt wonderful to have something to do, someone of

whom he could demand some small portion of truth.

Harry’s wand was now so close to the bridge of

Mundungus’s nose that Mundungus had gone cross-

eyed trying to keep it in view.

“When you cleaned out this house of anything

valuable,” Harry began, but Mundungus interrupted

him again.

“Sirius never cared about any of the junk —”

There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of

shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of

agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and

hit him over the head with a saucepan.

“Call ’im off, call ’im off, ’e should be locked up!”

screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised

the heavy-bottomed pan again.

“Kreacher, no!” shouted Harry.

Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the

pan, still held aloft.

“Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?”

Ron laughed.

“We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs

persuading you can do the honors,” said Harry.

“Thank you very much, Master,” said Kreacher with a

bow, and he retreated a short distance, his great pale

eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

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“When you stripped this house of all the valuables

you could find,” Harry began again, “you took a

bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was

a locket there.” Harry’s mouth was suddenly dry: He

could sense Ron and Hermione’s tension and

excitement too. “What did you do with it?”

“Why?” asked Mundungus. “Is it valuable?”

“You’ve still got it!” cried Hermione.

“No, he hasn’t,” said Ron shrewdly. “He’s wondering

whether he should have asked more money for it.”

“More?” said Mundungus. “That wouldn’t have been

effing difficult … bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No

choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me

and asks if I’ve got a license for trading in magical

artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but

she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it

and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky.”

“Who was this woman?” asked Harry.

“I dunno, some Ministry hag.”

Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled.

“Little woman. Bow on top of ’er head.”

He frowned and then added, “Looked like a toad.”

Harry dropped his wand: It hit Mundungus on the

nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which

ignited.

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“Aguamenti!” screamed Hermione, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and

choking Mundungus.

Harry looked up and saw his own shock reflected in

Ron’s and Hermione’s faces. The scars on the back of

his right hand seemed to be tingling again.

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MAGIC IS MIGHT

As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in

the middle of Grimmauld Place shriveled in the sun

until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of

number twelve were never seen by anybody in the

surrounding houses, and nor was number twelve

itself. The Muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had

long since accepted the amusing mistake in the

numbering that had caused number eleven to sit

beside number thirteen.

And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of

visitors who seemed to find the anomaly most

intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two

people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other

purpose, or so it seemed, than to lean against the

railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching

the join between the two houses. The lurkers were

never the same two days running, although they all

seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of

the Londoners who passed them were used to

eccentric dressers and took little notice, though

occasionally one of them might glance back,

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wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks

in this heat.

The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction

from their vigil. Occasionally one of them started

forward excitedly, as if they had seen something

interesting at last, only to fall back looking

disappointed.

On the first day of September there were more people

lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen

men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, gazing

as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing

for which they were waiting still appeared elusive. As

evening drew in, bringing with it an unexpected gust

of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there

occurred one of those inexplicable moments when

they appeared to have seen something interesting.

The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest

companion, a podgy, pallid man, started forward, but

a moment later they had relaxed into their previous

state of inactivity, looking frustrated and

disappointed.

Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Harry had just

entered the hall. He had nearly lost his balance as he

Apparated onto the top step just outside the front

door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have

caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow.

Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he

pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, draped it over his

arm, and hurried along the gloomy hallway toward

the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of the

Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

The usual low whisper of “Severus Snape?” greeted

him, the chill wind swept him, and his tongue rolled

up for a moment.

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“I didn’t kill you,” he said, once it had unrolled, then held his breath as the dusty jinx-figure exploded. He

waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the

kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the

dust cloud, before calling, “I’ve got news, and you

won’t like it.”

The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface

now shone: Copper pots and pans had been

burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop

gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for

dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire,

on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the

room, however, was more dramatically different than

the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Harry,

dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean

and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus’s locket bouncing

on his thin chest.

“Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands

washed before dinner,” croaked Kreacher, seizing the

Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a

hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned

robes that had been freshly laundered.

“What’s happened?” Ron asked apprehensively. He

and Hermione had been poring over a sheaf of

scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that littered

the end of the long kitchen table, but now they

watched Harry as he strode toward them and threw

down the newspaper on top of their scattered

parchment.

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired

man stared up at them all, beneath a headline that

read:

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS

HEADMASTER

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“No!” said Ron and Hermione loudly.

Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the

newspaper and began to read the accompanying story

out loud.

“ ‘ Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was

today appointed headmaster in the most important of

several staffing changes at the ancient school.

Following the resignation of the previous Muggle

Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post

while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense

Against the Dark Arts professor.

“ ‘ I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest

Wizarding traditions and values —’ Like committing

murder and cutting off people’s ears, I suppose!

Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore’s study —

Merlin’s pants!” she shrieked, making both Harry and

Ron jump. She leapt up from the table and hurtled

from the room, shouting as she went, “I’ll be back in a

minute!”

“ ‘Merlin’s pants’?” repeated Ron, looking amused.

“She must be upset.” He pulled the newspaper toward

him and perused the article about Snape.

“The other teachers won’t stand for this. McGonagall

and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they

know how Dumbledore died. They won’t accept Snape

as headmaster. And who are these Carrows?”

“Death Eaters,” said Harry. “There are pictures of

them inside. They were at the top of the tower when

Snape killed Dumbledore, so it’s all friends together.

And,” Harry went on bitterly, drawing up a chair, “I

can’t see that the other teachers have got any choice

but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind

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Snape it’ll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban — and that’s if they’re

lucky. I reckon they’ll stay to try and protect the

students.”

Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large

tureen in his hands, and ladled out soup into pristine

bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” said Harry, flipping over the

Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape’s face.

“Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now.”

He began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality

of Kreacher’s cooking had improved dramatically ever

since he had been given Regulus’s locket: Today’s

French onion was as good as Harry had ever tasted.

“There are still a load of Death Eaters watching the

house,” he told Ron as he ate, “more than usual. It’s

like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our

school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express.”

Ron glanced at his watch.

“I’ve been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six

hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn’t it?”

In his mind’s eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet

steam engine as he and Ron had once followed it by

air, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling

scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Ginny, Neville, and

Luna were sitting together at this moment, perhaps

wondering where he, Ron, and Hermione were, or

debating how best to undermine Snape’s new regime.

“They nearly saw me coming back in just now,” Harry

said. “I landed badly on the top step, and the Cloak

slipped.”

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“I do that every time. Oh, here she is,” Ron added, craning around in his seat to watch Hermione

reentering the kitchen. “And what in the name of

Merlin’s most baggy Y Fronts was that about?”

“I remembered this,” Hermione panted.

She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she

now lowered to the floor before seizing her small,

beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it,

she proceeded to force the painting inside, and

despite the fact that it was patently too large to fit

inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had

vanished, like so much else, into the bag’s capacious

depths.

“Phineas Nigellus,” Hermione explained as she threw

the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual

sonorous, clanking crash.

“Sorry?” said Ron, but Harry understood. The painted

image of Phineas Nigellus Black was able to flit

between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one

that hung in the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts: the

circular tower-top room where Snape was no doubt

sitting right now, in triumphant possession of

Dumbledore’s collection of delicate, silver magical

instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and,

unless it had been moved elsewhere, the sword of

Gryffindor.

“Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this

house for him,” Hermione explained to Ron as she

resumed her seat. “But let him try it now, all Phineas

Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my

handbag.”

“Good thinking!” said Ron, looking impressed.

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“Thank you,” smiled Hermione, pulling her soup

toward her. “So, Harry, what else happened today?”

“Nothing,” said Harry. “Watched the Ministry entrance

for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad,

though, Ron. He looks fine.”

Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. They had

agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and

communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in

and out of the Ministry, because he was always

surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was,

however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him,

even if he did look very strained and anxious.

“Dad always told us most Ministry people use the

Floo Network to get to work,” Ron said. “That’s why

we haven’t seen Umbridge, she’d never walk, she’d

think she’s too important.”

“And what about that funny old witch and that little

wizard in the navy robes?” Hermione asked.

“Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance,” said

Ron.

“How do you know he works for Magical

Maintenance?” Hermione asked, her soupspoon

suspended in midair.

“Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears

navy blue robes.”

“But you never told us that!”

Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her

the sheaf of notes and maps that she and Ron had

been examining when Harry had entered the kitchen.

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“There’s nothing in here about navy blue robes,

nothing!” she said, flipping feverishly through the

pages.

“Well, does it really matter?”

“Ron, it all matters! If we’re going to get into the

Ministry and not give ourselves away when they’re

bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little

detail matters! We’ve been over and over this, I mean,

what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips if

you aren’t even bothering to tell us —”

“Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing —”

“You do realize, don’t you, that there’s probably no

more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be

right now than the Ministry of —”

“I think we should do it tomorrow,” said Harry.

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked

a little over his soup.

“Tomorrow?” repeated Hermione. “You aren’t serious,

Harry?”

“I am,” said Harry. “I don’t think we’re going to be

much better prepared than we are now even if we

skulk around the Ministry entrance for another

month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that

locket could be. There’s already a good chance

Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t

open.”

“Unless,” said Ron, “she’s found a way of opening it

and she’s now possessed.”

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“Wouldn’t make any difference to her, she was so evil in the first place,” Harry shrugged.

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought.

“We know everything important,” Harry went on,

addressing Hermione. “We know they’ve stopped

Apparition in and out of the Ministry. We know only

the most senior Ministry members are allowed to

connect their homes to the Floo Network now,

because Ron heard those two Unspeakables

complaining about it. And we know roughly where

Umbridge’s office is, because of what you heard that

bearded bloke saying to his mate —”

“ ‘ I’ll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me, ’ ”

Hermione recited immediately.

“Exactly,” said Harry. “And we know you get in using

those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are,

because I saw that witch borrowing one from her

friend —”

“But we haven’t got any!”

“If the plan works, we will have,” Harry continued

calmly.

“I don’t know, Harry, I don’t know. … There are an

awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much

relies on chance. …”

“That’ll be true even if we spend another three

months preparing,” said Harry. “It’s time to act.”

He could tell from Ron’s and Hermione’s faces that

they were scared; he was not particularly confident

himself, and yet he was sure the time had come to

put their plan into operation.

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They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the

official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, thanks to

Mr. Weasley, had known since childhood. They had

tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped

on their conversations, and learned by careful

observation which of them could be relied upon to

appear, alone, at the same time every day.

Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a

Daily Prophet out of somebody’s briefcase. Slowly they

had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked

in front of Hermione.

“All right,” said Ron slowly, “let’s say we go for it

tomorrow. … I think it should just be me and Harry.”

“Oh, don’t start that again!” sighed Hermione. “I

thought we’d settled this.”

“It’s one thing hanging around the entrances under

the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione.” Ron

jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated

ten days previously. “You’re on the list of Muggle-

borns who didn’t present themselves for

interrogation!”

“And you’re supposed to be dying of spattergroit at

the Burrow! If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Harry, he’s got

a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head —”

“Fine, I’ll stay here,” said Harry. “Let me know if you

ever defeat Voldemort, won’t you?”

As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the

scar on Harry’s forehead. His hand jumped to it: He

saw Hermione’s eyes narrow, and he tried to pass off

the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

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“Well, if all three of us go we’ll have to Disapparate separately,” Ron was saying. “We can’t all fit under

the Cloak anymore.”

Harry’s scar was becoming more and more painful.

He stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward.

“Master has not finished his soup, would Master

prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to

which Master is so partial?”

“Thanks, Kreacher, but I’ll be back in a minute — er

— bathroom.”

Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously,

Harry hurried up the stairs to the hall and then to the

first landing, where he dashed into the bathroom and

bolted the door again. Grunting with pain, he

slumped over the black basin with its taps in the form

of open-mouthed serpents and closed his eyes. …

He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on

either side of him had high, timbered gables; they

looked like gingerbread houses.

He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness

of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He

knocked. He felt a mounting excitement. …

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her

face fell as she looked into Harry’s face: humor gone,

terror replacing it. …

“Gregorovitch?” said a high, cold voice.

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door.

A white hand held it steady, prevented her shutting

him out. …

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“I want Gregorovitch.”

“Er wohnt hier nicht mehr!” she cried, shaking her

head. “He no live here! He no live here! I know him

not!”

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began

to back away down the dark hall, and Harry followed,

gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had

drawn his wand.

“Where is he?”

“Das weiß ich nicht! He move! I know not, I know not!”

He raised the wand. She screamed. Two young

children came running into the hall. She tried to

shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green

light —

“Harry! HARRY!”

He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor.

Hermione was pounding on the door again.

“Harry, open up!”

He had shouted out, he knew it. He got up and

unbolted the door; Hermione toppled inside at once,

regained her balance, and looked around

suspiciously. Ron was right behind her, looking

unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of

the chilly bathroom.

“What were you doing?” asked Hermione sternly.

“What d’you think I was doing?” asked Harry with

feeble bravado.

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“You were yelling your head off!” said Ron.

“Oh yeah … I must’ve dozed off or —”

“Harry, please don’t insult our intelligence,” said

Hermione, taking deep breaths. “We know your scar

hurt downstairs, and you’re white as a sheet.”

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.

“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman.

By now he’s probably killed her whole family. And he

didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were

just there. …”

“Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen

anymore!” Hermione cried, her voice echoing through

the bathroom. “Dumbledore wanted you to use

Occlumency! He thought the connection was

dangerous — Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good

is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?”

“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” said

Harry.

“So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?”

“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at

Occlumency, I never got the hang of it.”

“You never really tried!” she said hotly. “I don’t get it,

Harry — do you like having this special connection or

relationship or what — whatever —”

She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood

up.

“Like it?” he said quietly. “Would you like it?”

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“I — no — I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean —”

“I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me,

that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous.

But I’m going to use it.”

“Dumbledore —”

“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s.

I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.”

“Who?”

“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” said Harry. “He made

Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.”

“But according to you,” said Ron, “Voldemort’s got

Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a

wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”

“Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks

Gregorovitch is better … or else he thinks

Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did

when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t

know.”

Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw

Ron and Hermione exchanging skeptical looks behind

his back.

“Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,”

said Hermione, “but you made it happen! Why are

you so determined not to take responsibility for your

own power?”

“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort,

Hermione! We both know what really happened!”

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They glared at each other: Harry knew that he had

not convinced Hermione and that she was marshaling

counterarguments, against both his theory on his

wand and the fact that he was permitting himself to

see into Voldemort’s mind. To his relief, Ron

intervened.

“Drop it,” he advised her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re

going to the Ministry tomorrow, don’t you reckon we

should go over the plan?”

Reluctantly, as the other two could tell, Hermione let

the matter rest, though Harry was quite sure she

would attack again at the first opportunity. In the

meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen,

where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.

They did not get to bed until late that night, after

spending hours going over and over their plan until

they could recite it, word perfect, to each other.

Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius’s room, lay in

bed with his wandlight trained on the old photograph

of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and

muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes.

As he extinguished his wand, however, he was

thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or

the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he

thought of Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how

long he could hope to remain hidden while Voldemort

sought him so determinedly.

Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.

“You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he entered

the room to wake Harry.

“Not for long,” said Harry, yawning.

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They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She

was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and

wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry

associated with exam review.

“Robes,” she said under her breath, acknowledging

their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to

poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion …

Invisibility Cloak … Decoy Detonators … You should

each take a couple just in case. … Puking Pastilles,

Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears …”

They gulped down their breakfast, then set off

upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to

have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when

they returned.

“Bless him,” said Ron fondly, “and when you think I

used to fantasize about cutting off his head and

sticking it on the wall.”

They made their way onto the front step with

immense caution: They could see a couple of puffy-

eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across

the misty square.

Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came

back for Harry.

After the usual brief spell of darkness and near

suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway

where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to

take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple

of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not

usually appear here until at least eight o’clock.

“Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch.

“She ought to be here in about five minutes. When

I’ve Stunned her —”

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“Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I

thought we were supposed to open the door before

she got here?”

Hermione squealed.

“I nearly forgot! Stand back —”

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily

graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open

with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they

knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty

theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to

make it look as though it was still closed.

“And now,” she said, turning back to face the other

two in the alleyway, “we put on the Cloak again —”

“— and we wait,” Ron finished, throwing it over

Hermione’s head like a blanket over a birdcage and

rolling his eyes at Harry.

Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop

and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair

Apparated feet from them, blinking a little in the

sudden brightness; the sun had just come out from

behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the

unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione’s

silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she

toppled over.

“Nicely done, Hermione,” said Ron, emerging from

behind a bin beside the theater door as Harry took off

the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little

witch into the dark passageway that led backstage.

Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch’s head

and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion

she had taken from the beaded bag. Ron was

rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.

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“She’s Mafalda Hopkirk,” he said, reading a small

card that identified their victim as an assistant in the

Improper Use of Magic Office. “You’d better take this,

Hermione, and here are the tokens.”

He passed her several small golden coins, all

embossed with the letters M.O.M., which he had

taken from the witch’s purse.

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now

a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stood

before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she

removed Mafalda’s spectacles and put them on, Harry

checked his watch.

“We’re running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be

here any second.”

They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda;

Harry and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over

themselves but Hermione remained in view, waiting.

Seconds later there was another pop, and a small,

ferrety-looking wizard appeared before them.

“Oh, hello, Mafalda.”

“Hello!” said Hermione in a quavery voice. “How are

you today?”

“Not so good, actually,” replied the little wizard, who

looked thoroughly downcast.

As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main

road, Harry and Ron crept along behind them.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather,” said

Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard as he

tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential

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to stop him from reaching the street. “Here, have a sweet.”

“Eh? Oh, no thanks —”

“I insist!” said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag

of pastilles in his face. Looking rather alarmed, the

little wizard took one.

The effect was instantaneous. The moment the

pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started

vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as

Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of

his head.

“Oh dear!” she said, as he splattered the alley with

sick. “Perhaps you’d better take the day off!”

“No — no!” He choked and retched, trying to continue

on his way despite being unable to walk straight. “I

must — today — must go —”

“But that’s just silly!” said Hermione, alarmed. “You

can’t go to work in this state — I think you ought to

go to St. Mungo’s and get them to sort you out!”

The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still

trying to crawl toward the main street.

“You simply can’t go to work like this!” cried

Hermione.

At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words.

Using a repulsed Hermione to claw his way back into

a standing position, he turned on the spot and

vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron

had snatched from his hand as he went and some

flying chunks of vomit.

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“Urgh,” said Hermione, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. “It would have made

much less mess to Stun him too.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, emerging from under the cloak

holding the wizard’s bag, “but I still think a whole pile

of unconscious bodies would have drawn more

attention. Keen on his job, though, isn’t he? Chuck us

the hair and the potion, then.”

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small

and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy

blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

“Weird he wasn’t wearing them today, wasn’t it,

seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I’m Reg

Cattermole, according to the label in the back.”

“Now wait here,” Hermione told Harry, who was still

under the Invisibility Cloak, “and we’ll be back with

some hairs for you.”

He had to wait ten minutes, but it seemed much

longer to Harry, skulking alone in the sick-splattered

alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned

Mafalda. Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared.

“We don’t know who he is,” Hermione said, passing

Harry several curly black hairs, “but he’s gone home

with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he’s pretty tall, you’ll

need bigger robes. …”

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had

laundered for them, and Harry retired to take the

potion and change.

Once the painful transformation was complete he was

more than six feet tall and, from what he could tell

from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also

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had a beard. Stowing the Invisibility Cloak and his glasses inside his new robes, he rejoined the other

two.

“Blimey, that’s scary,” said Ron, looking up at Harry,

who now towered over him.

“Take one of Mafalda’s tokens,” Hermione told Harry,

“and let’s go, it’s nearly nine.”

They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards

along the crowded pavement there were spiked black

railings flanking two flights of steps, one labeled

GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES.

“See you in a moment, then,” said Hermione

nervously, and she tottered off down the steps to

LADIES. Harry and Ron joined a number of oddly

dressed men descending into what appeared to be an

ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy

black and white.

“Morning, Reg!” called another wizard in navy blue

robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his

golden token into a slot in the door. “Blooming pain in

the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this

way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry

Potter?”

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron

gave a forced chuckle.

“Yeah,” he said, “stupid, isn’t it?”

And he and Harry let themselves into adjoining

cubicles.

To Harry’s left and right came the sound of flushing.

He crouched down and peered through the gap at the

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bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He

looked left and saw Ron blinking at him.

“We have to flush ourselves in?” he whispered.

“Looks like it,” Harry whispered back; his voice came

out deep and gravelly.

They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish,

Harry clambered into the toilet.

He knew at once that he had done the right thing;

though he appeared to be standing in water, his

shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached

up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed

down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into

the Ministry of Magic.

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body

than he was accustomed to. The great Atrium seemed

darker than Harry remembered it. Previously a golden

fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting

shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden

floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone

dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this

vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on

ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry

workers toppling out of fireplaces below them.

Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue

were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT.

Harry received a heavy blow on the back of the legs:

Another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace

behind him.

“Out of the way, can’t y — oh, sorry, Runcorn!”

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Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away.

Apparently the man whom Harry was impersonating,

Runcorn, was intimidating.

“Psst!” said a voice, and he looked around to see a

wispy little witch and the ferrety wizard from Magical

Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the

statue. Harry hastened to join them.

“You got in all right, then?” Hermione whispered to

Harry.

“No, he’s still stuck in the bog,” said Ron.

“Oh, very funny … It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she said to

Harry, who was staring up at the statue. “Have you

seen what they’re sitting on?

Harry looked more closely and realized that what he

had thought were decoratively carved thrones were

actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and

hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and

children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted

and pressed together to support the weight of the

handsomely robed wizards.

“Muggles,” whispered Hermione. “In their rightful

place. Come on, let’s get going.”

They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving

toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking

around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was

no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge.

They passed through the gates and into a smaller

hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty

golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely

joined the nearest one when a voice said,

“Cattermole!”

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They looked around: Harry’s stomach turned over.

One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed

Dumbledore’s death was striding toward them. The

Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes

downcast; Harry could feel fear rippling through

them. The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was

somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping

robes, which were embroidered with much gold

thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called

sycophantically, “Morning, Yaxley!” Yaxley ignored

them.

“I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to

sort out my office, Cattermole. It’s still raining in

there.”

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else

would intervene, but nobody spoke.

“Raining … in your office? That’s — that’s not good, is

it?”

Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley’s eyes widened.

“You think it’s funny, Cattermole, do you?”

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the

lift and bustled off.

“No,” said Ron, “no, of course —”

“You realize that I am on my way downstairs to

interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I’m quite

surprised you’re not down there holding her hand

while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job,

have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a

pureblood next time.”

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Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looked at her. She coughed feebly and turned away.

“I — I —” stammered Ron.

“But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood,”

said Yaxley, “— not that any woman I married would

ever be mistaken for such filth — and the Head of the

Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job

doing, I would make it my priority to do that job,

Cattermole. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” whispered Ron.

“Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not

completely dry within an hour, your wife’s Blood

Status will be in even graver doubt than it is now.”

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a

nod and unpleasant smile to Harry, who was

evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of

Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody

followed them: It was as if they were infectious. The

grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move

upward.

“What am I going to do?” Ron asked the other two at

once; he looked stricken. “If I don’t turn up, my wife

— I mean, Cattermole’s wife —”

“We’ll come with you, we should stick together —”

began Harry, but Ron shook his head feverishly.

“That’s mental, we haven’t got much time. You two

find Umbridge, I’ll go and sort out Yaxley’s office —

but how do I stop it raining?”

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“Try Finite Incantatem,” said Hermione at once, “that should stop the rain if it’s a hex or curse; if it doesn’t,

something’s gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm,

which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim

measure try Impervius to protect his belongings —”

“Say it again, slowly —” said Ron, searching his

pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment

the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice

said, “Level four, Department for the Regulation and

Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast,

Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and

Pest Advisory Bureau,” and the grilles slid open again,

admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet

paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the

ceiling of the lift.

“Morning, Albert,” said a bushily whiskered man,

smiling at Harry. He glanced over at Ron and

Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more;

Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to

Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry, leering, and

muttered, “Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison?

Nice one, Albert. I’m pretty confident I’ll get his job

now!”

He winked. Harry smiled back, hoping that this would

suffice. The lift stopped; the grilles opened once more.

“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement,

including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror

Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration

Services,” said the disembodied witch’s voice.

Harry saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he

hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards,

leaving Harry and Hermione alone. The moment the

golden door had closed Hermione said, very fast,

“Actually, Harry, I think I’d better go after him, I don’t

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think he knows what he’s doing and if he gets caught the whole thing —”

“Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff.”

The golden grilles slid apart again and Hermione

gasped. Four people stood before them, two of them

deep in conversation: a longhaired wizard wearing

magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat,

toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair

and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

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THE MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION

COMMISSION

“Ah, Mafalda!” said Umbridge, looking at Hermione.

“Travers sent you, did he?”

“Y-yes,” squeaked Hermione.

“Good, you’ll do perfectly well.” Umbridge spoke to the

wizard in black and gold. “That’s that problem solved,

Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping

we shall be able to start straightaway.” She consulted

her clipboard. “Ten people today and one of them the

wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut … even here, in

the heart of the Ministry!” She stepped into the lift

beside Hermione, as did the two wizards who had

been listening to Umbridge’s conversation with the

Minister. “We’ll go straight down, Mafalda, you’ll find

everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning,

Albert, aren’t you getting out?”

“Yes, of course,” said Harry in Runcorn’s deep voice.

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Harry stepped out of the lift. The golden grilles

clanged shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder,

Harry saw Hermione’s anxious face sinking back out

of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge’s

velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.

“What brings you up here, Runcorn?” asked the new

Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were

streaked with silver, and a great overhanging

forehead shadowed his glinting eyes, putting Harry in

mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock.

“Needed a quick word with,” Harry hesitated for a

fraction of a second, “Arthur Weasley. Someone said

he was up on level one.”

“Ah,” said Pius Thicknesse. “Has he been caught

having contact with an Undesirable?”

“No,” said Harry, his throat dry. “No, nothing like

that.”

“Ah, well. It’s only a matter of time,” said Thicknesse.

“If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the

Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn.”

“Good day, Minister.”

Harry watched Thicknesse march away along the

thickly carpeted corridor. The moment the Minister

had passed out of sight, Harry tugged the Invisibility

Cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it

over himself, and set off along the corridor in the

opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry

was forced to stoop to make sure his big feet were

hidden.

Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed

gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door,

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each bearing a small plaque with the owner’s name

and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its

complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself

upon him so that the plan he had been carefully

concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four

weeks seemed laughably childish. They had

concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without

being detected: They had not given a moment’s

thought to what they would do if they were forced to

separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court

proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours;

Ron was struggling to do magic that Harry was sure

was beyond him, a woman’s liberty possibly

depending on the outcome; and he, Harry, was

wandering around on the top floor when he knew

perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in

the lift.

He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried

to decide what to do. The silence pressed upon him:

There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here;

the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as

though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the

place.

Her office must be up here, Harry thought.

It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep

her jewelry in her office, but on the other hand it

seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He

therefore set off along the corridor again, passing

nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring

instructions to a quill that floated in front of him,

scribbling on a trail of parchment.

Now paying attention to the names on the doors,

Harry turned a corner. Halfway along the next

corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a

dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks

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not unlike school desks, though much more highly

polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch

them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were

all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and

squares of colored paper were flying in every direction

like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry

realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings,

that the papers all formed the same pattern; and after

a few more seconds he realized that what he was

watching was the creation of pamphlets — that the

paper squares were pages, which, when assembled,

folded, and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks

beside each witch or wizard.

Harry crept closer, although the workers were so

intent on what they were doing that he doubted they

would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he slid a

completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young

witch. He examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak.

Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:

MUDBLOODS

and the Dangers They Pose to

a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society

Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a

simpering face in the middle of its petals, being

strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl.

There was no author’s name upon the pamphlet, but

again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed

to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch

beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still

waving and twirling her wand, “Will the old hag be

interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?”

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“Careful,” said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the

floor.

“What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye,

now?”

The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door

facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Harry

looked too, and rage reared in him like a snake.

Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle

front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris

had been set into the wood — an eye that was

shockingly familiar to anybody who had known

Alastor Moody.

For a split second Harry forgot where he was and

what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was

invisible. He strode straight over to the door to

examine the eye. It was not moving: It gazed blindly

upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read:

DOLORES UMBRIDGE

SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY TO THE MINISTER

Below that, a slightly shinier new plaque read:

HEAD OF THE MUGGLE-BORN

REGISTRATION COMMISSION

Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers:

Though they were intent upon their work, he could

hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door

of an empty office opened in front of them. He

therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd

object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed

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horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak,

he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.

It scuttled away at once through the legs of the

witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments

later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon

the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great

deal of acrid black smoke billowed from a corner. The

young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages

flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up,

looking around for the source of the commotion.

Harry turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge’s

office, and closed the door behind him.

He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was

exactly like Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts: Lace

draperies, doilies, and dried flowers covered every

available surface. The walls bore the same

ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored,

beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with

sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a

flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-Eye’s eye, a

telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on

the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took

a look through it and saw that they were all still

gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched

the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind,

pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in

his pocket. Then he turned to face the room again,

raised his wand, and murmured, “Accio Locket. ”

Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no

doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms

and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and

began pulling open the drawers. He saw quills and

notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that

coiled snakelike from their drawer and had to be

beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair

bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.

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There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch’s filing cabinets at

Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a

name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost

drawer that he saw something to distract him from

his search: Mr. Weasley’s file.

He pulled it out and opened it.

ARTHUR WEASLEY

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood, but with unacceptable

pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of

the Phoenix.

FAMILY: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two

youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at

home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have

confirmed.

SECURITY STATUS: TRACKED. All movements are

being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1

will contact (has stayed with Weasley family

previously)

“Undesirable Number One,” Harry muttered under his

breath as he replaced Mr. Weasley’s folder and shut

the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was,

and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced

around the office for fresh hiding places, he saw a

poster of himself on the wall, with the words

undesirable no. 1 emblazoned across his chest. A

little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a

kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it

and saw that Umbridge had written, “To be punished. ”

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Angrier than ever, he proceeded to grope in the

bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but

was not at all surprised that the locket was not there.

He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his

heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him

from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a

bookcase beside the desk.

Harry crossed the room at a run and snatched it up,

but realized the moment he touched it that it was not

a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out

of the front cover of a glossy book. Harry had not

immediately noticed the curly green writing across his

hat — The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore — nor

the slightly smaller writing across his chest: “by Rita

Skeeter, bestselling author of Armando Dippet: Master

or Moron?”

Harry opened the book at random and saw a full-page

photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing

immoderately with their arms around each other’s

shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair,

had grown a tiny wispy beard that recalled the one on

Krum’s chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who

roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a

gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in

curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it

was a young Doge, but before he could check the

caption, the door of the office opened.

If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder

as he entered, Harry would not have had time to pull

the Invisibility Cloak over himself. As it was, he

thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of

movement, because for a moment or two he remained

quite still, staring curiously at the place where Harry

had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that all he had

seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the

front of the book, for Harry had hastily replaced it

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upon the shelf, Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in

the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note

to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe,

Harry backed out of the office into the open area

beyond.

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the

remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to

hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the

corridor as the young witch said, “I bet it sneaked up

here from Experimental Charms, they’re so careless,

remember that poisonous duck?”

Speeding back toward the lifts, Harry reviewed his

options. It had never been likely that the locket was

here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of

bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she

was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had

to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed,

and try again another day. The first thing to do was to

find Ron, and then they could work out a way of

extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in

and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak as it started its

descent. To his enormous relief, when it rattled to a

halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got

in.

“M-morning,” he stammered to Harry as the lift set off

again.

“Ron, it’s me, Harry!”

“Harry! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like — why

isn’t Hermione with you?”

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“She had to go down to the courtrooms with

Umbridge, she couldn’t refuse, and —”

But before Harry could finish the lift had stopped

again: The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked

inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair

was teased so high it resembled an anthill.

“… I quite understand what you’re saying, Wakanda,

but I’m afraid I cannot be party to —”

Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was

very strange to have Mr. Weasley glare at him with

that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the four

of them trundled downward once more.

“Oh, hello, Reg,” said Mr. Weasley, looking around at

the sound of steady dripping from Ron’s robes. “Isn’t

your wife in for questioning today? Er — what’s

happened to you? Why are you so wet?”

“Yaxley’s office is raining,” said Ron. He addressed

Mr. Weasley’s shoulder, and Harry felt sure he was

scared that his father might recognize him if they

looked directly into each other’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop

it, so they’ve sent me to get Bernie — Pillsworth, I

think they said —”

“Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately,” said Mr.

Weasley. “Did you try Meteolojinx Recanto? It worked

for Bletchley.”

“Meteolojinx Recanto?” whispered Ron. “No, I didn’t.

Thanks, D — I mean, thanks, Arthur.”

The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill

hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight. Harry

made to follow him, but found his path blocked as

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Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers he was reading.

Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy

realize he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up,

saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and left the lift

the moment the doors opened again. For the second

time, Harry tried to get out, but this time found his

way blocked by Mr. Weasley’s arm.

“One moment, Runcorn.”

The lift doors closed and as they clanked down

another floor, Mr. Weasley said, “I hear you laid

information about Dirk Cresswell.”

Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley’s anger

was no less because of the brush with Percy. He

decided his best chance was to act stupid.

“Sorry?” he said.

“Don’t pretend, Runcorn,” said Mr. Weasley fiercely.

“You tracked down the wizard who faked his family

tree, didn’t you?”

“I — so what if I did?” said Harry.

“So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are,”

said Mr. Weasley quietly, as the lift sank ever lower.

“And if he survives Azkaban, you’ll have to answer to

him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends

—”

“Arthur,” Harry interrupted, “you know you’re being

tracked, don’t you?”

“Is that a threat, Runcorn?” said Mr. Weasley loudly.

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“No,” said Harry, “it’s a fact! They’re watching your every move —”

The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium.

Mr. Weasley gave Harry a scathing look and swept

from the lift. Harry stood there, shaken. He wished he

was impersonating somebody other than Runcorn. …

The lift doors clanged shut.

Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back

on. He would try to extricate Hermione on his own

while Ron was dealing with the raining office. When

the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit

stone passageway quite different from the wood-

paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the lift

rattled away again, Harry shivered slightly, looking

toward the distant black door that marked the

entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

He set off, his destination not the black door, but the

doorway he remembered on the left-hand side, which

opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court

chambers. His mind grappled with possibilities as he

crept down them: He still had a couple of Decoy

Detonators, but perhaps it would be better to simply

knock on the courtroom door, enter as Runcorn, and

ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course, he did

not know whether Runcorn was sufficiently important

to get away with this, and even if he managed it,

Hermione’s non-reappearance might trigger a search

before they were clear of the Ministry. …

Lost in thought, he did not immediately register the

unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he

were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and

colder with every step he took: a cold that reached

right down into his throat and tore at his lungs. And

then he felt that stealing sense of despair, of

hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him. …

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Dementors, he thought.

And as he reached the foot of the stairs and turned to

his right he saw a dreadful scene. The dark passage

outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, black-

hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their

ragged breathing the only sound in the place. The

petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat

huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most

of them were hiding their faces in their hands,

perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves

from the dementors’ greedy mouths. Some were

accompanied by families, others sat alone. The

dementors were gliding up and down in front of them,

and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair

of the place laid themselves upon Harry like a curse.

…

Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could

not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself

instantly. So he moved forward as silently as he

could, and with every step he took numbness seemed

to steal over his brain, but he forced himself to think

of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him.

Moving through the towering black figures was

terrifying: The eyeless faces hidden beneath their

hoods turned as he passed, and he felt sure that they

sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that

still had some hope, some resilience. …

And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen

silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the

corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it.

“No, no, I’m half-blood, I’m half-blood, I tell you! My

father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie

Alderton, he’s a well-known broomstick designer, look

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him up, I tell you — get your hands off me, get your hands off —”

“This is your final warning,” said Umbridge’s soft

voice, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly

over the man’s desperate screams. “If you struggle,

you will be subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

The man’s screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed

through the corridor.

“Take him away,” said Umbridge.

Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the

courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the

upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting.

They glided away down the corridor with him, and the

darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him

from sight.

“Next — Mary Cattermole,” called Umbridge.

A small woman stood up; she was trembling from

head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a

bun and she wore long, plain robes. Her face was

completely bloodless. As she passed the dementors,

Harry saw her shudder.

He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan,

because he hated the sight of her walking alone into

the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed, he

slipped into the courtroom behind her.

It was not the same room in which he had once been

interrogated for improper use of magic. This one was

much smaller, though the ceiling was quite as high; it

gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the

bottom of a deep well.

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There were more dementors in here, casting their

freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless

sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised

platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge,

with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, quite

as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other. At

the foot of the platform, a bright-silver, long-haired

cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry

realized that it was there to protect the prosecutors

from the despair that emanated from the dementors:

That was for the accused to feel, not the accusers.

“Sit down,” said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice.

Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the

middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The

moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the

arms of the chair and bound her there.

“You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” asked

Umbridge.

Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod.

“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical

Maintenance Department?”

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears.

“I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet

me here!”

Umbridge ignored her.

“Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?”

Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever.

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“They’re frightened, they think I might not come home

—”

“Spare us,” spat Yaxley. “The brats of Mudbloods do

not stir our sympathies.”

Mrs. Cattermole’s sobs masked Harry’s footsteps as

he made his way carefully toward the steps that led

up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed

the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, he felt the

change in temperature: It was warm and comfortable

here. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge’s,

and it glowed brightly because she was so happy

here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she

had helped to write. Slowly and very carefully he

edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge,

Yaxley, and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter.

He was worried about making Hermione jump. He

thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon

Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word

might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised

her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Harry

seized his chance.

“I’m behind you,” he whispered into Hermione’s ear.

As he had expected, she jumped so violently she

nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she

was supposed to be recording the interview, but both

Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs.

Cattermole, and this went unnoticed.

“A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the

Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,” Umbridge was

saying. “Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry,

unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?”

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her

sleeve.

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“Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?”

“T-took?” sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. “I didn’t t-take it

from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years

old. It — it — it — chose me.”

She cried harder than ever.

Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made

Harry want to attack her. She leaned forward over the

barrier, the better to observe her victim, and

something gold swung forward too, and dangled over

the void: the locket.

Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak, but

Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey,

were deaf to everything else.

“No,” said Umbridge, “no, I don’t think so, Mrs.

Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards.

You are not a witch. I have your responses to the

questionnaire that was sent to you here — Mafalda,

pass them to me.”

Umbridge held out a small hand: She looked so

toadlike at that moment that Harry was quite

surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers.

Hermione’s hands were shaking with shock. She

fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair

beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment

with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it.

“That’s — that’s pretty, Dolores,” she said, pointing at

the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of

Umbridge’s blouse.

“What?” snapped Umbridge, glancing down. “Oh yes

— an old family heirloom,” she said, patting the locket

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lying on her large bosom. “The S stands for Selwyn. …

I am related to the Selwyns. … Indeed, there are few

pure-blood families to whom I am not related. … A

pity,” she continued in a louder voice, flicking

through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire, “that the

same cannot be said for you. ‘ Parents’ professions:

greengrocers. ’ ”

Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat

patrolled up and down, and the dementors stood

waiting in the corners.

It was Umbridge’s lie that brought the blood surging

into Harry’s brain and obliterated his sense of caution

— that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a

petty criminal was being used to bolster her own

pure-blood credentials. He raised his wand, not even

troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility

Cloak, and said, “Stupefy!”

There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled

and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade: Mrs.

Cattermole’s papers slid off her lap onto the floor and,

down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold

air hit them like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, confused,

looked around for the source of the trouble and saw

Harry’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him.

He tried to draw his own wand, but too late:

“Stupefy!”

Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

“Harry!”

“Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let

her pretend —”

“Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!”

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Harry whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the dementors had moved out of

their corners; they were gliding toward the woman

chained to the chair: Whether because the Patronus

had vanished or because they sensed that their

masters were no longer in control, they seemed to

have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a

terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand

grasped her chin and forced her face back.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry’s wand

and leaped toward the dementors, which fell back and

melted into the dark shadows again. The stag’s light,

more powerful and more warming than the cat’s

protection, filled the whole dungeon as it cantered

around and around the room.

“Get the Horcrux,” Harry told Hermione.

He ran back down the steps, stuffing the Invisibility

Cloak back into his bag, and approached Mrs.

Cattermole.

“You?” she whispered, gazing into his face. “But —

but Reg said you were the one who submitted my

name for questioning!”

“Did I?” muttered Harry, tugging at the chains

binding her arms. “Well, I’ve had a change of heart.

Diffindo!” Nothing happened. “Hermione, how do I get

rid of these chains?”

“Wait, I’m trying something up here —”

“Hermione, we’re surrounded by dementors!”

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“I know that, Harry, but if she wakes up and the

locket’s gone — I need to duplicate it — Geminio!

There … That should fool her. …”

Hermione came running downstairs.

“Let’s see. … Relashio!”

The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the

chair. Mrs. Cattermole looked just as frightened as

ever before.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“You’re going to leave here with us,” said Harry,

pulling her to her feet. “Go home, grab your children,

and get out, get out of the country if you’ve got to.

Disguise yourselves and run. You’ve seen how it is,

you won’t get anything like a fair hearing here.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, “how are we going to get out

of here with all those dementors outside the door?”

“Patronuses,” said Harry, pointing his wand at his

own: The stag slowed and walked, still gleaming

brightly, toward the door. “As many as we can

muster; do yours, Hermione.”

“Expec — Expecto patronum, ” said Hermione. Nothing

happened.

“It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with,” Harry

told a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole. “Bit

unfortunate, really … Come on, Hermione. …”

“Expecto patronum!”

A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione’s wand

and swam gracefully through the air to join the stag.

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“C’mon,” said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs.

Cattermole to the door.

When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there

were cries of shock from the people waiting outside.

Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back

on both sides of them, melding into the darkness,

scattering before the silver creatures.

“It’s been decided that you should all go home and go

into hiding with your families,” Harry told the waiting

Muggle-borns, who were dazzled by the light of the

Patronuses and still cowering slightly. “Go abroad if

you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s

the — er — new official position. Now, if you’ll just

follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the

Atrium.”

They managed to get up the stone steps without being

intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry

started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the

Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside

it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused

Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they

would attract unwanted attention. He had just

reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift

clanged to a halt in front of them.

“Reg!” screamed Mrs. Cattermole, and she threw

herself into Ron’s arms. “Runcorn let me out, he

attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he’s told all of us

to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I

really do, let’s hurry home and fetch the children and

— why are you so wet?”

“Water,” muttered Ron, disengaging himself. “Harry,

they know there are intruders inside the Ministry,

something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door, I

reckon we’ve got five minutes if that —”

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Hermione’s Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror-struck face to Harry.

“Harry, if we’re trapped here — !”

“We won’t be if we move fast,” said Harry. He

addressed the silent group behind them, who were all

gawping at him.

“Who’s got wands?”

About half of them raised their hands.

“Okay, all of you who haven’t got wands need to

attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be

fast before they stop us. Come on.”

They managed to cram themselves into two lifts.

Harry’s Patronus stood sentinel before the golden

grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.

“Level eight,” said the witch’s cool voice, “Atrium.”

Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The

Atrium was full of people moving from fireplace to

fireplace, sealing them off.

“Harry!” squeaked Hermione. “What are we going to —

?”

“STOP!” Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of

Runcorn echoed through the Atrium: The wizards

sealing the fireplaces froze. “Follow me,” he whispered

to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved

forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and

Hermione.

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“What’s up, Albert?” said the same balding wizard

who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He

looked nervous.

“This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,” said

Harry with all the authority he could muster.

The group of wizards in front of him looked at one

another.

“We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone —

”

“Are you contradicting me?” Harry blustered. “Would

you like me to have your family tree examined, like I

had Dirk Cresswell’s?”

“Sorry!” gasped the balding wizard, backing away. “I

didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought … I

thought they were in for questioning and …”

“Their blood is pure,” said Harry, and his deep voice

echoed impressively through the hall. “Purer than

many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he boomed to

the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the

fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry

wizards hung back, some looking confused, others

scared and resentful. Then:

“Mary!”

Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real

Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan,

had just come running out of a lift.

“R-Reg?”

She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore

loudly.

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The balding wizard gaped, his head turning

ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.

“Hey — what’s going on? What is this?”

“Seal the exit! SEAL IT!”

Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running

toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all

of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now

vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry

raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending

him flying through the air.

“He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!”

Harry shouted.

The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar,

under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole,

pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and

disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to

the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole

screamed, “My wife! Who was that with my wife?

What’s going on?”

Harry saw Yaxley’s head turn, saw an inkling of the

truth dawn in that brutish face.

“Come on!” Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her

hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as

Yaxley’s curse sailed over Harry’s head. They spun for

a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a

cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing

there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs.

Cattermole.

“Reg, I don’t understand —”

“Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home!”

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There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley had just appeared.

“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the

hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the spot.

Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of

compressing bands, but something was wrong. …

Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip.

…

He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he

could not breathe or see and the only solid things in

the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione’s fingers,

which were slowly slipping away. …

And then he saw the door of number twelve,

Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but

before he could draw breath, there was a scream and

a flash of purple light; Hermione’s hand was suddenly

vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.

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THE THIEF

Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and

green; he had no idea what had happened, he only

knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves

and twigs. Struggling to draw breath into lungs that

felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy

glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of

leaves far above him. Then an object twitched close to

his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and

knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but

saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around,

Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a

forest floor, apparently alone.

Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and

for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and

dangerous it would be for them to appear in the

grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of

sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However,

in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan

and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized

that this was not the Forbidden Forest: The trees

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looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the

ground clearer.

He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at

Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all

other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched

the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out,

grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The

Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was

halfway between Cattermole and himself in

appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his

face drained of the little color it had left.

“What’s happened to him?”

“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy

at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and

darkest.

Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s

shirt. He had always thought of Splinching as

something comical, but this … His insides crawled

unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm,

where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped

cleanly away as though by a knife.

“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle

labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’ —”

“Bag — right —”

Harry sped to the place where Hermione had landed,

seized the tiny beaded bag, and thrust his hand

inside it. At once, object after object began presenting

itself to his touch: He felt the leather spines of books,

woolly sleeves of jumpers, heels of shoes —

“Quickly!”

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He grabbed his wand from the ground and pointed it

into the depths of the magical bag.

“Accio Dittany!”

A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he

caught it and hastened back to Hermione and Ron,

whose eyes were now half-closed, strips of white

eyeball all that were visible between his lids.

“He’s fainted,” said Hermione, who was also rather

pale; she no longer looked like Mafalda, though her

hair was still gray in places. “Unstopper it for me,

Harry, my hands are shaking.”

Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle,

Hermione took it and poured three drops of the potion

onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowed

upward and when it had cleared, Harry saw that the

bleeding had stopped. The wound now looked several

days old; new skin stretched over what had just been

open flesh.

“Wow,” said Harry.

“It’s all I feel safe doing,” said Hermione shakily.

“There are spells that would put him completely right,

but I daren’t try in case I do them wrong and cause

more damage. … He’s lost so much blood already. …”

“How did he get hurt? I mean” — Harry shook his

head, trying to clear it, to make sense of whatever had

just taken place — “why are we here? I thought we

were going back to Grimmauld Place?”

Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to

tears.

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“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back there.”

“What d’you — ?”

“As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I

couldn’t get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was

still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place,

and then — well, I think he must have seen the door,

and thought we were stopping there, so he slackened

his grip and I managed to shake him off and I brought

us here instead!”

“But then, where’s he? Hang on. … You don’t mean

he’s at Grimmauld Place? He can’t get in there?”

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she nodded.

“Harry, I think he can. I — I forced him to let go with

a Revulsion Jinx, but I’d already taken him inside the

Fidelius Charm’s protection. Since Dumbledore died,

we’re Secret-Keepers, so I’ve given him the secret,

haven’t I?”

There was no pretending; Harry was sure she was

right. It was a serious blow. If Yaxley could now get

inside the house, there was no way that they could

return. Even now, he could be bringing other Death

Eaters in there by Apparition. Gloomy and oppressive

though the house was, it had been their one safe

refuge: even, now that Kreacher was so much happier

and friendlier, a kind of home. With a twinge of regret

that had nothing to do with food, Harry imagined the

house-elf busying himself over the steak-and-kidney

pie that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would never eat.

“Harry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

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“Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t your fault! If anything, it was mine. …”

Harry put his hand in his pocket and drew out Mad-

Eye’s eye. Hermione recoiled, looking horrified.

“Umbridge had stuck it to her office door, to spy on

people. I couldn’t leave it there … but that’s how they

knew there were intruders.”

Before Hermione could answer, Ron groaned and

opened his eyes. He was still gray and his face

glistened with sweat.

“How d’you feel?” Hermione whispered.

“Lousy,” croaked Ron, wincing as he felt his injured

arm. “Where are we?”

“In the woods where they held the Quidditch World

Cup,” said Hermione. “I wanted somewhere enclosed,

undercover, and this was —”

“— the first place you thought of,” Harry finished for

her, glancing around at the apparently deserted

glade. He could not help remembering what had

happened the last time they had Apparated to the

first place Hermione had thought of — how Death

Eaters had found them within minutes. Had it been

Legilimency? Did Voldemort or his henchmen know,

even now, where Hermione had taken them?

“D’you reckon we should move on?” Ron asked Harry,

and Harry could tell by the look on Ron’s face that he

was thinking the same.

“I dunno.”

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Ron still looked pale and clammy. He had made no

attempt to sit up and it looked as though he was too

weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was

daunting.

“Let’s stay here for now,” Harry said.

Looking relieved, Hermione sprang to her feet.

“Where are you going?” asked Ron.

“If we’re staying, we should put some protective

enchantments around the place,” she replied, and

raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle

around Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as

she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the

surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a

heat haze upon their clearing.

“Salvio Hexia … Protego Totalum … Repello Muggletum

… Muffliato … You could get out the tent, Harry. …”

“Tent?”

“In the bag!”

“In the … of course,” said Harry.

He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but

used another Summoning Charm. The tent emerged

in a lumpy mass of canvas, rope, and poles. Harry

recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as

the same tent in which they had slept on the night of

the Quidditch World Cup.

“I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the

Ministry?” he asked, starting to disentangle the tent

pegs.

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“Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s so bad,” said Hermione, now performing complicated

figure-of-eight movements with her wand, “so Ron’s

dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!” she added,

pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in

one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully

constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of

whose startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with

a final thud at the end of a guy rope.

“Cave Inimicum, ” Hermione finished with a skyward

flourish. “That’s as much as I can do. At the very

least, we should know they’re coming, I can’t

guarantee it will keep out Vol —”

“Don’t say the name!” Ron cut across her, his voice

harsh.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, moaning a little as he raised

himself to look at them, “but it feels like a — a jinx or

something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who —

please?”

“Dumbledore said fear of a name —” began Harry.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, calling You-Know-

Who by his name didn’t do Dumbledore much good in

the end,” Ron snapped back. “Just — just show You-

Know-Who some respect, will you?”

“Respect?” Harry repeated, but Hermione shot him a

warning look; apparently he was not to argue with

Ron while the latter was in such a weakened

condition.

Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron

through the entrance of the tent. The interior was

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exactly as Harry remembered it: a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an

old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower

berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey had

turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him

on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not

speak for a while.

“I’ll make some tea,” said Hermione breathlessly,

pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag

and heading toward the kitchen.

Harry found the hot drink as welcome as the

firewhisky had been on the night that Mad-Eye had

died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear

fluttering in his chest. After a minute or two, Ron

broke the silence.

“What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?”

“With any luck, they’ll have got away,” said Hermione,

clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr.

Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have

transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition

and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their

children. That’s what Harry told her to do.”

“Blimey, I hope they escaped,” said Ron, leaning back

on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him good;

a little of his color had returned. “I didn’t get the

feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted,

though, the way everyone was talking to me when I

was him. God, I hope they made it. … If they both end

up in Azkaban because of us …”

Harry looked over at Hermione and the question he

had been about to ask — about whether Mrs.

Cattermole’s lack of a wand would prevent her

Apparating alongside her husband — died in his

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throat. Hermione was watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles, and there was such tenderness in

her expression that Harry felt almost as if he had

surprised her in the act of kissing him.

“So, have you got it?” Harry asked her, partly to

remind her that he was there.

“Got — got what?” she said with a little start.

“What did we just go through all that for? The locket!

Where’s the locket?”

“You got it?” shouted Ron, raising himself a little

higher on his pillows. “No one tells me anything!

Blimey, you could have mentioned it!”

“Well, we were running for our lives from the Death

Eaters, weren’t we?” said Hermione. “Here.”

And she pulled the locket out of the pocket of her

robes and handed it to Ron.

It was as large as a chicken’s egg. An ornate letter S,

inlaid with many small green stones, glinted dully in

the diffused light shining through the tent’s canvas

roof.

“There isn’t any chance someone’s destroyed it since

Kreacher had it?” asked Ron hopefully. “I mean, are

we sure it’s still a Horcrux?”

“I think so,” said Hermione, taking it back from him

and looking at it closely. “There’d be some sign of

damage if it had been magically destroyed.”

She passed it to Harry, who turned it over in his

fingers. The thing looked perfect, pristine. He

remembered the mangled remains of the diary, and

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how the stone in the Horcrux ring had been cracked

open when Dumbledore destroyed it.

“I reckon Kreacher’s right,” said Harry. “We’re going to

have to work out how to open this thing before we can

destroy it.”

Sudden awareness of what he was holding, of what

lived behind the little golden doors, hit Harry as he

spoke. Even after all their efforts to find it, he felt a

violent urge to fling the locket from him. Mastering

himself again, he tried to prise the locket apart with

his fingers, then attempted the charm Hermione had

used to open Regulus’s bedroom door. Neither

worked. He handed the locket back to Ron and

Hermione, each of whom did their best, but were no

more successful at opening it than he had been.

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed

voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist.

“What d’you mean?”

Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or

two, Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it

his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could

feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like

a tiny metal heart?

“What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asked.

“Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it,” Harry

replied, and, little though he wanted to, he hung the

chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out

of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his

chest beside the pouch Hagrid had given him.

“I think we should take it in turns to keep watch

outside the tent,” he added to Hermione, standing up

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and stretching. “And we’ll need to think about some food as well. You stay there,” he added sharply, as

Ron attempted to sit up and turned a nasty shade of

green.

With the Sneakoscope Hermione had given Harry for

his birthday set carefully upon the table in the tent,

Harry and Hermione spent the rest of the day sharing

the role of lookout. However, the Sneakoscope

remained silent and still upon its point all day, and

whether because of the protective enchantments and

Muggle-repelling charms Hermione had spread

around them, or because people rarely ventured this

way, their patch of wood remained deserted, apart

from occasional birds and squirrels. Evening brought

no change; Harry lit his wand as he swapped places

with Hermione at ten o’clock, and looked out upon a

deserted scene, noting the bats fluttering high above

him across the single patch of starry sky visible from

their protected clearing.

He felt hungry now, and a little light-headed.

Hermione had not packed any food in her magical

bag, as she had assumed that they would be

returning to Grimmauld Place that night, so they had

had nothing to eat except some wild mushrooms that

Hermione had collected from amongst the nearest

trees and stewed in a billycan. After a couple of

mouthfuls Ron had pushed his portion away, looking

queasy; Harry had only persevered so as not to hurt

Hermione’s feelings.

The surrounding silence was broken by odd rustlings

and what sounded like crackings of twigs: Harry

thought that they were caused by animals rather than

people, yet he kept his wand held tight at the ready.

His insides, already uncomfortable due to their

inadequate helping of rubbery mushrooms, tingled

with unease.

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He had thought that he would feel elated if they

managed to steal back the Horcrux, but somehow he

did not; all he felt as he sat looking out at the

darkness, of which his wand lit only a tiny part, was

worry about what would happen next. It was as

though he had been hurtling toward this point for

weeks, months, maybe even years, but now he had

come to an abrupt halt, run out of road.

There were other Horcruxes out there somewhere, but

he did not have the faintest idea where they could be.

He did not even know what all of them were.

Meanwhile he was at a loss to know how to destroy

the only one that they had found, the Horcrux that

currently lay against the bare flesh of his chest.

Curiously, it had not taken heat from his body, but

lay so cold against his skin it might just have

emerged from icy water. From time to time Harry

thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could feel the

tiny heartbeat ticking irregularly alongside his own.

Nameless forebodings crept upon him as he sat there

in the dark: He tried to resist them, push them away,

yet they came at him relentlessly. Neither can live

while the other survives. Ron and Hermione, now

talking softly behind him in the tent, could walk away

if they wanted to: He could not. And it seemed to

Harry as he sat there trying to master his own fear

and exhaustion, that the Horcrux against his chest

was ticking away the time he had left. … Stupid idea,

he told himself, don’t think that. …

His scar was starting to prickle again. He was afraid

that he was making it happen by having these

thoughts, and tried to direct them into another

channel. He thought of poor Kreacher, who had

expected them home and had received Yaxley instead.

Would the elf keep silent or would he tell the Death

Eater everything he knew? Harry wanted to believe

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that Kreacher had changed toward him in the past

month, that he would be loyal now, but who knew

what would happen? What if the Death Eaters

tortured the elf? Sick images swarmed into Harry’s

head and he tried to push these away too, for there

was nothing he could do for Kreacher: He and

Hermione had already decided against trying to

summon him; what if someone from the Ministry

came too? They could not count on elfish Apparition

being free from the same flaw that had taken Yaxley

to Grimmauld Place on the hem of Hermione’s sleeve.

Harry’s scar was burning now. He thought that there

was so much they did not know: Lupin had been right

about magic they had never encountered or imagined.

Why hadn’t Dumbledore explained more? Had he

thought that there would be time; that he would live

for years, for centuries perhaps, like his friend Nicolas

Flamel? If so, he had been wrong. … Snape had seen

to that. … Snape, the sleeping snake, who had struck

at the top of the tower …

And Dumbledore had fallen … fallen …

“Give it to me, Gregorovitch. ”

Harry’s voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held

in front of him by a long-fingered white hand. The

man at whom he was pointing was suspended upside

down in midair, though there were no ropes holding

him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound, his

limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face, on a level

with Harry’s, ruddy due to the blood that had rushed

to his head. He had pure-white hair and a thick,

bushy beard: a trussed-up Father Christmas.

“I have it not, I have it no more! It was, many years

ago, stolen from me!”

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“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He

knows. … He always knows.”

The hanging man’s pupils were wide, dilated with

fear, and they seemed to swell, bigger and bigger until

their blackness swallowed Harry whole —

And now Harry was hurrying along a dark corridor in

stout little Gregorovitch’s wake as he held a lantern

aloft: Gregorovitch burst into the room at the end of

the passage and his lantern illuminated what looked

like a workshop; wood shavings and gold gleamed in

the swinging pool of light, and there on the window

ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with

golden hair. In the split second that the lantern’s light

illuminated him, Harry saw the delight upon his

handsome face, then the intruder shot a Stunning

Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backward out

of the window with a crow of laughter.

And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide,

tunnellike pupils and Gregorovitch’s face was stricken

with terror.

“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?” said the high cold

voice.

“I do not know, I never knew, a young man — no —

please — PLEASE!”

A scream that went on and on and then a burst of

green light —

“Harry!”

He opened his eyes, panting, his forehead throbbing.

He had passed out against the side of the tent, had

slid sideways down the canvas, and was sprawled on

the ground. He looked up at Hermione, whose bushy

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hair obscured the tiny patch of sky visible through the dark branches high above them.

“Dream,” he said, sitting up quickly and attempting to

meet Hermione’s glower with a look of innocence.

“Must’ve dozed off, sorry.”

“I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your

face! You were looking into Vol —”

“Don’t say his name!” came Ron’s angry voice from

the depths of the tent.

“Fine, ” retorted Hermione. “You-Know-Who’s mind,

then!”

“I didn’t mean it to happen!” Harry said. “It was a

dream! Can you control what you dream about,

Hermione?”

“If you just learned to apply Occlumency —”

But Harry was not interested in being told off; he

wanted to discuss what he had just seen.

“He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he’s

killed him, but before he killed him he read

Gregorovitch’s mind and I saw —”

“I think I’d better take over the watch if you’re so tired

you’re falling asleep,” said Hermione coldly.

“I can finish the watch!”

“No, you’re obviously exhausted. Go and lie down.”

She dropped down in the mouth of the tent, looking

stubborn. Angry, but wishing to avoid a row, Harry

ducked back inside.

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Ron’s still-pale face was poking out from the lower bunk; Harry climbed into the one above him, lay

down, and looked up at the dark canvas ceiling. After

several moments, Ron spoke in a voice so low that it

would not carry to Hermione, huddled in the

entrance.

“What’s You-Know-Who doing?”

Harry screwed up his eyes in the effort to remember

every detail, then whispered into the darkness.

“He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was

torturing him.”

“How’s Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new

wand if he’s tied up?”

“I dunno. … It’s weird, isn’t it?”

Harry closed his eyes, thinking of all he had seen and

heard. The more he recalled, the less sense it made.

… Voldemort had said nothing about Harry’s wand,

nothing about the twin cores, nothing about

Gregorovitch making a new and more powerful wand

to beat Harry’s. …

“He wanted something from Gregorovitch,” Harry

said, eyes still closed tight. “He asked him to hand it

over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from

him … and then … then …”

He remembered how he, as Voldemort, had seemed to

hurtle through Gregorovitch’s eyes, into his

memories. …

“He read Gregorovitch’s mind, and I saw this young

bloke perched on a windowsill, and he fired a curse at

Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, he

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stole whatever You-Know-Who’s after. And I … I think I’ve seen him somewhere. …”

Harry wished he could have another glimpse of the

laughing boy’s face. The theft had happened many

years ago, according to Gregorovitch. Why did the

young thief look familiar?

The noises of the surrounding woods were muffled

inside the tent; all Harry could hear was Ron’s

breathing. After a while, Ron whispered, “Couldn’t

you see what the thief was holding?”

“No … it must’ve been something small.”

“Harry?”

The wooden slats of Ron’s bunk creaked as he

repositioned himself in bed.

“Harry, you don’t reckon You-Know-Who’s after

something else to turn into a Horcrux?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. “Maybe. But

wouldn’t it be dangerous for him to make another

one? Didn’t Hermione say he had pushed his soul to

the limit already?”

“Yeah, but maybe he doesn’t know that.”

“Yeah … maybe,” said Harry.

He had been sure that Voldemort had been looking

for a way around the problem of the twin cores, sure

that Voldemort sought a solution from the old

wandmaker … and yet he had killed him, apparently

without asking him a single question about wandlore.

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What was Voldemort trying to find? Why, with the

Ministry of Magic and the Wizarding world at his feet,

was he far away, intent on the pursuit of an object

that Gregorovitch had once owned, and which had

been stolen by the unknown thief?

Harry could still see the blond-haired youth’s face; it

was merry, wild; there was a Fred and George-ish air

of triumphant trickery about him. He had soared from

the windowsill like a bird, and Harry had seen him

before, but he could not think where. …

With Gregorovitch dead, it was the merry-faced thief

who was in danger now, and it was on him that

Harry’s thoughts dwelled, as Ron’s snores began to

rumble from the lower bunk and as he himself drifted

slowly into sleep once more.

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THE GOBLIN’S REVENGE

Early next morning, before the other two were awake,

Harry left the tent to search the woods around them

for the oldest, most gnarled, and resilient-looking tree

he could find. There in its shadow he buried Mad-Eye

Moody’s eye and marked the spot by gouging a small

cross in the bark with his wand. It was not much, but

Harry felt that Mad-Eye would have much preferred

this to being stuck on Dolores Umbridge’s door. Then

he returned to the tent to wait for the others to wake,

and discuss what they were going to do next.

Harry and Hermione felt that it was best not to stay

anywhere too long, and Ron agreed, with the sole

proviso that their next move took them within reach

of a bacon sandwich. Hermione therefore removed the

enchantments she had placed around the clearing,

while Harry and Ron obliterated all the marks and

impressions on the ground that might show they had

camped there. Then they Disapparated to the

outskirts of a small market town.

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Once they had pitched the tent in the shelter of a

small copse of trees and surrounded it with freshly

cast defensive enchantments, Harry ventured out

under the Invisibility Cloak to find sustenance. This,

however, did not go as planned. He had barely

entered the town when an unnatural chill, a

descending mist, and a sudden darkening of the skies

made him freeze where he stood.

“But you can make a brilliant Patronus!” protested

Ron, when Harry arrived back at the tent empty-

handed, out of breath, and mouthing the single word,

dementors.

“I couldn’t … make one,” he panted, clutching the

stitch in his side. “Wouldn’t … come.”

Their expressions of consternation and

disappointment made Harry feel ashamed. It had

been a nightmarish experience, seeing the dementors

gliding out of the mist in the distance and realizing,

as the paralyzing cold choked his lungs and a distant

screaming filled his ears, that he was not going to be

able to protect himself. It had taken all Harry’s

willpower to uproot himself from the spot and run,

leaving the eyeless dementors to glide amongst the

Muggles who might not be able to see them, but

would assuredly feel the despair they cast wherever

they went.

“So we still haven’t got any food.”

“Shut up, Ron,” snapped Hermione. “Harry, what

happened? Why do you think you couldn’t make your

Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday!”

“I don’t know.”

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He sat low in one of Perkins’s old armchairs, feeling more humiliated by the moment. He was afraid that

something had gone wrong inside him. Yesterday

seemed a long time ago: Today he might have been

thirteen years old again, the only one who collapsed

on the Hogwarts Express.

Ron kicked a chair leg.

“What?” he snarled at Hermione. “I’m starving! All I’ve

had since I bled half to death is a couple of

toadstools!”

“You go and fight your way through the dementors,

then,” said Harry, stung.

“I would, but my arm’s in a sling, in case you hadn’t

noticed!”

“That’s convenient.”

“And what’s that supposed to — ?”

“Of course!” cried Hermione, clapping a hand to her

forehead and startling both of them into silence.

“Harry, give me the locket! Come on,” she said

impatiently, clicking her fingers at him when he did

not react, “the Horcrux, Harry, you’re still wearing it!”

She held out her hands, and Harry lifted the golden

chain over his head. The moment it parted contact

with Harry’s skin he felt free and oddly light. He had

not even realized that he was clammy or that there

was a heavy weight pressing on his stomach until

both sensations lifted.

“Better?” asked Hermione.

“Yeah, loads better!”

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“Harry,” she said, crouching down in front of him and using the kind of voice he associated with visiting the

very sick, “you don’t think you’ve been possessed, do

you?”

“What? No!” he said defensively. “I remember

everything we’ve done while I’ve been wearing it. I

wouldn’t know what I’d done if I’d been possessed,

would I? Ginny told me there were times when she

couldn’t remember anything.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, looking down at the heavy

gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We

can just keep it in the tent.”

“We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Harry

stated firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen —”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Hermione, and she

placed it around her own neck and tucked it out of

sight down the front of her shirt. “But we’ll take turns

wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long.”

“Great,” said Ron irritably, “and now we’ve sorted that

out, can we please get some food?”

“Fine, but we’ll go somewhere else to find it,” said

Hermione with half a glance at Harry. “There’s no

point staying where we know dementors are swooping

around.”

In the end they settled down for the night in a far-

flung field belonging to a lonely farm, from which they

had managed to obtain eggs and bread.

“It’s not stealing, is it?” asked Hermione in a troubled

voice, as they devoured scrambled eggs on toast. “Not

if I left some money under the chicken coop?”

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Ron rolled his eyes and said, with his cheeks bulging,

“ ’Er-my-nee, ’oo worry ’oo much. ’Elax!”

And, indeed, it was much easier to relax when they

were comfortably well fed: The argument about the

dementors was forgotten in laughter that night, and

Harry felt cheerful, even hopeful, as he took the first

of the three night watches.

This was their first encounter with the fact that a full

stomach meant good spirits; an empty one, bickering

and gloom. Harry was least surprised by this,

because he had suffered periods of near starvation at

the Dursleys’. Hermione bore up reasonably well on

those nights when they managed to scavenge nothing

but berries or stale biscuits, her temper perhaps a

little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour.

Ron, however, had always been used to three

delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the

Hogwarts house-elves, and hunger made him both

unreasonable and irascible. Whenever lack of food

coincided with Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux, he

became downright unpleasant.

“So where next?” was his constant refrain. He did not

seem to have any ideas himself, but expected Harry

and Hermione to come up with plans while he sat and

brooded over the low food supplies. Accordingly Harry

and Hermione spent fruitless hours trying to decide

where they might find the other Horcruxes, and how

to destroy the one they had already got, their

conversations becoming increasingly repetitive as

they had no new information.

As Dumbledore had told Harry that he believed

Voldemort had hidden the Horcruxes in places

important to him, they kept reciting, in a sort of

dreary litany, those locations they knew that

Voldemort had lived or visited. The orphanage where

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he had been born and raised; Hogwarts, where he had been educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he had

worked after completing school; then Albania, where

he had spent his years of exile: These formed the

basis of their speculations.

“Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t take more than

an afternoon to search an entire country,” said Ron

sarcastically.

“There can’t be anything there. He’d already made five

of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and

Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth,” said

Hermione. “We know the snake’s not in Albania, it’s

usually with Vol —”

“Didn’t I ask you to stop saying that?”

“Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who —

happy?”

“Not particularly.”

“I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and

Burkes,” said Harry, who had made this point many

times before, but said it again simply to break the

nasty silence. “Borgin and Burke were experts at

Dark objects, they would’ve recognized a Horcrux

straightaway.”

Ron yawned pointedly. Repressing a strong urge to

throw something at him, Harry plowed on, “I still

reckon he might have hidden something at

Hogwarts.”

Hermione sighed.

“But Dumbledore would have found it, Harry!”

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Harry repeated the argument he kept bringing out in favor of this theory.

“Dumbledore said in front of me that he never

assumed he knew all of Hogwarts’s secrets. I’m telling

you, if there was one place Vol —”

“Oi!”

“YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!” Harry shouted, goaded

past endurance. “If there was one place that was

really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!”

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Ron. “His school?”

“Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place

that meant he was special; it meant everything to

him, and even after he left —”

“This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, right?

Not you?” inquired Ron. He was tugging at the chain

of the Horcrux around his neck: Harry was visited by

a desire to seize it and throttle him.

“You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore

to give him a job after he left,” said Hermione.

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come

back to try and find something, probably another

founder’s object, to make into another Horcrux?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“But he didn’t get the job, did he?” said Hermione. “So

he never got the chance to find a founder’s object

there and hide it in the school!”

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“Okay, then,” said Harry, defeated. “Forget Hogwarts.”

Without any other leads, they traveled into London

and, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, searched

for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been

raised. Hermione stole into a library and discovered

from their records that the place had been

demolished many years before. They visited its site

and found a tower block of offices.

“We could try digging in the foundations?” Hermione

suggested halfheartedly.

“He wouldn’t have hidden a Horcrux here,” Harry

said. He had known it all along: The orphanage had

been the place Voldemort had been determined to

escape; he would never have hidden a part of his soul

there. Dumbledore had shown Harry that Voldemort

sought grandeur or mystique in his hiding places;

this dismal gray corner of London was as far removed

as you could imagine from Hogwarts or the Ministry

or a building like Gringotts, the Wizarding bank, with

its golden doors and marble floors.

Even without any new ideas, they continued to move

through the countryside, pitching the tent in a

different place each night for security. Every morning

they made sure that they had removed all clues to

their presence, then set off to find another lonely and

secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods,

to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors,

gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a sheltered

and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so they

passed the Horcrux between them as though they

were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of

pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music

stopping because the reward was twelve hours of

increased fear and anxiety.

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Harry’s scar kept prickling. It happened most often, he noticed, when he was wearing the Horcrux.

Sometimes he could not stop himself reacting to the

pain.

“What? What did you see?” demanded Ron, whenever

he noticed Harry wince.

“A face,” muttered Harry, every time. “The same face.

The thief who stole from Gregorovitch.”

And Ron would turn away, making no effort to hide

his disappointment. Harry knew that Ron was hoping

to hear news of his family or of the rest of the Order of

the Phoenix, but after all, he, Harry, was not a

television aerial; he could only see what Voldemort

was thinking at the time, not tune in to whatever took

his fancy. Apparently Voldemort was dwelling

endlessly on the unknown youth with the gleeful face,

whose name and whereabouts, Harry felt sure,

Voldemort knew no better than he did. As Harry’s

scar continued to burn and the merry, blond-haired

boy swam tantalizingly in his memory, he learned to

suppress any sign of pain or discomfort, for the other

two showed nothing but impatience at the mention of

the thief. He could not entirely blame them, when

they were so desperate for a lead on the Horcruxes.

As the days stretched into weeks, Harry began to

suspect that Ron and Hermione were having

conversations without, and about, him. Several times

they stopped talking abruptly when Harry entered the

tent, and twice he came accidentally upon them,

huddled a little distance away, heads together and

talking fast; both times they fell silent when they

realized he was approaching them and hastened to

appear busy collecting wood or water.

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Harry could not help wondering whether they had

only agreed to come on what now felt like a pointless

and rambling journey because they thought he had

some secret plan that they would learn in due course.

Ron was making no effort to hide his bad mood, and

Harry was starting to fear that Hermione too was

disappointed by his poor leadership. In desperation

he tried to think of further Horcrux locations, but the

only one that continued to occur to him was

Hogwarts, and as neither of the others thought this at

all likely, he stopped suggesting it.

Autumn rolled over the countryside as they moved

through it: They were now pitching the tent on

mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists joined those

cast by the dementors; wind and rain added to their

troubles. The fact that Hermione was getting better at

identifying edible fungi could not altogether

compensate for their continuing isolation, the lack of

other people’s company, or their total ignorance of

what was going on in the war against Voldemort.

“My mother,” said Ron one night, as they sat in the

tent on a riverbank in Wales, “can make good food

appear out of thin air.”

He prodded moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish

on his plate. Harry glanced automatically at Ron’s

neck and saw, as he had expected, the golden chain

of the Horcrux glinting there. He managed to fight

down the impulse to swear at Ron, whose attitude

would, he knew, improve slightly when the time came

to take off the locket.

“Your mother can’t produce food out of thin air,” said

Hermione. “No one can. Food is the first of the five

Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental

Transfigur —”

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“Oh, speak English, can’t you?” Ron said, prising a fish bone out from between his teeth.

“It’s impossible to make good food out of nothing! You

can Summon it if you know where it is, you can

transform it, you can increase the quantity if you’ve

already got some —”

“Well, don’t bother increasing this, it’s disgusting,”

said Ron.

“Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I

notice I’m always the one who ends up sorting out the

food, because I’m a girl, I suppose!”

“No, it’s because you’re supposed to be the best at

magic!” shot back Ron.

Hermione jumped up and bits of roast pike slid off

her tin plate onto the floor.

“You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find

the ingredients and try and charm them into

something worth eating, and I’ll sit here and pull

faces and moan and you can see how you —”

“Shut up!” said Harry, leaping to his feet and holding

up both hands. “Shut up now!”

Hermione looked outraged.

“How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the

cook —”

“Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!”

He was listening hard, his hands still raised, warning

them not to talk. Then, over the rush and gush of the

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dark river beside them, he heard voices again. He

looked around at the Sneakoscope. It was not moving.

“You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he

whispered to Hermione.

“I did everything,” she whispered back, “Muffliato,

Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of

it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever

they are.”

Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of

dislodged stones and twigs, told them that several

people were clambering down the steep, wooded slope

that descended to the narrow bank where they had

pitched the tent. They drew their wands, waiting. The

enchantments they had cast around themselves

ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to

shield them from the notice of Muggles and normal

witches and wizards. If these were Death Eaters, then

perhaps their defenses were about to be tested by

Dark Magic for the first time.

The voices became louder but no more intelligible as

the group of men reached the bank. Harry estimated

that their owners were fewer than twenty feet away,

but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for

sure. Hermione snatched up the beaded bag and

started to rummage; after a moment she drew out

three Extendable Ears and threw one each to Harry

and Ron, who hastily inserted the ends of the flesh-

colored strings into their ears and fed the other ends

out of the tent entrance.

Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice.

“There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d’you

reckon it’s too early in the season? Accio Salmon!”

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There were several distinct splashes and then the

slapping sounds of fish against flesh. Somebody

grunted appreciatively. Harry pressed the Extendable

Ear deeper into his own: Over the murmur of the river

he could make out more voices, but they were not

speaking English or any human language he had ever

heard. It was a rough and unmelodious tongue, a

string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed to

be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower

voice than the other.

A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas;

large shadows passed between tent and flames. The

delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalizingly

in their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery

on plates, and the first man spoke again.

“Here, Griphook, Gornuk.”

Goblins! Hermione mouthed at Harry, who nodded.

“Thank you,” said the goblins together in English.

“So, you three have been on the run how long?” asked

a new, mellow, and pleasant voice; it was vaguely

familiar to Harry, who pictured a round-bellied,

cheerful-faced man.

“Six weeks … seven … I forget,” said the tired man.

“Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and

joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have

a bit of company.” There was a pause, while knives

scraped plates and tin mugs were picked up and

replaced on the ground. “What made you leave, Ted?”

continued the man.

“Knew they were coming for me,” replied mellow-

voiced Ted, and Harry suddenly knew who he was:

Tonks’s father. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area

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last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew

it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the

end. My wife should be okay, she’s pure-blood. And

then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?”

“Yeah,” said another voice, and Harry, Ron, and

Hermione stared at each other, silent but beside

themselves with excitement, sure they recognized the

voice of Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor.

“Muggle-born, eh?” asked the first man.

“Not sure,” said Dean. “My dad left my mum when I

was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard, though.”

There was silence for a while, except for the sounds of

munching; then Ted spoke again.

“I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you.

Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.”

“I was,” said Dirk. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I

made a break for it, Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his

broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon

he’s quite right at the moment. Might be Confunded.

If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard

who did it, probably saved my life.”

There was another pause in which the fire crackled

and the river rushed on. Then Ted said, “And where

do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins

were for You-Know-Who, on the whole.”

“You had a false impression,” said the higher-voiced

of the goblins. “We take no sides. This is a wizards’

war.”

“How come you’re in hiding, then?”

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“I deemed it prudent,” said the deeper-voiced goblin.

“Having refused what I considered an impertinent

request, I could see that my personal safety was in

jeopardy.”

“What did they ask you to do?” asked Ted.

“Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race,” replied the

goblin, his voice rougher and less human as he said

it. “I am not a house-elf.”

“What about you, Griphook?”

“Similar reasons,” said the higher-voiced goblin.

“Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my

race. I recognize no Wizarding master.”

He added something under his breath in

Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughed.

“What’s the joke?” asked Dean.

“He said,” replied Dirk, “that there are things wizards

don’t recognize, either.”

There was a short pause.

“I don’t get it,” said Dean.

“I had my small revenge before I left,” said Griphook

in English.

“Good man — goblin, I should say,” amended Ted

hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock a Death Eater up in

one of the old high-security vaults, I suppose?”

“If I had, the sword would not have helped him break

out,” replied Griphook. Gornuk laughed again and

even Dirk gave a dry chuckle.

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“Dean and I are still missing something here,” said Ted.

“So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it,”

said Griphook, and the two goblins roared with

malicious laughter. Inside the tent Harry’s breathing

was shallow with excitement: He and Hermione stared

at each other, listening as hard as they could.

“Didn’t you hear about that, Ted?” asked Dirk. “About

the kids who tried to steal Gryffindor’s sword out of

Snape’s office at Hogwarts?”

An electric current seemed to course through Harry,

jangling his every nerve as he stood rooted to the

spot.

“Never heard a word,” said Ted. “Not in the Prophet,

was it?”

“Hardly,” chortled Dirk. “Griphook here told me, he

heard about it from Bill Weasley who works for the

bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was

Bill’s younger sister.”

Harry glanced toward Hermione and Ron, both of

whom were clutching the Extendable Ears as tightly

as lifelines.

“She and a couple of friends got into Snape’s office

and smashed open the glass case where he was

apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as

they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.”

“Ah, God bless ’em,” said Ted. “What did they think,

that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know-

Who? Or on Snape himself?”

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“Well, whatever they thought they were going to do

with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it

was,” said Dirk. “Couple of days later, once he’d got

the say-so from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it

down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.”

The goblins started to laugh again.

“I’m still not seeing the joke,” said Ted.

“It’s a fake,” rasped Griphook.

“The sword of Gryffindor!”

“Oh yes. It is a copy — an excellent copy, it is true —

but it was Wizard-made. The original was forged

centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties

only goblin-made armor possesses. Wherever the

genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at

Gringotts bank.”

“I see,” said Ted. “And I take it you didn’t bother

telling the Death Eaters this?”

“I saw no reason to trouble them with the

information,” said Griphook smugly, and now Ted and

Dean joined in Gornuk and Dirk’s laughter.

Inside the tent, Harry closed his eyes, willing someone

to ask the question he needed answered, and after a

minute that seemed ten, Dean obliged; he was (Harry

remembered with a jolt) an ex-boyfriend of Ginny’s

too.

“What happened to Ginny and the others? The ones

who tried to steal it?”

“Oh, they were punished, and cruelly,” said Griphook

indifferently.

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“They’re okay, though?” asked Ted quickly. “I mean, the Weasleys don’t need any more of their kids

injured, do they?”

“They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am

aware,” said Griphook.

“Lucky for them,” said Ted. “With Snape’s track

record I suppose we should just be glad they’re still

alive.”

“You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?” asked

Dirk. “You believe Snape killed Dumbledore?”

“ ’Course I do,” said Ted. “You’re not going to sit there

and tell me you think Potter had anything to do with

it?”

“Hard to know what to believe these days,” muttered

Dirk.

“I know Harry Potter,” said Dean. “And I reckon he’s

the real thing — the Chosen One, or whatever you

want to call it.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot would like to believe he’s that,

son,” said Dirk, “me included. But where is he? Run

for it, by the looks of things. You’d think, if he knew

anything we don’t, or had anything special going for

him, he’d be out there now fighting, rallying

resistance, instead of hiding. And you know, the

Prophet made a pretty good case against him —”

“The Prophet?” scoffed Ted. “You deserve to be lied to

if you’re still reading that muck, Dirk. You want the

facts, try the Quibbler. ”

There was a sudden explosion of choking and

retching, plus a good deal of thumping; by the sound

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of it, Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he

spluttered, “The Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno

Lovegood’s?”

“It’s not so lunatic these days,” said Ted. “You want to

give it a look. Xeno is printing all the stuff the

Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-

Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll

let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno

says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s

against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry

Potter their number-one priority.”

“Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the

earth,” said Dirk.

“Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s

one hell of an achievement,” said Ted. “I’d take tips

from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free,

isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” said Dirk

heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their

informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be

caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t

already caught and killed him without publicizing it?”

“Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmured Ted.

There was a long pause filled with more clattering of

knives and forks. When they spoke again it was to

discuss whether they ought to sleep on the bank or

retreat back up the wooded slope. Deciding the trees

would give better cover, they extinguished their fire,

then clambered back up the incline, their voices

fading away.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione reeled in the Extendable

Ears. Harry, who had found the need to remain silent

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increasingly difficult the longer they eavesdropped, now found himself unable to say more than, “Ginny

— the sword —”

“I know!” said Hermione.

She lunged for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking

her arm in it right up to the armpit.

“Here … we … are …” she said between gritted teeth,

and she pulled at something that was evidently in the

depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate

picture frame came into sight. Harry hurried to help

her. As they lifted the empty portrait of Phineas

Nigellus free of Hermione’s bag, she kept her wand

pointing at it, ready to cast a spell at any moment.

“If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake

while it was in Dumbledore’s office,” she panted, as

they propped the painting against the side of the tent,

“Phineas Nigellus would have seen it happen, he

hangs right beside the case!”

“Unless he was asleep,” said Harry, but he still held

his breath as Hermione knelt down in front of the

empty canvas, her wand directed at its center, cleared

her throat, then said:

“Er — Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?”

Nothing happened.

“Phineas Nigellus?” said Hermione again. “Professor

Black? Please could we talk to you? Please?”

“ ‘Please’ always helps,” said a cold, snide voice, and

Phineas Nigellus slid into his portrait. At once,

Hermione cried:

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“Obscuro!”

A black blindfold appeared over Phineas Nigellus’s

clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame

and shriek with pain.

“What — how dare — what are you — ?”

“I’m very sorry, Professor Black,” said Hermione, “but

it’s a necessary precaution!”

“Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say!

You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I?

What is going on?”

“Never mind where we are,” said Harry, and Phineas

Nigellus froze, abandoning his attempts to peel off the

painted blindfold.

“Can that possibly be the voice of the elusive Mr.

Potter?”

“Maybe,” said Harry, knowing that this would keep

Phineas Nigellus’s interest. “We’ve got a couple of

questions to ask you — about the sword of

Gryffindor.”

“Ah,” said Phineas Nigellus, now turning his head this

way and that in an effort to catch sight of Harry, “yes.

That silly girl acted most unwisely there —”

“Shut up about my sister,” said Ron roughly. Phineas

Nigellus raised supercilious eyebrows.

“Who else is here?” he asked, turning his head from

side to side. “Your tone displeases me! The girl and

her friends were foolhardy in the extreme. Thieving

from the headmaster!”

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“They weren’t thieving,” said Harry. “That sword isn’t Snape’s.”

“It belongs to Professor Snape’s school,” said Phineas

Nigellus. “Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl

have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did

the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!”

“Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!”

said Hermione.

“Where am I?” repeated Phineas Nigellus, starting to

wrestle with the blindfold again. “Where have you

brought me? Why have you removed me from the

house of my forebears?”

“Never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny,

Neville, and Luna?” asked Harry urgently.

“Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest,

to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.”

“Hagrid’s not an oaf!” said Hermione shrilly.

“And Snape might’ve thought that was a

punishment,” said Harry, “but Ginny, Neville, and

Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The

Forbidden Forest … they’ve faced plenty worse than

the Forbidden Forest, big deal!”

He felt relieved; he had been imagining horrors, the

Cruciatus Curse at the very least.

“What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is

whether anyone else has, um, taken out the sword at

all? Maybe it’s been taken away for cleaning or — or

something?”

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Phineas Nigellus paused again in his struggles to free his eyes and sniggered.

“Muggle-borns, ” he said. “Goblin-made armor does not

require cleaning, simple girl. Goblins’ silver repels

mundane dirt, imbibing only that which strengthens

it.”

“Don’t call Hermione simple,” said Harry.

“I grow weary of contradiction,” said Phineas Nigellus.

“Perhaps it is time for me to return to the

headmaster’s office?”

Still blindfolded, he began groping the side of his

frame, trying to feel his way out of his picture and

back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry had a sudden

inspiration.

“Dumbledore! Can’t you bring us Dumbledore?”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Phineas Nigellus.

“Professor Dumbledore’s portrait — couldn’t you bring

him along, here, into yours?”

Phineas Nigellus turned his face in the direction of

Harry’s voice.

“Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are

ignorant, Potter. The portraits of Hogwarts may

commune with each other, but they cannot travel

outside the castle except to visit a painting of

themselves hanging elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot

come here with me, and after the treatment I have

received at your hands, I can assure you that I shall

not be making a return visit!”

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Slightly crestfallen, Harry watched Phineas redouble his attempts to leave his frame.

“Professor Black,” said Hermione, “couldn’t you just

tell us, please, when was the last time the sword was

taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I

mean?”

Phineas snorted impatiently.

“I believe that the last time I saw the sword of

Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor

Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.”

Hermione whipped around to look at Harry. Neither of

them dared say more in front of Phineas Nigellus, who

had at last managed to locate the exit.

“Well, good night to you,” he said a little waspishly,

and he began to move out of sight again. Only the

edge of his hat brim remained in view when Harry

gave a sudden shout.

“Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?”

Phineas Nigellus stuck his blindfolded head back into

the picture.

“Professor Snape has more important things on his

mind than the many eccentricities of Albus

Dumbledore. Good-bye, Potter!”

And with that, he vanished completely, leaving behind

him nothing but his murky backdrop.

“Harry!” Hermione cried.

“I know!” Harry shouted. Unable to contain himself,

he punched the air; it was more than he had dared to

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hope for. He strode up and down the tent, feeling that he could have run a mile; he did not even feel hungry

anymore. Hermione was squashing Phineas Nigellus’s

portrait back into the beaded bag; when she had

fastened the clasp she threw the bag aside and raised

a shining face to Harry.

“The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made

blades imbibe only that which strengthen them —

Harry, that sword’s impregnated with basilisk

venom!”

“And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still

needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket —”

“— and he must have realized they wouldn’t let you

have it if he put it in his will —”

“— so he made a copy —”

“— and put a fake in the glass case —”

“— and he left the real one — where?”

They gazed at each other; Harry felt that the answer

was dangling invisibly in the air above them,

tantalizingly close. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him?

Or had he, in fact, told Harry, but Harry had not

realized it at the time?

“Think!” whispered Hermione. “Think! Where would

he have left it?”

“Not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, resuming his pacing.

“Somewhere in Hogsmeade?” suggested Hermione.

“The Shrieking Shack?” said Harry. “Nobody ever goes

in there.”

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“But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn’t that be a

bit risky?”

“Dumbledore trusted Snape,” Harry reminded her.

“Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the

swords,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, you’re right!” said Harry, and he felt even more

cheered at the thought that Dumbledore had had

some reservations, however faint, about Snape’s

trustworthiness. “So, would he have hidden the sword

well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d’you reckon,

Ron? Ron?”

Harry looked around. For one bewildered moment he

thought that Ron had left the tent, then realized that

Ron was lying in the shadow of a lower bunk, looking

stony.

“Oh, remembered me, have you?” he said.

“What?”

Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the

upper bunk.

“You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”

Perplexed, Harry looked to Hermione for help, but she

shook her head, apparently as nonplussed as he was.

“What’s the problem?” asked Harry.

“Problem? There’s no problem,” said Ron, still

refusing to look at Harry. “Not according to you,

anyway.”

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There were several plunks on the canvas over their heads. It had started to rain.

“Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” said Harry.

“Spit it out, will you?”

Ron swung his long legs off the bed and sat up. He

looked mean, unlike himself.

“All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up

and down the tent because there’s some other damn

thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff

you don’t know.”

“I don’t know?” repeated Harry, “I don’t know?”

Plunk, plunk, plunk. The rain was falling harder and heavier; it pattered on the leaf-strewn bank all around

them and into the river chattering through the dark.

Dread doused Harry’s jubilation: Ron was saying

exactly what he had suspected and feared him to be

thinking.

“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here,”

said Ron, “you know, with my arm mangled and

nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every

night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been

running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved

something.”

“Ron,” Hermione said, but in such a quiet voice that

Ron could pretend not to have heard it over the loud

tattoo the rain was now beating on the tent.

“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,” said

Harry.

“Yeah, I thought I did too.”

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“So what part of it isn’t living up to your

expectations?” asked Harry. Anger was coming to his

defense now. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-

star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did

you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?”

“We thought you knew what you were doing!” shouted

Ron, standing up, and his words pierced Harry like

scalding knives. “We thought Dumbledore had told

you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!”

“Ron!” said Hermione, this time clearly audible over

the rain thundering on the tent roof, but again, he

ignored her.

“Well, sorry to let you down,” said Harry, his voice

quite calm even though he felt hollow, inadequate.

“I’ve been straight with you from the start, I told you

everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you

haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux —”

“Yeah, and we’re about as near getting rid of it as we

are to finding the rest of them — nowhere effing near,

in other words!”

“Take off the locket, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice

unusually high. “Please take it off. You wouldn’t be

talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.”

“Yeah, he would,” said Harry, who did not want

excuses made for Ron. “D’you think I haven’t noticed

the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you

think I didn’t guess you were thinking this stuff?”

“Harry, we weren’t —”

“Don’t lie!” Ron hurled at her. “You said it too, you

said you were disappointed, you said you’d thought

he had a bit more to go on than —”

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“I didn’t say it like that — Harry, I didn’t!” she cried.

The rain was pounding the tent, tears were pouring

down Hermione’s face, and the excitement of a few

minutes before had vanished as if it had never been, a

short-lived firework that had flared and died, leaving

everything dark, wet, and cold. The sword of

Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where, and they

were three teenagers in a tent whose only

achievement was not, yet, to be dead.

“So why are you still here?” Harry asked Ron.

“Search me,” said Ron.

“Go home then,” said Harry.

“Yeah, maybe I will!” shouted Ron, and he took

several steps toward Harry, who did not back away.

“Didn’t you hear what they said about my sister? But

you don’t give a rat’s fart, do you, it’s only the

Forbidden Forest, Harry I’ve-Faced-Worse Potter

doesn’t care what happens to her in here — well, I do,

all right, giant spiders and mental stuff —”

“I was only saying — she was with the others, they

were with Hagrid —”

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t care! And what about the

rest of my family, ‘the Weasleys don’t need another

kid injured,’ did you hear that?”

“Yeah, I —”

“Not bothered what it meant, though?”

“Ron!” said Hermione, forcing her way between them.

“I don’t think it means anything new has happened,

anything we don’t know about; think, Ron, Bill’s

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already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you’re supposed

to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I’m sure

that’s all he meant —”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t

bother myself about them. It’s all right for you two,

isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way —”

“My parents are dead!” Harry bellowed.

“And mine could be going the same way!” yelled Ron.

“Then GO!” roared Harry. “Go back to them, pretend

you’ve got over your spattergroit and Mummy’ll be

able to feed you up and —”

Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but

before either wand was clear of its owner’s pocket,

Hermione had raised her own.

“Protego!” she cried, and an invisible shield expanded

between her and Harry on the one side and Ron on

the other; all of them were forced backward a few

steps by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron

glared from either side of the transparent barrier as

though they were seeing each other clearly for the

first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron:

Something had broken between them.

“Leave the Horcrux,” Harry said.

Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast

the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to

Hermione.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

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“Are you staying, or what?”

“I …” She looked anguished. “Yes — yes, I’m staying.

Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help —”

“I get it. You choose him.”

“Ron, no — please — come back, come back!”

She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the

time she had removed it he had already stormed into

the night. Harry stood quite still and silent, listening

to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the

trees.

After a few minutes she returned, her sopping hair

plastered to her face.

“He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!”

She threw herself into a chair, curled up, and started

to cry.

Harry felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux,

and placed it around his own neck. He dragged

blankets off Ron’s bunk and threw them over

Hermione. Then he climbed onto his own bed and

stared up at the dark canvas roof, listening to the

pounding of the rain.

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GODRIC’S HOLLOW

When Harry woke the following day it was several

seconds before he remembered what had happened.

Then he hoped, childishly, that it had been a dream,

that Ron was still there and had never left. Yet by

turning his head on his pillow he could see Ron’s

deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it

seemed to draw his eyes. Harry jumped down from

his own bed, keeping his eyes averted from Ron’s.

Hermione, who was already busy in the kitchen, did

not wish Harry good morning, but turned her face

away quickly as he went by.

He’s gone, Harry told himself. He’s gone. He had to keep thinking it as he washed and dressed, as though

repetition would dull the shock of it. He’s gone and

he’s not coming back. And that was the simple truth

of it, Harry knew, because their protective

enchantments meant that it would be impossible,

once they vacated this spot, for Ron to find them

again.

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He and Hermione ate breakfast in silence. Hermione’s eyes were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not

slept. They packed up their things, Hermione

dawdling. Harry knew why she wanted to spin out

their time on the riverbank; several times he saw her

look up eagerly, and he was sure she had deluded

herself into thinking that she heard footsteps through

the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure appeared

between the trees. Every time Harry imitated her,

looked around (for he could not help hoping a little,

himself) and saw nothing but rain-swept woods,

another little parcel of fury exploded inside him. He

could hear Ron saying, “We thought you knew what

you were doing!”, and he resumed packing with a

hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and

would soon spill over onto their bank. They had

lingered a good hour after they would usually have

departed their campsite. Finally having entirely

repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione

seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay: She

and Harry grasped hands and Disapparated,

reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside.

The instant they arrived, Hermione dropped Harry’s

hand and walked away from him, finally sitting down

on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with

what he knew were sobs. He watched her, supposing

that he ought to go and comfort her, but something

kept him rooted to the spot. Everything inside him felt

cold and tight: Again he saw the contemptuous

expression on Ron’s face. Harry strode off through the

heather, walking in a large circle with the distraught

Hermione at its center, casting the spells she usually

performed to ensure their protection.

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few

days. Harry was determined never to mention his

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name again, and Hermione seemed to know that it

was no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at

night when she thought he was sleeping, he would

hear her crying. Meanwhile Harry had started

bringing out the Marauder’s Map and examining it by

wandlight. He was waiting for the moment when

Ron’s labeled dot would reappear in the corridors of

Hogwarts, proving that he had returned to the

comfortable castle, protected by his status of

pureblood. However, Ron did not appear on the map,

and after a while Harry found himself taking it out

simply to stare at Ginny’s name in the girls’

dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with

which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that

she would somehow know he was thinking about her,

hoping that she was all right.

By day, they devoted themselves to trying to

determine the possible locations of Gryffindor’s

sword, but the more they talked about the places in

which Dumbledore might have hidden it, the more

desperate and far-fetched their speculation became.

Cudgel his brains though he might, Harry could not

remember Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in

which he might hide something. There were moments

when he did not know whether he was angrier with

Ron or with Dumbledore. We thought you knew what

you were doing. … We thought Dumbledore had told

you what to do. … We thought you had a real plan!

He could not hide it from himself: Ron had been right.

Dumbledore had left him with virtually nothing. They

had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means

of destroying it: The others were as unattainable as

they had ever been. Hopelessness threatened to

engulf him. He was staggered now to think of his own

presumption in accepting his friends’ offers to

accompany him on this meandering, pointless

journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he

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was constantly, painfully on the alert for any

indication that Hermione too was about to tell him

that she had had enough, that she was leaving.

They were spending many evenings in near silence,

and Hermione took to bringing out Phineas Nigellus’s

portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he

might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron’s

departure. Despite his previous assertion that he

would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did not

seem able to resist the chance to find out more about

what Harry was up to, and consented to reappear,

blindfolded, every few days or so. Harry was even glad

to see him, because he was company, albeit of a snide

and taunting kind. They relished any news about

what was happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas

Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated

Snape, the first Slytherin headmaster since he

himself had controlled the school, and they had to be

careful not to criticize or ask impertinent questions

about Snape, or Phineas Nigellus would instantly

leave his painting.

However, he did let drop certain snippets. Snape

seemed to be facing a constant, low level of mutiny

from a hard core of students. Ginny had been banned

from going into Hogsmeade. Snape had reinstated

Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three

or more students or any unofficial student societies.

From all of these things, Harry deduced that Ginny,

and probably Neville and Luna along with her, had

been doing their best to continue Dumbledore’s Army.

This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so

badly it felt like a stomachache; but it also made him

think of Ron again, and of Dumbledore, and of

Hogwarts itself, which he missed nearly as much as

his ex-girlfriend. Indeed, as Phineas Nigellus talked

about Snape’s crackdown, Harry experienced a split

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second of madness when he imagined simply going

back to school to join the destabilization of Snape’s

regime: Being fed, and having a soft bed, and other

people being in charge, seemed the most wonderful

prospect in the world at that moment. But then he

remembered that he was Undesirable Number One,

that there was a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his

head, and that to walk into Hogwarts these days was

just as dangerous as walking into the Ministry of

Magic. Indeed, Phineas Nigellus inadvertently

emphasized this fact by slipping in leading questions

about Harry and Hermione’s whereabouts. Hermione

shoved him back inside the beaded bag every time he

did this, and Phineas Nigellus invariably refused to

reappear for several days after these unceremonious

good-byes.

The weather grew colder and colder. They did not

dare remain in any one area too long, so rather than

staying in the south of England, where a hard ground

frost was the worst of their worries, they continued to

meander up and down the country, braving a

mountainside, where sleet pounded the tent; a wide,

flat marsh, where the tent was flooded with chill

water; and a tiny island in the middle of a Scottish

loch, where snow half buried the tent in the night.

They had already spotted Christmas trees twinkling

from several sitting room windows before there came

an evening when Harry resolved to suggest, again,

what seemed to him the only unexplored avenue left

to them. They had just eaten an unusually good meal:

Hermione had been to a supermarket under the

Invisibility Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money

into an open till as she left), and Harry thought that

she might be more persuadable than usual on a

stomach full of spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears.

He had also had the foresight to suggest that they

take a few hours’ break from wearing the Horcrux,

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which was hanging over the end of the bunk beside

him.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?” She was curled up in one of the sagging

armchairs with The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He could not imagine how much more she could get out of the

book, which was not, after all, very long; but evidently

she was still deciphering something in it, because

Spellman’s Syllabary lay open on the arm of the chair.

Harry cleared his throat. He felt exactly as he had

done on the occasion, several years previously, when

he had asked Professor McGonagall whether he could

go into Hogsmeade, despite the fact that he had not

persuaded the Dursleys to sign his permission slip.

“Hermione, I’ve been thinking, and —”

“Harry, could you help me with something?”

Apparently she had not been listening to him. She

leaned forward and held out The Tales of Beedle the

Bard.

“Look at that symbol,” she said, pointing to the top of

a page. Above what Harry assumed was the title of

the story (being unable to read runes, he could not be

sure), there was a picture of what looked like a

triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

“I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione.”

“I know that, but it isn’t a rune and it’s not in the

syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture

of an eye, but I don’t think it is! It’s been inked in,

look, somebody’s drawn it there, it isn’t really part of

the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?”

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“No … No, wait a moment.” Harry looked closer. “Isn’t it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his

neck?”

“Well, that’s what I thought too!”

“Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.”

She stared at him, openmouthed.

“What?”

“Krum told me …”

He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him

at the wedding. Hermione looked astonished.

“Grindelwald’s mark?”

She looked from Harry to the weird symbol and back

again. “I’ve never heard that Grindelwald had a mark.

There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read

about him.”

“Well, like I say, Krum reckoned that symbol was

carved on a wall at Durmstrang, and Grindelwald put

it there.”

She fell back into the old armchair, frowning.

“That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s

it doing in a book of children’s stories?”

“Yeah, it is weird,” said Harry. “And you’d think

Scrimgeour would have recognized it. He was

Minister, he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff.”

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“I know. … Perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the

titles.”

She did not speak, but continued to pore over the

strange mark. Harry tried again.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric’s

Hollow.”

She looked up at him, but her eyes were unfocused,

and he was sure she was still thinking about the

mysterious mark on the book.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ve been wondering that too. I

really think we’ll have to.”

“Did you hear me right?” he asked.

“Of course I did. You want to go to Godric’s Hollow. I

agree, I think we should. I mean, I can’t think of

anywhere else it could be either. It’ll be dangerous,

but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems

it’s there.”

“Er — what’s there?” asked Harry.

At that, she looked just as bewildered as he felt.

“Well, the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have

known you’d want to go back there, and I mean,

Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace —”

“Really? Gryffindor came from Godric’s Hollow?”

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“Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?”

“Erm,” he said, smiling for what felt like the first time

in months: The muscles in his face felt oddly stiff. “I

might’ve opened it, you know, when I bought it … just

the once. …”

“Well, as the village is named after him I’d have

thought you might have made the connection,” said

Hermione. She sounded much more like her old self

than she had done of late; Harry half expected her to

announce that she was off to the library. “There’s a

bit about the village in A History of Magic, wait …”

She opened the beaded bag and rummaged for a

while, finally extracting her copy of their old school

textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot,

which she thumbed through until finding the page

she wanted.

“ ‘ Upon the signature of the International Statute of

Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It

was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own

small communities within a community. Many small

villages and hamlets attracted several magical

families, who banded together for mutual support and

protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper

Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the

south coast of England were notable homes to knots of

Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and

sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of

these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps,

Godric’s Hollow, the West Country village where the

great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where

Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first

Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of

ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt,

for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries. ’

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“You and your parents aren’t mentioned,” Hermione

said, closing the book, “because Professor Bagshot

doesn’t cover anything later than the end of the

nineteenth century. But you see? Godric’s Hollow,

Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor’s sword; don’t you think

Dumbledore would have expected you to make the

connection?”

“Oh yeah …”

Harry did not want to admit that he had not been

thinking about the sword at all when he suggested

they go to Godric’s Hollow. For him, the lure of the

village lay in his parents’ graves, the house where he

had narrowly escaped death, and in the person of

Bathilda Bagshot.

“Remember what Muriel said?” he asked eventually.

“Who?”

“You know,” he hesitated: He did not want to say

Ron’s name. “Ginny’s great-aunt. At the wedding. The

one who said you had skinny ankles.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. It was a sticky moment: Harry

knew that she had sensed Ron’s name in the offing.

He rushed on:

“She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric’s

Hollow.”

“Bathilda Bagshot,” murmured Hermione, running

her index finger over Bathilda’s embossed name on

the front cover of A History of Magic. “Well, I suppose

—”

She gasped so dramatically that Harry’s insides

turned over; he drew his wand, looking around at the

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entrance, half expecting to see a hand forcing its way through the entrance flap, but there was nothing

there.

“What?” he said, half angry, half relieved. “What did

you do that for? I thought you’d seen a Death Eater

unzipping the tent, at least —”

“Harry, what if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if

Dumbledore entrusted it to her?”

Harry considered this possibility. Bathilda would be

an extremely old woman by now, and according to

Muriel, she was “gaga.” Was it likely that Dumbledore

would have hidden the sword of Gryffindor with her?

If so, Harry felt that Dumbledore had left a great deal

to chance: Dumbledore had never revealed that he

had replaced the sword with a fake, nor had he so

much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda. Now,

however, was not the moment to cast doubt on

Hermione’s theory, not when she was so surprisingly

willing to fall in with Harry’s dearest wish.

“Yeah, he might have done! So, are we going to go to

Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yes, but we’ll have to think it through carefully,

Harry.” She was sitting up now, and Harry could tell

that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her

mood as much as his. “We’ll need to practice

Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for

a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would

be sensible too, unless you think we should go the

whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we’ll

need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think

we’d better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises

the better. …”

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Harry let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever

there was a pause, but his mind had left the

conversation. For the first time since he had

discovered that the sword in Gringotts was a fake, he

felt excited.

He was about to go home, about to return to the place

where he had had a family. It was in Godric’s Hollow

that, but for Voldemort, he would have grown up and

spent every school holiday. He could have invited

friends to his house. … He might even have had

brothers and sisters. … It would have been his

mother who had made his seventeenth birthday cake.

The life he had lost had hardly ever seemed so real to

him as at this moment, when he knew he was about

to see the place where it had been taken from him.

After Hermione had gone to bed that night, Harry

quietly extracted his rucksack from Hermione’s

beaded bag, and from inside it, the photograph album

Hagrid had given him so long ago. For the first time in

months, he perused the old pictures of his parents,

smiling and waving up at him from the images, which

were all he had left of them now.

Harry would gladly have set out for Godric’s Hollow

the following day, but Hermione had other ideas.

Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect

Harry to return to the scene of his parents’ deaths,

she was determined that they would set off only after

they had ensured that they had the best disguises

possible. It was therefore a full week later — once

they had surreptitiously obtained hairs from innocent

Muggles who were Christmas shopping, and had

practiced Apparating and Disapparating while

underneath the Invisibility Cloak together — that

Hermione agreed to make the journey.

They were to Apparate to the village under cover of

darkness, so it was late afternoon when they finally

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swallowed Polyjuice Potion, Harry transforming into a balding, middle-aged Muggle man, Hermione into his

small and rather mousy wife. The beaded bag

containing all of their possessions (apart from the

Horcrux, which Harry was wearing around his neck)

was tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione’s

buttoned-up coat. Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak

over them, then they turned into the suffocating

darkness once again.

Heart beating in his throat, Harry opened his eyes.

They were standing hand in hand in a snowy lane

under a dark blue sky, in which the night’s first stars

were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on

either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations

twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of

them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the

center of the village.

“All this snow!” Hermione whispered beneath the

cloak. “Why didn’t we think of snow? After all our

precautions, we’ll leave prints! We’ll just have to get

rid of them — you go in front, I’ll do it —”

Harry did not want to enter the village like a

pantomime horse, trying to keep themselves

concealed while magically covering their traces.

“Let’s take off the Cloak,” said Harry, and when she

looked frightened, “Oh, come on, we don’t look like us

and there’s no one around.”

He stowed the Cloak under his jacket and they made

their way forward unhampered, the icy air stinging

their faces as they passed more cottages: Any one of

them might have been the one in which James and

Lily had once lived or where Bathilda lived now. Harry

gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs,

and their front porches, wondering whether he

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remembered any of them, knowing deep inside that it was impossible, that he had been little more than a

year old when he had left this place forever. He was

not even sure whether he would be able to see the

cottage at all; he did not know what happened when

the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little

lane along which they were walking curved to the left

and the heart of the village, a small square, was

revealed to them.

Strung all around with colored lights, there was what

looked like a war memorial in the middle, partly

obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were

several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church

whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-

bright across the square.

The snow here had become impacted: It was hard and

slippery where people had trodden on it all day.

Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, their

figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. They heard

a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door

opened and closed; then they heard a carol start up

inside the little church.

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said Hermione.

“Is it?”

He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a

newspaper for weeks.

“I’m sure it is,” said Hermione, her eyes upon the

church. “They … they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your

mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”

Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond

excitement, more like fear. Now that he was so near,

he wondered whether he wanted to see after all.

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Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because

she reached for his hand and took the lead for the

first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the

square, however, she stopped dead.

“Harry, look!”

She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had

passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk

covered in names, there was a statue of three people:

a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with

long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy

sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their

heads, like fluffy white caps.

Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents’ faces.

He had never imagined that there would be a statue.

… How strange it was to see himself represented in

stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead.

…

“C’mon,” said Harry, when he had looked his fill, and

they turned again toward the church. As they crossed

the road, he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had

turned back into the war memorial.

The singing grew louder as they approached the

church. It made Harry’s throat constrict, it reminded

him so forcefully of Hogwarts, of Peeves bellowing

rude versions of carols from inside suits of armor, of

the Great Hall’s twelve Christmas trees, of

Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a

cracker, of Ron in a hand-knitted sweater. …

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the

graveyard. Hermione pushed it open as quietly as

possible and they edged through it. On either side of

the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay

deep and untouched. They moved off through the

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snow, carving deep trenches behind them as they

walked around the building, keeping to the shadows

beneath the brilliant windows.

Behind the church, row upon row of snowy

tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue

that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green

wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the

snow. Keeping his hand closed tightly on the wand in

his jacket pocket, Harry moved toward the nearest

grave.

“Look at this, it’s an Abbott, could be some long-lost

relation of Hannah’s!”

“Keep your voice down,” Hermione begged him.

They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard,

gouging dark tracks into the snow behind them,

stooping to peer at the words on old headstones,

every now and then squinting into the surrounding

darkness to make absolutely sure that they were

unaccompanied.

“Harry, here!”

Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had

to wade back to her, his heart positively banging in

his chest.

“Is it — ?”

“No, but look!”

She pointed to the dark stone. Harry stooped down

and saw, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the

words KENDRA DUMBLEDORE and, a short way

below her dates of birth and death, AND HER

DAUGHTER ARIANA. There was also a quotation:

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Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts

right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here,

and part of it had died here.

Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it.

Harry could not help thinking that he and

Dumbledore both had deep roots in this graveyard,

and that Dumbledore ought to have told him so, yet

he had never thought to share the connection. They

could have visited the place together; for a moment

Harry imagined coming here with Dumbledore, of

what a bond that would have been, of how much it

would have meant to him. But it seemed that to

Dumbledore, the fact that their families lay side by

side in the same graveyard had been an unimportant

coincidence, irrelevant, perhaps, to the job he wanted

Harry to do.

Hermione was looking at Harry, and he was glad that

his face was hidden in shadow. He read the words on

the tombstone again. Where your treasure is, there

will your heart be also. He did not understand what

these words meant. Surely Dumbledore had chosen

them, as the eldest member of the family once his

mother had died.

“Are you sure he never mentioned — ?” Hermione

began.

“No,” said Harry curtly, then, “let’s keep looking,” and

he turned away, wishing he had not seen the stone:

He did not want his excited trepidation tainted with

resentment.

“Here!” cried Hermione again a few moments later

from out of the darkness. “Oh no, sorry! I thought it

said Potter.”

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She was rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it, a little frown on her face.

“Harry, come back a moment.”

He did not want to be sidetracked again, and only

grudgingly made his way back through the snow

toward her.

“What?”

“Look at this!”

The grave was extremely old, weathered so that Harry

could hardly make out the name. Hermione showed

him the symbol beneath it.

“Harry, that’s the mark in the book!”

He peered at the place she indicated: The stone was

so worn that it was hard to make out what was

engraved there, though there did seem to be a

triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name.

“Yeah … it could be. …”

Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on

the headstone.

“It says Ig — Ignotus, I think. …”

“I’m going to keep looking for my parents, all right?”

Harry told her, a slight edge to his voice, and he set

off again, leaving her crouched beside the old grave.

Every now and then he recognized a surname that,

like Abbott, he had met at Hogwarts. Sometimes there

were several generations of the same Wizarding family

represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from

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the dates that it had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric’s Hollow.

Deeper and deeper amongst the graves he went, and

every time he reached a new headstone he felt a little

lurch of apprehension and anticipation.

The darkness and the silence seemed to become, all of

a sudden, much deeper. Harry looked around,

worried, thinking of dementors, then realized that the

carols had finished, that the chatter and flurry of

churchgoers were fading away as they made their way

back into the square. Somebody inside the church

had just turned off the lights.

Then Hermione’s voice came out of the blackness for

the third time, sharp and clear from a few yards

away.

“Harry, they’re here … right here.”

And he knew by her tone that it was his mother and

father this time: He moved toward her, feeling as if

something heavy were pressing on his chest, the

same sensation he had had right after Dumbledore

had died, a grief that had actually weighed on his

heart and lungs.

The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra and

Ariana’s. It was made of white marble, just like

Dumbledore’s tomb, and this made it easy to read, as

it seemed to shine in the dark. Harry did not need to

kneel or even approach very close to it to make out

the words engraved upon it.

JAMES POTTER

BORN 27 MARCH 1960

LILY POTTER

BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

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DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Harry read the words slowly, as though he would

have only one chance to take in their meaning, and

he read the last of them aloud.

“ ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’…”

A horrible thought came to him, and with it a kind of

panic. “Isn’t that a Death Eater idea? Why is that

there?”

“It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death

Eaters mean it, Harry,” said Hermione, her voice

gentle. “It means … you know … living beyond death.

Living after death.”

But they were not living, thought Harry: They were

gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact

that his parents’ moldering remains lay beneath snow

and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came

before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly

freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping

them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips

pressed hard together, looking down at the thick

snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of

Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not

knowing or caring that their living son stood so near,

his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice

and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was

sleeping under the snow with them.

Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping

it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the

pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night

air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control.

He should have brought something to give them, and

he had not thought of it, and every plant in the

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graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione

raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air,

and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before

them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents’

grave.

As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave: He did not

think he could stand another moment there. He put

his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put

hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and

walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s

mother and sister, back toward the dark church and

the out-of-sight kissing gate.

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BATHILDA’S SECRET

“Harry, stop.”

“What’s wrong?”

They had only just reached the grave of the unknown

Abbott.

“There’s someone there. Someone watching us. I can

tell. There, over by the bushes.”

They stood quite still, holding on to each other, gazing

at the dense black boundary of the graveyard. Harry

could not see anything.

“Are you sure?”

“I saw something move, I could have sworn I did. …”

She broke from him to free her wand arm.

“We look like Muggles,” Harry pointed out.

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“Muggles who’ve just been laying flowers on your

parents’ grave! Harry, I’m sure there’s someone over

there!”

Harry thought of A History of Magic; the graveyard

was supposed to be haunted: what if — ? But then he

heard a rustle and saw a little eddy of dislodged snow

in the bush to which Hermione had pointed. Ghosts

could not move snow.

“It’s a cat,” said Harry, after a second or two, “or a

bird. If it was a Death Eater we’d be dead by now. But

let’s get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back

on.”

They glanced back repeatedly as they made their way

out of the graveyard. Harry, who did not feel as

sanguine as he had pretended when reassuring

Hermione, was glad to reach the gate and the slippery

pavement. They pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over

themselves. The pub was fuller than before: Many

voices inside it were now singing the carol that they

had heard as they approached the church. For a

moment Harry considered suggesting they take refuge

inside it, but before he could say anything Hermione

murmured, “Let’s go this way,” and pulled him down

the dark street leading out of the village in the

opposite direction from which they had entered. Harry

could make out the point where the cottages ended

and the lane turned into open country again. They

walked as quickly as they dared, past more windows

sparkling with multicolored lights, the outlines of

Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

“How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?” asked

Hermione, who was shivering a little and kept

glancing back over her shoulder. “Harry? What do you

think? Harry?”

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She tugged at his arm, but Harry was not paying

attention. He was looking toward the dark mass that

stood at the very end of this row of houses. Next

moment he had sped up, dragging Hermione along

with him; she slipped a little on the ice.

“Harry —”

“Look. … Look at it, Hermione. …”

“I don’t … oh!”

He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died

with James and Lily. The hedge had grown wild in the

sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the

rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high

grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though

entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right

side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Harry

was sure, was where the curse had backfired. He and

Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of

what must once have been a cottage just like those

that flanked it.

“I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispered

Hermione.

“Maybe you can’t rebuild it?” Harry replied. “Maybe

it’s like the injuries from Dark Magic and you can’t

repair the damage?”

He slipped a hand from beneath the Cloak and

grasped the snowy and thickly rusted gate, not

wishing to open it, but simply to hold some part of the

house.

“You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it

might — oh, Harry, look!”

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His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the ground in front of them, up

through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some

bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters

upon the wood it said:

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its

ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a

reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles

had been added by other witches and wizards who

had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived

had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in

Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into

the wood, still others had left messages. The most

recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’

worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are.

If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you!

Long live Harry Potter.

“They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” said

Hermione, indignant.

But Harry beamed at her.

“It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. I …”

He broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up

the lane toward them, silhouetted by the bright lights

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in the distant square. Harry thought, though it was hard to judge, that the figure was a woman. She was

moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the

snowy ground. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling

gait all gave an impression of extreme age. They

watched in silence as she drew nearer. Harry was

waiting to see whether she would turn into any of the

cottages she was passing, but he knew instinctively

that she would not. At last she came to a halt a few

yards from them and simply stood there in the middle

of the frozen road, facing them.

He did not need Hermione’s pinch to his arm. There

was next to no chance that this woman was a Muggle:

She was standing there gazing at a house that ought

to have been completely invisible to her, if she was

not a witch. Even assuming that she was a witch,

however, it was odd behavior to come out on a night

this cold, simply to look at an old ruin. By all the

rules of normal magic, meanwhile, she ought not to

be able to see Hermione and him at all. Nevertheless,

Harry had the strangest feeling that she knew that

they were there, and also who they were. Just as he

had reached this uneasy conclusion, she raised a

gloved hand and beckoned.

Hermione moved closer to him under the Cloak, her

arm pressed against his.

“How does she know?”

He shook his head. The woman beckoned again, more

vigorously. Harry could think of many reasons not to

obey the summons, and yet his suspicions about her

identity were growing stronger every moment that

they stood facing each other in the deserted street.

Was it possible that she had been waiting for them all

these long months? That Dumbledore had told her to

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wait, and that Harry would come in the end? Was it

not likely that it was she who had moved in the

shadows in the graveyard and had followed them to

this spot? Even her ability to sense them suggested

some Dumbledore-ish power that he had never

encountered before.

Finally Harry spoke, causing Hermione to gasp and

jump.

“Are you Bathilda?”

The muffled figure nodded and beckoned again.

Beneath the Cloak Harry and Hermione looked at

each other. Harry raised his eyebrows; Hermione gave

a tiny, nervous nod.

They stepped toward the woman and, at once, she

turned and hobbled off back the way they had come.

Leading them past several houses, she turned in at a

gate. They followed her up the front path through a

garden nearly as overgrown as the one they had just

left. She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front

door, then opened it and stepped back to let them

pass.

She smelled bad, or perhaps it was her house: Harry

wrinkled his nose as they sidled past her and pulled

off the Cloak. Now that he was beside her, he realized

how tiny she was; bowed down with age, she came

barely level with his chest. She closed the door behind

them, her knuckles blue and mottled against the

peeling paint, then turned and peered into Harry’s

face. Her eyes were thick with cataracts and sunken

into folds of transparent skin, and her whole face was

dotted with broken veins and liver spots. He

wondered whether she could make him out at all;

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even if she could, it was the balding Muggle whose

identity he had stolen that she would see.

The odor of old age, of dust, of unwashed clothes and

stale food intensified as she unwound a moth-eaten

black shawl, revealing a head of scant white hair

through which the scalp showed clearly.

“Bathilda?” Harry repeated.

She nodded again. Harry became aware of the locket

against his skin; the thing inside it that sometimes

ticked or beat had woken; he could feel it pulsing

through the cold gold. Did it know, could it sense,

that the thing that would destroy it was near?

Bathilda shuffled past them, pushing Hermione aside

as though she had not seen her, and vanished into

what seemed to be a sitting room.

“Harry, I’m not sure about this,” breathed Hermione.

“Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower

her if we had to,” said Harry. “Listen, I should have

told you, I knew she wasn’t all there. Muriel called her

‘gaga.’ ”

“Come!” called Bathilda from the next room.

Hermione jumped and clutched Harry’s arm.

“It’s okay,” said Harry reassuringly, and he led the

way into the sitting room.

Bathilda was tottering around the place lighting

candles, but it was still very dark, not to mention

extremely dirty. Thick dust crunched beneath their

feet, and Harry’s nose detected, underneath the dank

and mildewed smell, something worse, like meat gone

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bad. He wondered when was the last time anyone had

been inside Bathilda’s house to check whether she

was coping. She seemed to have forgotten that she

could do magic, too, for she lit the candles clumsily

by hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of

catching fire.

“Let me do that,” offered Harry, and he took the

matches from her. She stood watching him as he

finished lighting the candle stubs that stood on

saucers around the room, perched precariously on

stacks of books and on side tables crammed with

cracked and moldy cups.

The last surface on which Harry spotted a candle was

a bow-fronted chest of drawers on which there stood

a large number of photographs. When the flame

danced into life, its reflection wavered on their dusty

glass and silver. He saw a few tiny movements from

the pictures. As Bathilda fumbled with logs for the

fire, he muttered “Tergeo”: The dust vanished from

the photographs, and he saw at once that half a

dozen were missing from the largest and most ornate

frames. He wondered whether Bathilda or somebody

else had removed them. Then the sight of a

photograph near the back of the collection caught his

eye, and he snatched it up.

It was the golden-haired, merry-faced thief, the young

man who had perched on Gregorovitch’s windowsill,

smiling lazily up at Harry out of the silver frame. And

it came to Harry instantly where he had seen the boy

before: in The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, arm in arm with the teenage Dumbledore, and that must

be where all the missing photographs were: in Rita’s

book.

“Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?” he said, and his voice

shook slightly. “Who is this?”

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Bathilda was standing in the middle of the room

watching Hermione light the fire for her.

“Miss Bagshot?” Harry repeated, and he advanced

with the picture in his hands as the flames burst into

life in the fireplace. Bathilda looked up at his voice,

and the Horcrux beat faster upon his chest.

“Who is this person?” Harry asked her, pushing the

picture forward.

She peered at it solemnly, then up at Harry.

“Do you know who this is?” he repeated in a much

slower and louder voice than usual. “This man? Do

you know him? What’s he called?”

Bathilda merely looked vague. Harry felt an awful

frustration. How had Rita Skeeter unlocked Bathilda’s

memories?

“Who is this man?” he repeated loudly.

“Harry, what are you doing?” asked Hermione.

“This picture, Hermione, it’s the thief, the thief who

stole from Gregorovitch! Please!” he said to Bathilda.

“Who is this?”

But she only stared at him.

“Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. — Miss

— Bagshot?” asked Hermione, raising her own voice.

“Was there something you wanted to tell us?”

Giving no sign that she had heard Hermione, Bathilda

now shuffled a few steps closer to Harry. With a little

jerk of her head she looked back into the hall.

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“You want us to leave?” he asked.

She repeated the gesture, this time pointing firstly at

him, then at herself, then at the ceiling.

“Oh, right … Hermione, I think she wants me to go

upstairs with her.”

“All right,” said Hermione, “let’s go.”

But when Hermione moved, Bathilda shook her head

with surprising vigor, once more pointing first at

Harry, then to herself.

“She wants me to go with her, alone.”

“Why?” asked Hermione, and her voice rang out sharp

and clear in the candlelit room; the old lady shook her

head a little at the loud noise.

“Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me,

and only to me?”

“Do you really think she knows who you are?”

“Yes,” said Harry, looking down into the milky eyes

fixed upon his own, “I think she does.”

“Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry.”

“Lead the way,” Harry told Bathilda.

She seemed to understand, because she shuffled

around him toward the door. Harry glanced back at

Hermione with a reassuring smile, but he was not

sure she had seen it; she stood hugging herself in the

midst of the candlelit squalor, looking toward the

bookcase. As Harry walked out of the room, unseen

by both Hermione and Bathilda, he slipped the silver-

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framed photograph of the unknown thief inside his

jacket.

The stairs were steep and narrow: Harry was half

tempted to place his hands on stout Bathilda’s

backside to ensure that she did not topple over

backward on top of him, which seemed only too likely.

Slowly, wheezing a little, she climbed to the upper

landing, turned immediately right, and led him into a

low-ceilinged bedroom.

It was pitch-black and smelled horrible: Harry had

just made out a chamber pot protruding from under

the bed before Bathilda closed the door and even that

was swallowed by the darkness.

“Lumos, ” said Harry, and his wand ignited. He gave a

start: Bathilda had moved close to him in those few

seconds of darkness, and he had not heard her

approach.

“You are Potter?” she whispered.

“Yes, I am.”

She nodded slowly, solemnly. Harry felt the Horcrux

beating fast, faster than his own heart: It was an

unpleasant, agitating sensation.

“Have you got anything for me?” Harry asked, but she

seemed distracted by his lit wand-tip.

“Have you got anything for me?” he repeated.

Then she closed her eyes and several things

happened at once: Harry’s scar prickled painfully; the

Horcrux twitched so that the front of his sweater

actually moved; the dark, fetid room dissolved

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momentarily. He felt a leap of joy and spoke in a high, cold voice: Hold him!

Harry swayed where he stood: The dark, foul-smelling

room seemed to close around him again; he did not

know what had just happened.

“Have you got anything for me?” he asked for a third

time, much louder.

“Over here,” she whispered, pointing to the corner.

Harry raised his wand and saw the outline of a

cluttered dressing table beneath the curtained

window.

This time she did not lead him. Harry edged between

her and the unmade bed, his wand raised. He did not

want to look away from her.

“What is it?” he asked as he reached the dressing

table, which was heaped high with what looked and

smelled like dirty laundry.

“There,” she said, pointing at the shapeless mass.

And in the instant that he looked away, his eyes

raking the tangled mess for a sword hilt, a ruby, she

moved weirdly: He saw it out of the corner of his eye;

panic made him turn and horror paralyzed him as he

saw the old body collapsing and the great snake

pouring from the place where her neck had been.

The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of

the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up

toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around

the room and was extinguished: Then a powerful blow

from the tail to his midriff knocked the breath out of

him: He fell backward onto the dressing table, into

the mound of filthy clothing —

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He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the snake’s tail, which thrashed down upon the table where he had

been a second earlier: Fragments of the glass surface

rained upon him as he hit the floor. From below he

heard Hermione call, “Harry?”

He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call

back: Then a heavy smooth mass smashed him to the

floor and he felt it slide over him, powerful, muscular

—

“No!” he gasped, pinned to the floor.

“Yes, ” whispered the voice. “Yesss … hold you … hold you …”

“Accio … Accio Wand …”

But nothing happened and he needed his hands to try

to force the snake from him as it coiled itself around

his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the

Horcrux hard into his chest, a circle of ice that

throbbed with life, inches from his own frantic heart,

and his brain was flooding with cold, white light, all

thought obliterated, his own breath drowned, distant

footsteps, everything going. …

A metal heart was banging outside his chest, and now

he was flying, flying with triumph in his heart,

without need of broomstick or thestral. …

He was abruptly awake in the sour-smelling

darkness; Nagini had released him. He scrambled up

and saw the snake outlined against the landing light:

It struck, and Hermione dived aside with a shriek; her

deflected curse hit the curtained window, which

shattered. Frozen air filled the room as Harry ducked

to avoid another shower of broken glass and his foot

slipped on a pencil-like something — his wand —

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He bent and snatched it up, but now the room was

full of the snake, its tail thrashing; Hermione was

nowhere to be seen and for a moment Harry thought

the worst, but then there was a loud bang and a flash

of red light, and the snake flew into the air, smacking

Harry hard in the face as it went, coil after heavy coil

rising up to the ceiling. Harry raised his wand, but as

he did so, his scar seared more painfully, more

powerfully than it had done in years.

“He’s coming! Hermione, he’s coming!”

As he yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything

was chaos: It smashed shelves from the wall, and

splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped

over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be

Hermione —

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across

the bed: The snake reared again, but Harry knew that

worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps

already at the gate, his head was going to split open

with the pain from his scar —

The snake lunged as he took a running leap, dragging

Hermione with him; as it struck, Hermione screamed,

“Confringo!” and her spell flew around the room,

exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back

at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry felt the

heat of it sear the back of his hand. Glass cut his

cheek as, pulling Hermione with him, he leapt from

bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of

the smashed window into nothingness, her scream

reverberating through the night as they twisted in

midair. …

And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort

and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his

long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he

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glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed with rage, a scream that

mingled with the girl’s, that echoed across the dark

gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas

Day. …

And his scream was Harry’s scream, his pain was

Harry’s pain … that it could happen here, where it

had happened before … here, within sight of that

house where he had come so close to knowing what it

was to die … to die. … The pain was so terrible …

ripped from his body. … But if he had no body, why

did his head hurt so badly; if he was dead, how could

he feel so unbearably, didn’t pain cease with death,

didn’t it go …

The night wet and windy, two children dressed as

pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop

windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry

Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not

believe. … And he was gliding along, that sense of

purpose and power and rightness in him that he

always knew on these occasions. … Not anger … that

was for weaker souls than he … but triumph, yes. …

He had waited for this, he had hoped for it. …

“Nice costume, mister!”

He saw the small boy’s smile falter as he ran near

enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the

fear cloud his painted face: Then the child turned and

ran away. … Beneath the robe he fingered the handle

of his wand. … One simple movement and the child

would never reach his mother … but unnecessary,

quite unnecessary. …

And along a new and darker street he moved, and

now his destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius

Charm broken, though they did not know it yet. …

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And he made less noise than the dead leaves

slithering along the pavement as he drew level with

the dark hedge, and stared over it. …

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite

clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired

man in his glasses, making puffs of colored smoke

erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small

black-haired boy in his blue pajamas. The child was

laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in

his small fist. …

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words

he could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over

her face. Now the father scooped up the son and

handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down

upon the sofa and stretched, yawning. …

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but

James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out

the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the

door, which burst open.

He was over the threshold as James came sprinting

into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even

picked up his wand. …

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold

him off!”

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand! … He

laughed before casting the curse. …

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the

pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters

glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a

marionette whose strings were cut. …

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He could hear her screaming from the upper floor,

trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at

least, had nothing to fear. … He climbed the steps,

listening with faint amusement to her attempts to

barricade herself in. … She had no wand upon her

either. … How stupid they were, and how trusting,

thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons

could be discarded even for moments. …

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and

boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his

wand … and there she stood, the child in her arms. At

the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib

behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would

help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be

chosen instead. …

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside, you silly girl … stand aside, now.”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —”

“This is my last warning —”

“Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy. …

Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I’ll do anything —”

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it

seemed more prudent to finish them all. …

The green light flashed around the room and she

dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all

this time: He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib,

and he looked up into the intruder’s face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father

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who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing —

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy’s face:

He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one,

inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had seen

that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he

had never been able to stomach the small ones

whining in the orphanage —

“Avada Kedavra!”

And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain

and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the

rubble of the ruined house, where the child was

trapped and screaming, but far away … far away. …

“No,” he moaned.

The snake rustled on the filthy, cluttered floor, and he

had killed the boy, and yet he was the boy. …

“No …”

And now he stood at the broken window of Bathilda’s

house, immersed in memories of his greatest loss, and

at his feet the great snake slithered over broken china

and glass. … He looked down and saw something …

something incredible. …

“No …”

“Harry, it’s all right, you’re all right!”

He stooped down and picked up the smashed

photograph. There he was, the unknown thief, the

thief he was seeking. …

“No … I dropped it. … I dropped it. …”

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“Harry, it’s okay, wake up, wake up!”

He was Harry. … Harry, not Voldemort … and the

thing that was rustling was not a snake. … He opened

his eyes.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “Do you feel all — all

right?”

“Yes,” he lied.

He was in the tent, lying on one of the lower bunks

beneath a heap of blankets. He could tell that it was

almost dawn by the stillness and the quality of the

cold, flat light beyond the canvas ceiling. He was

drenched in sweat; he could feel it on the sheets and

blankets.

“We got away.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I had to use a Hover Charm to

get you into your bunk, I couldn’t lift you. You’ve

been … Well, you haven’t been quite …”

There were purple shadows under her brown eyes and

he noticed a small sponge in her hand: She had been

wiping his face.

“You’ve been ill,” she finished. “Quite ill.”

“How long ago did we leave?”

“Hours ago. It’s nearly morning.”

“And I’ve been … what, unconscious?”

“Not exactly,” said Hermione uncomfortably. “You’ve

been shouting and moaning and … things,” she

added in a tone that made Harry feel uneasy. What

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had he done? Screamed curses like Voldemort, cried

like the baby in the crib?

“I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you,” Hermione said,

and he knew she wanted to change the subject. “It

was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m

sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away.

The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and

put some dittany on it. …”

He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away

from himself and looked down. There was a scarlet

oval over his heart where the locket had burned him.

He could also see the half-healed puncture marks to

his forearm.

“Where’ve you put the Horcrux?”

“In my bag. I think we should keep it off for a while.”

He lay back on his pillows and looked into her

pinched gray face.

“We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow. It’s my

fault, it’s all my fault, Hermione, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to go too; I really thought

Dumbledore might have left the sword there for you.”

“Yeah, well … we got that wrong, didn’t we?”

“What happened, Harry? What happened when she

took you upstairs? Was the snake hiding somewhere?

Did it just come out and kill her and attack you?”

“No,” he said. “She was the snake … or the snake was

her … all along.”

“W-what?”

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He closed his eyes. He could still smell Bathilda’s house on him: It made the whole thing horribly vivid.

“Bathilda must’ve been dead a while. The snake was

… was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in

Godric’s Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I’d

go back.”

“The snake was inside her?”

He opened his eyes again: Hermione looked revolted,

nauseated.

“Lupin said there would be magic we’d never

imagined,” Harry said. “She didn’t want to talk in

front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all

Parseltongue, and I didn’t realize, but of course I

could understand her. Once we were up in the room,

the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard

it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he

said to keep me there … and then …”

He remembered the snake coming our of Bathilda’s

neck: Hermione did not need to know the details.

“… she changed, changed into the snake, and

attacked.”

He looked down at the puncture marks.

“It wasn’t supposed to kill me, just keep me there till

You-Know-Who came.”

If he had only managed to kill the snake, it would

have been worth it, all of it. … Sick at heart, he sat up

and threw back the covers.

“Harry, no, I’m sure you ought to rest!”

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“You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch for a while.

Where’s my wand?”

She did not answer, she merely looked at him.

“Where’s my wand, Hermione?”

She was biting her lip, and tears swam in her eyes.

“Harry …”

“Where’s my wand?”

She reached down beside the bed and held it out to

him.

The holly and phoenix wand was nearly severed in

two. One fragile strand of phoenix feather kept both

pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered

apart completely. Harry took it into his hands as

though it was a living thing that had suffered a

terrible injury. He could not think properly:

Everything was a blur of panic and fear. Then he held

out the wand to Hermione.

“Mend it. Please.”

“Harry, I don’t think, when it’s broken like this —”

“Please, Hermione, try!”

“R-Reparo. ”

The dangling half of the wand resealed itself. Harry

held it up.

“Lumos!”

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The wand sparked feebly, then went out. Harry

pointed it at Hermione.

“Expelliarmus!”

Hermione’s wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave

her hand. The feeble attempt at magic was too much

for Harry’s wand, which split into two again. He

stared at it, aghast, unable to take in what he was

seeing … the wand that had survived so much …

“Harry,” Hermione whispered so quietly he could

hardly hear her. “I’m so, so sorry. I think it was me.

As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming

for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it

rebounded everywhere, and it must have — must

have hit —”

“It was an accident,” said Harry mechanically. He felt

empty, stunned. “We’ll — we’ll find a way to repair it.”

“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to,” said

Hermione, the tears trickling down her face.

“Remember … remember Ron? When he broke his

wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again,

he had to get a new one.”

Harry thought of Ollivander, kidnapped and held

hostage by Voldemort; of Gregorovitch, who was dead.

How was he supposed to find himself a new wand?

“Well,” he said, in a falsely matter-of-fact voice, “well,

I’ll just borrow yours for now, then. While I keep

watch.”

Her face glazed with tears, Hermione handed over her

wand, and he left her sitting beside his bed, desiring

nothing more than to get away from her.

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THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS

DUMBLEDORE

The sun was coming up: The pure, colorless vastness

of the sky stretched over him, indifferent to him and

his suffering. Harry sat down in the tent entrance and

took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to

watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside

ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet

he could not appreciate it: His senses had been

spiked by the calamity of losing his wand. He looked

out over a valley blanketed in snow, distant church

bells chiming through the glittering silence.

Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into

his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain.

He had spilled his own blood more times than he

could count; he had lost all the bones in his right arm

once; this journey had already given him scars to his

chest and forearm to join those on his hand and

forehead, but never, until this moment, had he felt

himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and

naked, as though the best part of his magical power

had been torn from him. He knew exactly what

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Hermione would say if he expressed any of this: The wand is only as good as the wizard. But she was

wrong, his case was different. She had not felt the

wand spin like the needle of a compass and shoot

golden flames at his enemy. He had lost the

protection of the twin cores, and only now that it was

gone did he realize how much he had been counting

upon it.

He pulled the pieces of the broken wand out of his

pocket and, without looking at them, tucked them

away in Hagrid’s pouch around his neck. The pouch

was now too full of broken and useless objects to take

any more. Harry’s hand brushed the old Snitch

through the mokeskin and for a moment he had to

fight the temptation to pull it out and throw it away.

Impenetrable, unhelpful, useless, like everything else

Dumbledore had left behind —

And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like

lava, scorching him inside, wiping out every other

feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked

themselves into believing that Godric’s Hollow held

answers, convinced themselves that they were

supposed to go back, that it was all part of some

secret path laid out for them by Dumbledore; but

there was no map, no plan. Dumbledore had left them

to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown

and undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided:

Nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, they

had no sword, and now, Harry had no wand. And he

had dropped the photograph of the thief, and it would

surely be easy now for Voldemort to find out who he

was. … Voldemort had all the information now. …

“Harry?”

Hermione looked frightened that he might curse her

with her own wand. Her face streaked with tears, she

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crouched down beside him, two cups of tea trembling in her hands and something bulky under her arm.

“Thanks,” he said, taking one of the cups.

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

“No,” he said because he did not want to hurt her

feelings.

“Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the

picture was. Well … I’ve got the book.”

Timidly she pushed it onto his lap, a pristine copy of

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

“Where — how — ?”

“It was in Bathilda’s sitting room, just lying there. …

This note was sticking out of the top of it.”

Hermione read the few lines of spiky, acid-green

writing aloud.

“ ‘ Dear Batty, Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of

the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if

you don’t remember it. Rita. ’ I think it must have

arrived while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps

she wasn’t in any fit state to read it?”

“No, she probably wasn’t.”

Harry looked down upon Dumbledore’s face and

experienced a surge of savage pleasure: Now he would

know all the things that Dumbledore had never

thought it worth telling him, whether Dumbledore

wanted him to or not.

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“You’re still really angry at me, aren’t you?” said Hermione; he looked up to see fresh tears leaking out

of her eyes, and knew that his anger must have

shown in his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, Hermione, I know it was an

accident. You were trying to get us out of there alive,

and you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t

been there to help me.”

He tried to return her watery smile, then turned his

attention to the book. Its spine was stiff; it had clearly

never been opened before. He riffled through the

pages, looking for photographs. He came across the

one he sought almost at once, the young Dumbledore

and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter

at some long-forgotten joke. Harry dropped his eyes to

the caption.

Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death,

with his friend Gellert Grindelwald.

Harry gaped at the last word for several long

moments. Grindelwald. His friend Grindelwald. He

looked sideways at Hermione, who was still

contemplating the name as though she could not

believe her eyes. Slowly she looked up at Harry.

“Grindelwald?”

Ignoring the remainder of the photographs, Harry

searched the pages around them for a recurrence of

that fatal name. He soon discovered it and read

greedily, but became lost: It was necessary to go

further back to make sense of it all, and eventually he

found himself at the start of a chapter entitled “The

Greater Good.” Together, he and Hermione started to

read:

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Now approaching his eighteenth birthday,

Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze of glory — Head

Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for

Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Youth

Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal-

Winner for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the

International Alchemical Conference in Cairo.

Dumbledore intended, next, to take a Grand Tour

with Elphias “Dogbreath” Doge, the dim-witted but

devoted sidekick he had picked up at school.

The two young men were staying at the Leaky

Cauldron in London, preparing to depart for Greece the

following morning, when an owl arrived bearing news

of Dumbledore’s mother’s death. “Dogbreath” Doge,

who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given

the public his own sentimental version of what

happened next. He represents Kendra’s death as a

tragic blow, and Dumbledore’s decision to give up his

expedition as an act of noble self-sacrifice.

Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric’s Hollow at

once, supposedly to “care” for his younger brother

and sister. But how much care did he actually give

them?

“He were a head case, that Aberforth,” says Enid

Smeek, whose family lived on the outskirts of Godric’s

Hollow at that time. “Ran wild. ’Course, with his mum

and dad gone you’d have felt sorry for him, only he

kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don’t think

Albus was fussed about him, I never saw them

together, anyway.”

So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild

young brother? The answer, it seems, is ensuring the

continued imprisonment of his sister. For, though her

first jailer had died, there was no change in the pitiful

condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence

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continued to be known only to those few outsiders

who, like “Dogbreath” Doge, could be counted upon to

believe in the story of her “ill health.”

Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was

Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated magical historian

who has lived in Godric’s Hollow for many years.

Kendra, of course, had rebuffed Bathilda when she

first attempted to welcome the family to the village.

Several years later, however, the author sent an owl to

Albus at Hogwarts, having been favorably impressed

by his paper on trans-species transformation in

Transfiguration Today . This initial contact led to

acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. At

the time of Kendra’s death, Bathilda was the only

person in Godric’s Hollow who was on speaking terms

with Dumbledore’s mother.

Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited

earlier in her life has now dimmed. “The fire’s lit, but

the cauldron’s empty,” as Ivor Dillonsby put it to me,

or, in Enid Smeek’s slightly earthier phrase, “She’s

nutty as squirrel poo.” Nevertheless, a combination of

tried-and-tested reporting techniques enabled me to

extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together

the whole scandalous story.

Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts

Kendra’s premature death down to a backfiring

charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth in

later years. Bathilda also parrots the family line on

Ariana, calling her “frail” and “delicate.” On one

subject, however, Bathilda is well worth the effort I

put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she

alone, knows the full story of the best-kept secret of

Albus Dumbledore’s life. Now revealed for the first

time, it calls into question everything that his

admirers believed of Dumbledore: his supposed

hatred of the Dark Arts, his opposition to the

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oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his own family.

The very same summer that Dumbledore went home

to Godric’s Hollow, now an orphan and head of the

family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her

home her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald.

The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of

Most Dangerous Dark Wizards of All Time, he would

miss out on the top spot only because You-Know-Who

arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As

Grindelwald never extended his campaign of terror to

Britain, however, the details of his rise to power are

not widely known here.

Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then

for its unfortunate tolerance of the Dark Arts,

Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously

brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his

abilities into the attainment of awards and prizes,

however, Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself to other

pursuits. At sixteen years old, even Durmstrang felt it

could no longer turn a blind eye to the twisted

experiments of Gellert Grindelwald, and he was

expelled.

Hitherto, all that has been known of Grindelwald’s

next movements is that he “traveled abroad for some

months.” It can now be revealed that Grindelwald

chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric’s Hollow, and

that there, intensely shocking though it will be for

many to hear it, he struck up a close friendship with

none other than Albus Dumbledore.

“He seemed a charming boy to me,” babbles Bathilda,

“whatever he became later. Naturally I introduced him

to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads

his own age. The boys took to each other at once.”

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They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept by her, that Albus Dumbledore sent Gellert

Grindelwald in the dead of night.

“Yes, even after they’d spent all day in discussion —

both such brilliant young boys, they got on like a

cauldron on fire — I’d sometimes hear an owl tapping

at Gellert’s bedroom window, delivering a letter from

Albus! An idea would have struck him, and he had to

let Gellert know immediately!”

And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking

though Albus Dumbledore’s fans will find it, here are

the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero, as

relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original

letter may be seen on page 463.)

Gellert —

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE

MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD — this, I think, is the crucial

point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that

power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us

responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this

point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we

build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this

must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We

seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this

it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use

only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was

your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain,

because if you had not been expelled, we would never

have met.)

Albus

Astonished and appalled though his many admirers

will be, this letter constitutes proof that Albus

Dumbledore once dreamed of overthrowing the Statute

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of Secrecy and establishing Wizard rule over Muggles.

What a blow for those who have always portrayed

Dumbledore as the Muggle-borns’ greatest champion!

How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights

seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How

despicable does Albus Dumbledore appear, busy

plotting his rise to power when he should have been

mourning his mother and caring for his sister!

No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on

his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after

all, put his plans into action, that he must have

suffered a change of heart, that he came to his

senses. However, the truth seems altogether more

shocking.

Barely two months into their great new friendship,

Dumbledore and Grindelwald parted, never to see each

other again until they met for their legendary duel (for

more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt

rupture? Had Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he

told Grindelwald he wanted no more part in his plans?

Alas, no.

“It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it,”

says Bathilda. “It came as an awful shock. Gellert was

there in the house when it happened, and he came

back to my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to

go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you know.

So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of

him.

“Albus was beside himself at Ariana’s death. It was so

dreadful for those two brothers. They had lost

everybody except each other. No wonder tempers ran

a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as

people will under these dreadful circumstances. But

Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All

the same, breaking Albus’s nose at the funeral was

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not decent. It would have destroyed Kendra to see her sons fighting like that, across her daughter’s body. A

shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral.

… He would have been a comfort to Albus, at least.

…”

This dreadful coffin-side brawl, known only to those

few who attended Ariana Dumbledore’s funeral, raises

several questions. Why exactly did Aberforth

Dumbledore blame Albus for his sister’s death? Was

it, as “Batty” pretends, a mere effusion of grief? Or

could there have been some more concrete reason for

his fury? Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for

near-fatal attacks upon fellow students, fled the

country hours after the girl’s death, and Albus (out of

shame or fear?) never saw him again, not until forced

to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world.

Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to

have referred to this brief boyhood friendship in later

life. However, there can be no doubt that Dumbledore

delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and

disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald.

Was it lingering affection for the man or fear of

exposure as his once best friend that caused

Dumbledore to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that

Dumbledore set out to capture the man he was once

so delighted he had met?

And how did the mysterious Ariana die? Was she the

inadvertent victim of some Dark rite? Did she stumble

across something she ought not to have done, as the

two young men sat practicing for their attempt at

glory and domination? Is it possible that Ariana

Dumbledore was the first person to die “for the

greater good”?

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The chapter ended here and Harry looked up.

Hermione had reached the bottom of the page before

him. She tugged the book out of Harry’s hands,

looking a little alarmed by his expression, and closed

it without looking at it, as though hiding something

indecent.

“Harry —”

But he shook his head. Some inner certainty had

crashed down inside him; it was exactly as he had felt

after Ron left. He had trusted Dumbledore, believed

him the embodiment of goodness and wisdom. All was

ashes: How much more could he lose? Ron,

Dumbledore, the phoenix wand …

“Harry.” She seemed to have heard his thoughts.

“Listen to me. It — it doesn’t make very nice reading

—”

“Yeah, you could say that —”

“— but don’t forget, Harry, this is Rita Skeeter

writing.”

“You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I — I did.” She hesitated, looking upset, cradling

her tea in her cold hands. “I think that’s the worst bit.

I know Bathilda thought it was all just talk, but ‘For

the Greater Good’ became Grindelwald’s slogan, his

justification for all the atrocities he committed later.

And … from that … it looks like Dumbledore gave him

the idea. They say ‘For the Greater Good’ was even

carved over the entrance to Nurmengard.”

“What’s Nurmengard?”

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“The prison Grindelwald had built to hold his

opponents. He ended up in there himself, once

Dumbledore had caught him. Anyway, it’s — it’s an

awful thought that Dumbledore’s ideas helped

Grindelwald rise to power. But on the other hand,

even Rita can’t pretend that they knew each other for

more than a few months one summer when they were

both really young, and —”

“I thought you’d say that,” said Harry. He did not

want to let his anger spill out at her, but it was hard

to keep his voice steady. “I thought you’d say ‘They

were young.’ They were the same age as we are now.

And here we are, risking our lives to fight the Dark

Arts, and there he was, in a huddle with his new best

friend, plotting their rise to power over the Muggles.”

His temper would not remain in check much longer:

He stood up and walked around, trying to work some

of it off.

“I’m not trying to defend what Dumbledore wrote,”

said Hermione. “All that ‘right to rule’ rubbish, it’s

‘Magic Is Might’ all over again. But Harry, his mother

had just died, he was stuck alone in the house —”

“Alone? He wasn’t alone! He had his brother and

sister for company, his Squib sister he was keeping

locked up —”

“I don’t believe it,” said Hermione. She stood up too.

“Whatever was wrong with that girl, I don’t think she

was a Squib. The Dumbledore we knew would never,

ever have allowed —”

“The Dumbledore we thought we knew didn’t want to

conquer Muggles by force!” Harry shouted, his voice

echoing across the empty hilltop, and several

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blackbirds rose into the air, squawking and spiraling against the pearly sky.

“He changed, Harry, he changed! It’s as simple as

that! Maybe he did believe these things when he was

seventeen, but the whole of the rest of his life was

devoted to fighting the Dark Arts! Dumbledore was

the one who stopped Grindelwald, the one who always

voted for Muggle protection and Muggle-born rights,

who fought You-Know-Who from the start, and who

died trying to bring him down!”

Rita’s book lay on the ground between them, so that

the face of Albus Dumbledore smiled dolefully at

both.

“Harry, I’m sorry, but I think the real reason you’re so

angry is that Dumbledore never told you any of this

himself.”

“Maybe I am!” Harry bellowed, and he flung his arms

over his head, hardly knowing whether he was trying

to hold in his anger or protect himself from the weight

of his own disillusionment. “Look what he asked from

me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And

again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just

trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing,

trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the

whole truth! Never!”

His voice cracked with the strain, and they stood

looking at each other in the whiteness and the

emptiness, and Harry felt they were as insignificant

as insects beneath that wide sky.

“He loved you,” Hermione whispered. “I know he loved

you.”

Harry dropped his arms.

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“I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was

never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He

shared a damn sight more of what he was really

thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared

with me.”

Harry picked up Hermione’s wand, which he had

dropped in the snow, and sat back down in the

entrance of the tent.

“Thanks for the tea. I’ll finish the watch. You get back

in the warm.”

She hesitated, but recognized the dismissal. She

picked up the book and then walked back past him

into the tent, but as she did so, she brushed the top

of his head lightly with her hand. He closed his eyes

at her touch, and hated himself for wishing that what

she said was true: that Dumbledore had really cared.

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THE SILVER DOE

It was snowing by the time Hermione took over the

watch at midnight. Harry’s dreams were confused and

disturbing: Nagini wove in and out of them, first

through a gigantic, cracked ring, then through a

wreath of Christmas roses. He woke repeatedly,

panicky, convinced that somebody had called out to

him in the distance, imagining that the wind

whipping around the tent was footsteps or voices.

Finally he got up in the darkness and joined

Hermione, who was huddled in the entrance to the

tent reading A History of Magic by the light of her

wand. The snow was still falling thickly, and she

greeted with relief his suggestion of packing up early

and moving on.

“We’ll go somewhere more sheltered,” she agreed,

shivering as she pulled on a sweatshirt over her

pajamas. “I kept thinking I could hear people moving

outside. I even thought I saw somebody once or

twice.”

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Harry paused in the act of pulling on a jumper and

glanced at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope on the

table.

“I’m sure I imagined it,” said Hermione, looking

nervous. “The snow in the dark, it plays tricks on

your eyes. … But perhaps we ought to Disapparate

under the Invisibility Cloak, just in case?”

Half an hour later, with the tent packed, Harry

wearing the Horcrux, and Hermione clutching the

beaded bag, they Disapparated. The usual tightness

engulfed them; Harry’s feet parted company with the

snowy ground, then slammed hard onto what felt like

frozen earth covered with leaves.

“Where are we?” he asked, peering around at a fresh

mass of trees as Hermione opened the beaded bag

and began tugging out tent poles.

“The Forest of Dean,” she said. “I came camping here

once with my mum and dad.”

Here too snow lay on the trees all around and it was

bitterly cold, but they were at least protected from the

wind. They spent most of the day inside the tent,

huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue

flames that Hermione was so adept at producing, and

which could be scooped up and carried around in a

jar. Harry felt as though he was recuperating from

some brief but severe illness, an impression

reinforced by Hermione’s solicitousness. That

afternoon fresh flakes drifted down upon them, so

that even their sheltered clearing had a fresh dusting

of powdery snow.

After two nights of little sleep, Harry’s senses seemed

more alert than usual. Their escape from Godric’s

Hollow had been so narrow that Voldemort seemed

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somehow closer than before, more threatening. As

darkness drew in again Harry refused Hermione’s

offer to keep watch and told her to go to bed.

Harry moved an old cushion into the tent mouth and

sat down, wearing all the sweaters he owned but even

so, still shivery. The darkness deepened with the

passing hours until it was virtually impenetrable. He

was on the point of taking out the Marauder’s Map, so

as to watch Ginny’s dot for a while, before he

remembered that it was the Christmas holidays and

that she would be back at the Burrow.

Every tiny movement seemed magnified in the

vastness of the forest. Harry knew that it must be full

of living creatures, but he wished they would all

remain still and silent so that he could separate their

innocent scurryings and prowlings from noises that

might proclaim other, sinister movements. He

remembered the sound of a cloak slithering over dead

leaves many years ago, and at once thought he heard

it again before mentally shaking himself. Their

protective enchantments had worked for weeks; why

should they break now? And yet he could not throw

off the feeling that something was different tonight.

Several times he jerked upright, his neck aching

because he had fallen asleep, slumped at an awkward

angle against the side of the tent. The night reached

such a depth of velvety blackness that he might have

been suspended in limbo between Disapparition and

Apparition. He had just held up a hand in front of his

face to see whether he could make out his fingers

when it happened.

A bright silver light appeared right ahead of him,

moving through the trees. Whatever the source, it was

moving soundlessly. The light seemed simply to drift

toward him.

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He jumped to his feet, his voice frozen in his throat, and raised Hermione’s wand. He screwed up his eyes

as the light became blinding, the trees in front of it

pitch-black in silhouette, and still the thing came

closer. …

And then the source of the light stepped out from

behind an oak. It was a silver-white doe, moon-bright

and dazzling, picking her way over the ground, still

silent, and leaving no hoofprints in the fine powdering

of snow. She stepped toward him, her beautiful head

with its wide, long-lashed eyes held high.

Harry stared at the creature, filled with wonder, not

at her strangeness, but at her inexplicable familiarity.

He felt that he had been waiting for her to come, but

that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they

had arranged to meet. His impulse to shout for

Hermione, which had been so strong a moment ago,

had gone. He knew, he would have staked his life on

it, that she had come for him, and him alone.

They gazed at each other for several long moments

and then she turned and walked away.

“No,” he said, and his voice was cracked with lack of

use. “Come back!”

She continued to step deliberately through the trees,

and soon her brightness was striped by their thick

black trunks. For one trembling second he hesitated.

Caution murmured it could be a trick, a lure, a trap.

But instinct, overwhelming instinct, told him that this

was not Dark Magic. He set off in pursuit.

Snow crunched beneath his feet, but the doe made no

noise as she passed through the trees, for she was

nothing but light. Deeper and deeper into the forest

she led him, and Harry walked quickly, sure that

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when she stopped, she would allow him to approach

her properly. And then she would speak and the voice

would tell him what he needed to know.

At last, she came to a halt. She turned her beautiful

head toward him once more, and he broke into a run,

a question burning in him, but as he opened his lips

to ask it, she vanished.

Though the darkness had swallowed her whole, her

burnished image was still imprinted on his retinas; it

obscured his vision, brightening when he lowered his

eyelids, disorienting him. Now fear came: Her

presence had meant safety.

“Lumos!” he whispered, and the wand-tip ignited.

The imprint of the doe faded away with every blink of

his eyes as he stood there, listening to the sounds of

the forest, to distant crackles of twigs, soft swishes of

snow. Was he about to be attacked? Had she enticed

him into an ambush? Was he imagining that

somebody stood beyond the reach of the wandlight,

watching him?

He held the wand higher. Nobody ran out at him, no

flash of green light burst from behind a tree. Why,

then, had she led him to this spot?

Something gleamed in the light of the wand, and

Harry spun about, but all that was there was a small,

frozen pool, its cracked black surface glittering as he

raised the wand higher to examine it.

He moved forward rather cautiously and looked down.

The ice reflected his distorted shadow and the beam

of wandlight, but deep below the thick, misty gray

carapace, something else glinted. A great silver cross

…

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His heart skipped into his mouth: He dropped to his knees at the pool’s edge and angled the wand so as to

flood the bottom of the pool with as much light as

possible. A glint of deep red … It was a sword with

glittering rubies in its hilt. … The sword of Gryffindor

was lying at the bottom of the forest pool.

Barely breathing, he stared down at it. How was this

possible? How could it have come to be lying in a

forest pool, this close to the place where they were

camping? Had some unknown magic drawn Hermione

to this spot, or was the doe, which he had taken to be

a Patronus, some kind of guardian of the pool? Or

had the sword been put into the pool after they had

arrived, precisely because they were here? In which

case, where was the person who had wanted to pass

it to Harry? Again he directed the wand at the

surrounding trees and bushes, searching for a

human outline, for the glint of an eye, but he could

not see anyone there. All the same, a little more fear

leavened his exhilaration as he returned his attention

to the sword reposing upon the bottom of the frozen

pool.

He pointed the wand at the silvery shape and

murmured, “Accio Sword. ”

It did not stir. He had not expected it to. If it had been

that easy, the sword would have lain on the ground

for him to pick up, not in the depths of a frozen pool.

He set off around the circle of ice, thinking hard

about the last time the sword had delivered itself to

him. He had been in terrible danger then, and had

asked for help.

“Help,” he murmured, but the sword remained upon

the pool bottom, indifferent, motionless.

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What was it, Harry asked himself (walking again),

that Dumbledore had told him the last time he had

retrieved the sword? Only a true Gryffindor could have

pulled that out of the hat. And what were the qualities that defined a Gryffindor? A small voice inside Harry’s

head answered him: Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

set Gryffindors apart.

Harry stopped walking and let out a long sigh, his

smoky breath dispersing rapidly upon the frozen air.

He knew what he had to do. If he was honest with

himself, he had thought it might come to this from

the moment he had spotted the sword through the

ice.

He glanced around at the surrounding trees again,

but was convinced now that nobody was going to

attack him. They had had their chance as he walked

alone through the forest, had had plenty of

opportunity as he examined the pool. The only reason

to delay at this point was because the immediate

prospect was so deeply uninviting.

With fumbling fingers Harry started to remove his

many layers of clothing. Where “chivalry” entered into

this, he thought ruefully, he was not entirely sure,

unless it counted as chivalrous that he was not

calling for Hermione to do it in his stead.

An owl hooted somewhere as he stripped off, and he

thought with a pang of Hedwig. He was shivering

now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he

continued to strip off until at last he stood there in

his underwear, barefooted in the snow. He placed the

pouch containing his wand, his mother’s letter, the

shard of Sirius’s mirror, and the old Snitch on top of

his clothes, then he pointed Hermione’s wand at the

ice.

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“Diffindo. ”

It cracked with a sound like a bullet in the silence:

The surface of the pool broke and chunks of dark ice

rocked on the ruffled water. As far as Harry could

judge, it was not deep, but to retrieve the sword he

would have to submerge himself completely.

Contemplating the task ahead would not make it

easier or the water warmer. He stepped to the pool’s

edge and placed Hermione’s wand on the ground, still

lit. Then, trying not to imagine how much colder he

was about to become or how violently he would soon

be shivering, he jumped.

Every pore of his body screamed in protest: The very

air in his lungs seemed to freeze solid as he was

submerged to his shoulders in the frozen water. He

could hardly breathe; trembling so violently the water

lapped over the edges of the pool, he felt for the blade

with his numb feet. He only wanted to dive once.

Harry put off the moment of total submersion from

second to second, gasping and shaking, until he told

himself that it must be done, gathered all his courage,

and dived.

The cold was agony: It attacked him like fire. His

brain itself seemed to have frozen as he pushed

through the dark water to the bottom and reached

out, groping for the sword. His fingers closed around

the hilt; he pulled it upward.

Then something closed tight around his neck. He

thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed

him as he dived, and raised his empty hand to free

himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux

had tightened and was slowly constricting his

windpipe.

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Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but merely propelled himself into the

rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, suffocating, he

scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers

unable to loosen it, and now little lights were popping

inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was

nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that

closed around his chest were surely Death’s. …

Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he

had ever been in his life, he came to facedown in the

snow. Somewhere close by, another person was

panting and coughing and staggering around.

Hermione had come again, as she had come when the

snake attacked. … Yet it did not sound like her, not

with those deep coughs, not judging by the weight of

the footsteps. …

Harry had no strength to lift his head and see his

savior’s identity. All he could do was raise a shaking

hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket

had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone: Someone

had cut him free. Then a panting voice spoke from

over his head.

“Are — you — mental?”

Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could

have given Harry the strength to get up. Shivering

violently, he staggered to his feet. There before him

stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his

hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in

one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken

chain in the other.

“Why the hell, ” panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux,

which swung backward and forward on its shortened

chain in some parody of hypnosis, “didn’t you take

this thing off before you dived?”

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Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing, nothing compared with Ron’s reappearance; he could

not believe it. Shuddering with cold, he caught up the

pile of clothes still lying at the water’s edge and began

to pull them on. As he dragged sweater after sweater

over his head, Harry stared at Ron, half expecting him

to have disappeared every time he lost sight of him,

and yet he had to be real: He had just dived into the

pool, he had saved Harry’s life.

“It was y-you?” Harry said at last, his teeth

chattering, his voice weaker than usual due to his

near-strangulation.

“Well, yeah,” said Ron, looking slightly confused.

“Y-you cast that doe?”

“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing

it!”

“My Patronus is a stag.”

“Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers.”

Harry put Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck,

pulled on a final sweater, stooped to pick up

Hermione’s wand, and faced Ron again.

“How come you’re here?”

Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come

up later, if at all.

“Well, I’ve — you know — I’ve come back. If —” He

cleared his throat. “You know. You still want me.”

There was a pause, in which the subject of Ron’s

departure seemed to rise like a wall between them.

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Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved Harry’s life.

Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed

momentarily surprised to see the things he was

holding.

“Oh yeah, I got it out,” he said, rather unnecessarily,

holding up the sword for Harry’s inspection. “That’s

why you jumped in, right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I don’t understand. How did

you get here? How did you find us?”

“Long story,” said Ron. “I’ve been looking for you for

hours, it’s a big forest, isn’t it? And I was just

thinking I’d have to kip under a tree and wait for

morning when I saw that deer coming and you

following.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

“No,” said Ron. “I —”

But he hesitated, glancing at two trees growing close

together some yards away.

“I did think I saw something move over there, but I

was running to the pool at the time, because you’d

gone in and you hadn’t come up, so I wasn’t going to

make a detour to — hey!”

Harry was already hurrying to the place Ron had

indicated. The two oaks grew close together; there

was a gap of only a few inches between the trunks at

eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The

ground around the roots, however, was free of snow,

and Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked

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back to where Ron stood waiting, still holding the

sword and the Horcrux.

“Anything there?” Ron asked.

“No,” said Harry.

“So how did the sword get in that pool?”

“Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there.”

They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied

hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione’s wand.

“You reckon this is the real one?” asked Ron.

“One way to find out, isn’t there?” said Harry.

The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron’s hand. The

locket was twitching slightly. Harry knew that the

thing inside it was agitated again. It had sensed the

presence of the sword and had tried to kill Harry

rather than let him possess it. Now was not the time

for long discussions; now was the moment to destroy

the locket once and for all. Harry looked around,

holding Hermione’s wand high, and saw the place: a

flattish rock lying in the shadow of a sycamore tree.

“Come here,” he said, and he led the way, brushed

snow from the rock’s surface, and held out his hand

for the Horcrux. When Ron offered the sword,

however, Harry shook his head.

“No, you should do it.”

“Me?” said Ron, looking shocked. “Why?”

“Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it’s

supposed to be you.”

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He was not being kind or generous. As certainly as he had known that the doe was benign, he knew that

Ron had to be the one to wield the sword.

Dumbledore had at least taught Harry something

about certain kinds of magic, of the incalculable

power of certain acts.

“I’m going to open it,” said Harry, “and you stab it.

Straightaway, okay? Because whatever’s in there will

put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to

kill me.”

“How are you going to open it?” asked Ron. He looked

terrified.

“I’m going to ask it to open, using Parseltongue,” said

Harry. The answer came so readily to his lips that he

thought that he had always known it deep down:

Perhaps it had taken his recent encounter with Nagini

to make him realize it. He looked at the serpentine S,

inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to

visualize it as a minuscule snake, curled upon the

cold rock.

“No!” said Ron. “No, don’t open it! I’m serious!”

“Why not?” asked Harry. “Let’s get rid of the damn

thing, it’s been months —”

“I can’t, Harry, I’m serious — you do it —”

“But why?”

“Because that thing’s bad for me!” said Ron, backing

away from the locket on the rock. “I can’t handle it!

I’m not making excuses, Harry, for what I was like,

but it affects me worse than it affected you and

Hermione, it made me think stuff — stuff I was

thinking anyway, but it made everything worse, I

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can’t explain it, and then I’d take it off and I’d get my head on straight again, and then I’d have to put the

effing thing back on — I can’t do it, Harry!”

He had backed away, the sword dragging at his side,

shaking his head.

“You can do it,” said Harry, “you can! You’ve just got

the sword, I know it’s supposed to be you who uses it.

Please, just get rid of it, Ron.”

The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant.

Ron swallowed, then, still breathing hard through his

long nose, moved back toward the rock.

“Tell me when,” he croaked.

“On three,” said Harry, looking back down at the

locket and narrowing his eyes, concentrating on the

letter S, imagining a serpent, while the contents of the

locket rattled like a trapped cockroach. It would have

been easy to pity it, except that the cut around

Harry’s neck still burned.

“One … two … three … open. ”

The last word came as a hiss and a snarl and the

golden doors of the locket swung wide with a little

click.

Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a

living eye, dark and handsome as Tom Riddle’s eyes

had been before he turned them scarlet and slit-

pupiled.

“Stab,” said Harry, holding the locket steady on the

rock.

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Ron raised the sword in his shaking hands: The point dangled over the frantically swiveling eyes, and Harry

gripped the locket tightly, bracing himself, already

imagining blood pouring from the empty windows.

Then a voice hissed from out of the Horcrux.

“I have seen your heart, and it is mine. ”

“Don’t listen to it!” Harry said harshly. “Stab it!”

“I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have

seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that

you dread is also possible. …”

“Stab!” shouted Harry; his voice echoed off the

surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron

gazed down into Riddle’s eyes.

“Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a

daughter … Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend … Second best, always, eternally

overshadowed …”

“Ron, stab it now!” Harry bellowed: He could feel the

locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what

was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as

he did so, Riddle’s eyes gleamed scarlet.

Out of the locket’s two windows, out of the eyes, there

bloomed, like two grotesque bubbles, the heads of

Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted.

Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures

blossomed out of the locket, first chests, then waists,

then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side

like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and

the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away

from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot.

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“Ron!” he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now

speaking with Voldemort’s voice and Ron was gazing,

mesmerized, into its face.

“Why return? We were better without you, happier

without you, glad of your absence. … We laughed at

your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption —”

“Presumption!” echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was

more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real

Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who

looked horrified yet transfixed, the sword hanging

pointlessly at his side. “Who could look at you, who

would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What

have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One?

What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?”

“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not

move: His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and

the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair

swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their

voices lifted in an evil duet.

“Your mother confessed, ” sneered Riddle-Harry, while

Riddle-Hermione jeered, “that she would have

preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange …”

“Who wouldn’t prefer him, what woman would take

you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him, ” crooned

Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and

entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him

in a close embrace: Their lips met.

On the ground in front of them, Ron’s face filled with

anguish. He raised the sword high, his arms shaking.

“Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled.

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Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a

trace of scarlet in his eyes.

“Ron — ?”

The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out

of the way, there was a clang of metal and a long,

drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in

the snow, wand held ready to defend himself: but

there was nothing to fight.

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione

were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with

the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at

the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.

Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing

what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His

eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue;

they were also wet.

Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and

picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the

glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and

the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking

slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had

vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act.

The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to

his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but

not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the

broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron,

and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He

took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.

“After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the

fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week.

Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There

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were loads of nights when we never even spoke to

each other. With you gone …”

He could not finish; it was only now that Ron was

here again that Harry fully realized how much his

absence had cost them.

“She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a

sister and I reckon she feels the same way about me.

It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.”

Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from

Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry

got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s

enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron

had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning.

He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to

Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached,

eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I

know I was a — a —”

He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad

enough word would swoop down upon him and claim

him.

“You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry.

“Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving

my life.”

“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron

mumbled.

“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really

was,” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for

years.”

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Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged,

Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket.

“And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve

got to do is find the tent again.”

But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the

dark forest with the doe had seemed lengthy, with

Ron by his side the journey back seemed to take a

surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake

Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that

he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.

It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest,

the only illumination the bluebell flames still

shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast

asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not

move until Harry had said her name several times.

“Hermione!”

She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out

of her face.

“What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?”

“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine. I’m great.

There’s someone here.”

“What do you mean? Who — ?”

She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and

dripping onto the threadbare carpet. Harry backed

into a shadowy corner, slipped off Ron’s rucksack,

and attempted to blend in with the canvas.

Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a

sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes upon his pale face.

She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly

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parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak, hopeful smile and half raised his arms.

Hermione launched herself forward and started

punching every inch of him that she could reach.

“Ouch — ow — gerroff! What the — ? Hermione —

OW!”

“You — complete — arse — Ronald — Weasley!”

She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed

away, shielding his head as Hermione advanced.

“You — crawl — back — here — after — weeks — and

— weeks — oh, where’s my wand?”

She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of

Harry’s hands and he reacted instinctively.

“Protego!”

The invisible shield erupted between Ron and

Hermione: The force of it knocked her backward onto

the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she leapt up

again.

“Hermione!” said Harry. “Calm —”

“I will not calm down!” she screamed. Never before

had he seen her lose control like this; she looked

quite demented. “Give me back my wand! Give it back

to me!”

“Hermione, will you please —”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Harry Potter!” she

screeched. “Don’t you dare! Give it back now! And

YOU!”

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She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was

like a malediction, and Harry could not blame Ron for

retreating several steps.

“I came running after you! I called you! I begged you

to come back!”

“I know,” Ron said, “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really —

”

“Oh, you’re sorry!”

She laughed, a high-pitched, out-of-control sound;

Ron looked at Harry for help, but Harry merely

grimaced his helplessness.

“You come back after weeks — weeks — and you

think it’s all going to be all right if you just say

sorry?”

“Well, what else can I say?” Ron shouted, and Harry

was glad that Ron was fighting back.

“Oh, I don’t know!” yelled Hermione with awful

sarcasm. “Rack your brains, Ron, that should only

take a couple of seconds —”

“Hermione,” interjected Harry, who considered this a

low blow, “he just saved my —”

“I don’t care!” she screamed. “I don’t care what he’s

done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been dead for

all he knew —”

“I knew you weren’t dead!” bellowed Ron, drowning

her voice for the first time, and approaching as close

as he could with the Shield Charm between them.

“Harry’s all over the Prophet, all over the radio, they’re

looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and

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mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead, you don’t know what it’s been like —”

“What it’s been like for you?”

Her voice was now so shrill only bats would be able to

hear it soon, but she had reached a level of

indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless,

and Ron seized his opportunity.

“I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated,

but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers,

Hermione, and I couldn’t go anywhere!”

“A gang of what?” asked Harry, as Hermione threw

herself down into a chair with her arms and legs

crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would

unravel them for several years.

“Snatchers,” said Ron. “They’re everywhere — gangs

trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and

blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for

everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I

might be school age; they got really excited, thought I

was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get

out of being dragged to the Ministry.”

“What did you say to them?”

“Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could

think of.”

“And they believed that?”

“They weren’t the brightest. One of them was

definitely part troll, the smell off him. …”

Ron glanced at Hermione, clearly hopeful she might

soften at this small instance of humor, but her

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expression remained stony above her tightly knotted limbs.

“Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or

not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were

still five of them and only one of me and they’d taken

my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while

the others were distracted I managed to hit the one

holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand,

Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated.

I didn’t do it so well, Splinched myself again” — Ron

held up his right hand to show two missing

fingernails; Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly —

“and I came out miles from where you were. By the

time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we’d

been … you’d gone.”

“Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione said in the

lofty voice she adopted when wishing to wound. “You

must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went

to Godric’s Hollow and, let’s think, what happened

there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know-Who’s snake turned

up, it nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know-

Who himself arrived and missed us by about a

second.”

“What?” Ron said, gaping from her to Harry, but

Hermione ignored him.

“Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts

our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Hermione,” said Harry quietly, “Ron just saved my

life.”

She appeared not to have heard him.

“One thing I would like to know, though,” she said,

fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over Ron’s head. “How

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exactly did you find us tonight? That’s important.

Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not

visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.”

Ron glared at her, then pulled a small silver object

from his jeans pocket.

“This.”

She had to look at Ron to see what he was showing

them.

“The Deluminator?” she asked, so surprised she

forgot to look cold and fierce.

“It doesn’t just turn the lights on and off,” said Ron. “I

don’t know how it works or why it happened then and

not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come

back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio

really early on Christmas morning and I heard … I

heard you.”

He was looking at Hermione.

“You heard me on the radio?” she asked

incredulously.

“No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your

voice,” he held up the Deluminator again, “came out

of this.”

“And what exactly did I say?” asked Hermione, her

tone somewhere between skepticism and curiosity.

“My name. ‘Ron.’ And you said … something about a

wand. …”

Hermione turned a fiery shade of scarlet. Harry

remembered: It had been the first time Ron’s name

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had been said aloud by either of them since the day he had left; Hermione had mentioned it when talking

about repairing Harry’s wand.

“So I took it out,” Ron went on, looking at the

Deluminator, “and it didn’t seem different or

anything, but I was sure I’d heard you. So I clicked it.

And the light went out in my room, but another light

appeared right outside the window.”

Ron raised his empty hand and pointed in front of

him, his eyes focused on something neither Harry nor

Hermione could see.

“It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like

that light you get around a Portkey, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Harry and Hermione together

automatically.

“I knew this was it,” said Ron. “I grabbed my stuff and

packed it, then I put on my rucksack and went out

into the garden.

“The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for

me, and when I came out it bobbed along a bit and I

followed it behind the shed and then it … well, it went

inside me.”

“Sorry?” said Harry, sure he had not heard correctly.

“It sort of floated toward me,” said Ron, illustrating

the movement with his free index finger, “right to my

chest, and then — it just went straight through. It

was here,” he touched a point close to his heart, “I

could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me I

knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take

me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came

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out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere.

…”

“We were there,” said Harry. “We spent two nights

there, and the second night I kept thinking I could

hear someone moving around in the dark and calling

out!”

“Yeah, well, that would’ve been me,” said Ron. “Your

protective spells work, anyway, because I couldn’t see

you and I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were

around, though, so in the end I got in my sleeping bag

and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d

have to show yourselves when you packed up the

tent.”

“No, actually,” said Hermione. “We’ve been

Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as an extra

precaution. And we left really early, because, as Harry

says, we’d heard somebody blundering around.”

“Well, I stayed on that hill all day,” said Ron. “I kept

hoping you’d appear. But when it started to get dark I

knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the

Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went

inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in

these woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to

hope one of you would show yourselves in the end —

and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.”

“You saw the what?” said Hermione sharply.

They explained what had happened, and as the story

of the silver doe and the sword in the pool unfolded,

Hermione frowned from one to the other of them,

concentrating so hard she forgot to keep her limbs

locked together.

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“But it must have been a Patronus!” she said.

“Couldn’t you see who was casting it? Didn’t you see

anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe

this! Then what happened?”

Ron explained how he had watched Harry jump into

the pool and had waited for him to resurface; how he

had realized that something was wrong, dived in, and

saved Harry, then returned for the sword. He got as

far as the opening of the locket, then hesitated, and

Harry cut in.

“— and Ron stabbed it with the sword.”

“And … and it went? Just like that?” she whispered.

“Well, it — it screamed,” said Harry with half a glance

at Ron. “Here.”

He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it

up and examined its punctured windows.

Deciding that it was at last safe to do so, Harry

removed the Shield Charm with a wave of Hermione’s

wand and turned to Ron.

“Did you just say you got away from the Snatchers

with a spare wand?”

“What?” said Ron, who had been watching Hermione

examining the locket. “Oh — oh yeah.”

He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled

a short, dark wand out of its pocket. “Here. I figured

it’s always handy to have a backup.”

“You were right,” said Harry, holding out his hand.

“Mine’s broken.”

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“You’re kidding?” Ron said, but at that moment

Hermione got to her feet, and he looked apprehensive

again.

Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the

beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and

settled down without another word.

Ron passed Harry the new wand.

“About the best you could hope for, I think,”

murmured Harry.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember

those birds she set on me?”

“I still haven’t ruled it out,” came Hermione’s muffled

voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron

smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out

of his rucksack.

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XENOPHILIUS LOVEGOOD

Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate

overnight, and was therefore unsurprised that she

communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed

silences the next morning. Ron responded by

maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her

presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse.

In fact, when all three of them were together Harry

felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended

funeral. During those few moments he spent alone

with Harry, however (collecting water and searching

the undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron became

shamelessly cheery.

“Someone helped us,” he kept saying. “Someone sent

that doe. Someone’s on our side. One Horcrux down,

mate!”

Bolstered by the destruction of the locket, they set to

debating the possible locations of the other

Horcruxes, and even though they had discussed the

matter so often before, Harry felt optimistic, certain

that more breakthroughs would succeed the first.

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Hermione’s sulkiness could not mar his buoyant

spirits: The sudden upswing in their fortunes, the

appearance of the mysterious doe, the recovery of

Gryffindor’s sword, and above all, Ron’s return, made

Harry so happy that it was quite difficult to maintain

a straight face.

Late in the afternoon he and Ron escaped Hermione’s

baleful presence again, and under the pretense of

scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent

blackberries, they continued their ongoing exchange

of news. Harry had finally managed to tell Ron the

whole story of his and Hermione’s various

wanderings, right up to the full story of what had

happened at Godric’s Hollow; Ron was now filling

Harry in on everything he had discovered about the

wider Wizarding world during his weeks away.

“… and how did you find out about the Taboo?” he

asked Harry after explaining the many desperate

attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the Ministry.

“The what?”

“You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-

Who’s name!”

“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped

into,” said Harry. “But I haven’t got a problem calling

him V —”

“NO!” roared Ron, causing Harry to jump into the

hedge and Hermione (nose buried in a book at the

tent entrance) to scowl over at them. “Sorry,” said

Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, “but

the name’s been jinxed, Harry, that’s how they track

people! Using his name breaks protective

enchantments, it causes some kind of magical

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disturbance — it’s how they found us in Tottenham

Court Road!”

“Because we used his name?”

“Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes

sense. It was only people who were serious about

standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who ever dared

use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who

says it is trackable — quick-and-easy way to find

Order members! They nearly got Kingsley —”

“You’re kidding?”

“Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill

said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now,

just like us.” Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with

the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could

have sent that doe?”

“His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding,

remember?”

“Oh yeah …”

They moved farther along the hedge, away from the

tent and Hermione.

“Harry … you don’t reckon it could’ve been

Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore what?”

Ron looked a little embarrassed, but said in a low

voice, “Dumbledore … the doe? I mean,” Ron was

watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, “he had

the real sword last, didn’t he?”

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Harry did not laugh at Ron, because he understood

too well the longing behind the question. The idea

that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them,

that he was watching over them, would have been

inexpressibly comforting. He shook his head.

“Dumbledore’s dead,” he said. “I saw it happen, I saw

the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus

was a phoenix, not a doe.”

“Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” said

Ron. “Tonks’s changed, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn’t he

show himself? Why wouldn’t he just hand us the

sword?”

“Search me,” said Ron. “Same reason he didn’t give it

to you while he was alive? Same reason he left you an

old Snitch and Hermione a book of kids’ stories?”

“Which is what?” asked Harry, turning to look Ron

full in the face, desperate for the answer.

“I dunno,” said Ron. “Sometimes I’ve thought, when

I’ve been a bit hacked off, he was having a laugh or —

or he just wanted to make it more difficult. But I don’t

think so, not anymore. He knew what he was doing

when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He —

well,” Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became

engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he

prodded with his toe, “he must’ve known I’d run out

on you.”

“No,” Harry corrected him. “He must’ve known you’d

always want to come back.”

Ron looked grateful, but still awkward. Partly to

change the subject, Harry said, “Speaking of

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Dumbledore, have you heard what Skeeter wrote

about him?”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron at once, “people are talking about

it quite a lot. ’Course, if things were different, it’d be

huge news, Dumbledore being pals with Grindelwald,

but now it’s just something to laugh about for people

who didn’t like Dumbledore, and a bit of a slap in the

face for everyone who thought he was such a good

bloke. I don’t know that it’s such a big deal, though.

He was really young when they —”

“Our age,” said Harry, just as he had retorted to

Hermione, and something in his face seemed to

decide Ron against pursuing the subject.

A large spider sat in the middle of a frosted web in the

brambles. Harry took aim at it with the wand Ron had

given him the previous night, which Hermione had

since condescended to examine, and had decided was

made of blackthorn.

“Engorgio. ”

The spider gave a little shiver, bouncing slightly in the

web. Harry tried again. This time the spider grew

slightly larger.

“Stop that,” said Ron sharply. “I’m sorry I said

Dumbledore was young, okay?”

Harry had forgotten Ron’s hatred of spiders.

“Sorry — Reducio. ”

The spider did not shrink. Harry looked down at the

blackthorn wand. Every minor spell he had cast with

it so far that day had seemed less powerful than those

he had produced with his phoenix wand. The new one

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felt intrusively unfamiliar, like having somebody else’s hand sewn to the end of his arm.

“You just need to practice,” said Hermione, who had

approached them noiselessly from behind and had

stood watching anxiously as Harry tried to enlarge

and reduce the spider. “It’s all a matter of confidence,

Harry.”

He knew why she wanted it to be all right: She still

felt guilty about breaking his wand. He bit back the

retort that sprang to his lips, that she could take the

blackthorn wand if she thought it made no difference,

and he would have hers instead. Keen for them all to

be friends again, however, he agreed; but when Ron

gave Hermione a tentative smile, she stalked off and

vanished behind her book once more.

All three of them returned to the tent when darkness

fell, and Harry took first watch. Sitting in the

entrance, he tried to make the blackthorn wand

levitate small stones at his feet; but his magic still

seemed clumsier and less powerful than it had done

before. Hermione was lying on her bunk reading,

while Ron, after many nervous glances up at her, had

taken a small wooden wireless out of his rucksack

and started to try and tune it.

“There’s this one program,” he told Harry in a low

voice, “that tells the news like it really is. All the

others are on You-Know-Who’s side and are following

the Ministry line, but this one … you wait till you

hear it, it’s great. Only they can’t do it every night,

they have to keep changing locations in case they’re

raided, and you need a password to tune in. …

Trouble is, I missed the last one. …”

He drummed lightly on the top of the radio with his

wand, muttering random words under his breath. He

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threw Hermione many covert glances, plainly fearing an angry outburst, but for all the notice she took of

him he might not have been there. For ten minutes or

so Ron tapped and muttered, Hermione turned the

pages of her book, and Harry continued to practice

with the blackthorn wand.

Finally Hermione climbed down from her bunk. Ron

ceased his tapping at once.

“If it’s annoying you, I’ll stop!” he told Hermione

nervously.

Hermione did not deign to respond, but approached

Harry.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He looked at the book still clutched in her hand. It

was The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

“What?” he said apprehensively. It flew through his

mind that there was a chapter on him in there; he

was not sure he felt up to hearing Rita’s version of his

relationship with Dumbledore. Hermione’s answer,

however, was completely unexpected.

“I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood.”

He stared at her.

“Sorry?”

“Xenophilius Lovegood. Luna’s father. I want to go

and talk to him!”

“Er — why?”

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She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself,

and said, “It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the

Bard. Look at this!”

She thrust The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore

under Harry’s unwilling eyes and he saw a

photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had

written Grindelwald, with Dumbledore’s familiar thin,

slanting handwriting. He hated seeing absolute proof

that Dumbledore really had written those words, that

they had not been Rita’s invention.

“The signature,” said Hermione. “Look at the

signature, Harry!”

He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she

was talking about, but, looking more closely with the

aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had

replaced the A of Albus with a tiny version of the

same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of

Beedle the Bard.

“Er — what are you — ?” said Ron tentatively, but

Hermione quelled him with a look and turned back to

Harry.

“It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” she said. “I know

Viktor said it was Grindelwald’s mark, but it was

definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and

the dates on the headstone were long before

Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, we can’t

ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means — I

don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive —

but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the

symbol at the wedding. I’m sure this is important,

Harry!”

Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her

intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding

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darkness, thinking. After a long pause he said,

“Hermione, we don’t need another Godric’s Hollow.

We talked ourselves into going there, and —”

“But it keeps appearing, Harry! Dumbledore left me

The Tales of Beedle the Bard, how do you know we’re

not supposed to find out about the sign?”

“Here we go again!” Harry felt slightly exasperated.

“We keep trying to convince ourselves Dumbledore left

us secret signs and clues —”

“The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful,”

piped up Ron. “I think Hermione’s right, I think we

ought to go and see Lovegood.”

Harry threw him a dark look. He was quite sure that

Ron’s support of Hermione had little to do with a

desire to know the meaning of the triangular rune.

“It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow,” Ron added,

“Lovegood’s on your side, Harry, The Quibbler’s been

for you all along, it keeps telling everyone they’ve got

to help you!”

“I’m sure this is important!” said Hermione earnestly.

“But don’t you think if it was, Dumbledore would

have told me about it before he died?”

“Maybe … maybe it’s something you need to find out

for yourself,” said Hermione with a faint air of

clutching at straws.

“Yeah,” said Ron sycophantically, “that makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” snapped Hermione, “but I still think

we ought to talk to Mr. Lovegood. A symbol that links

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Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric’s Hollow?

Harry, I’m sure we ought to know about this!”

“I think we should vote on it,” said Ron. “Those in

favor of going to see Lovegood —”

His hand flew into the air before Hermione’s. Her lips

quivered suspiciously as she raised her own.

“Outvoted, Harry, sorry,” said Ron, clapping him on

the back.

“Fine,” said Harry, half amused, half irritated. “Only,

once we’ve seen Lovegood, let’s try and look for some

more Horcruxes, shall we? Where do the Lovegoods

live, anyway? Do either of you know?”

“Yeah, they’re not far from my place,” said Ron. “I

dunno exactly where, but Mum and Dad always point

toward the hills whenever they mention them.

Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

When Hermione had returned to her bunk, Harry

lowered his voice.

“You only agreed to try and get back in her good

books.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” said Ron brightly, “and

this is a bit of both. Cheer up, it’s the Christmas

holidays, Luna’ll be home!”

They had an excellent view of the village of Ottery St.

Catchpole from the breezy hillside to which they

Disapparated next morning. From their high vantage

point the village looked like a collection of toy houses

in the great slanting shafts of sunlight stretching to

earth in the breaks between clouds. They stood for a

minute or two looking toward the Burrow, their hands

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shadowing their eyes, but all they could make out

were the high hedges and trees of the orchard, which

afforded the crooked little house protection from

Muggle eyes.

“It’s weird, being this near, but not going to visit,”

said Ron.

“Well, it’s not like you haven’t just seen them. You

were there for Christmas,” said Hermione coldly.

“I wasn’t at the Burrow!” said Ron with an

incredulous laugh. “Do you think I was going to go

back there and tell them all I’d walked out on you?

Yeah, Fred and George would’ve been great about it.

And Ginny, she’d have been really understanding.”

“But where have you been, then?” asked Hermione,

surprised.

“Bill and Fleur’s new place. Shell Cottage. Bill’s

always been decent to me. He — he wasn’t impressed

when he heard what I’d done, but he didn’t go on

about it. He knew I was really sorry. None of the rest

of the family know I was there. Bill told Mum he and

Fleur weren’t going home for Christmas because they

wanted to spend it alone. You know, first holiday after

they were married. I don’t think Fleur minded. You

know how much she hates Celestina Warbeck.”

Ron turned his back on the Burrow.

“Let’s try up here,” he said, leading the way over the

top of the hill.

They walked for a few hours, Harry, at Hermione’s

insistence, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The

cluster of low hills appeared to be uninhabited apart

from one small cottage, which seemed deserted.

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“Do you think it’s theirs, and they’ve gone away for Christmas?” said Hermione, peering through the

window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the

windowsill. Ron snorted.

“Listen, I’ve got a feeling you’d be able to tell who lived

there if you looked through the Lovegoods’ window.

Let’s try the next lot of hills.”

So they Disapparated a few miles farther north.

“Aha!” shouted Ron, as the wind whipped their hair

and clothes. Ron was pointing upward, toward the top

of the hill on which they had appeared, where a most

strange-looking house rose vertically against the sky,

a great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hanging

behind it in the afternoon sky. “That’s got to be

Luna’s house, who else would live in a place like that?

It looks like a giant rook!”

“It’s nothing like a bird,” said Hermione, frowning at

the tower.

“I was talking about a chess rook,” said Ron. “A castle

to you.”

Ron’s legs were the longest and he reached the top of

the hill first. When Harry and Hermione caught up

with him, panting and clutching stitches in their

sides, they found him grinning broadly.

“It’s theirs,” said Ron. “Look.”

Three hand-painted signs had been tacked to a

broken-down gate. The first read,

THE QUIBBLER. EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD

the second,

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PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE

the third,

KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS

The gate creaked as they opened it. The zigzagging

path leading to the front door was overgrown with a

variety of odd plants, including a bush covered in the

orange radishlike fruit Luna sometimes wore as

earrings. Harry thought he recognized a Snargaluff

and gave the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged

crab apple trees, bent with the wind, stripped of

leaves but still heavy with berry-sized red fruits and

bushy crowns of white-beaded mistletoe, stood

sentinel on either side of the front door. A little owl

with a slightly flattened, hawklike head peered down

at them from one of the branches.

“You’d better take off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry,”

said Hermione. “It’s you Mr. Lovegood wants to help,

not us.”

He did as she suggested, handing her the Cloak to

stow in the beaded bag. She then rapped three times

on the thick black door, which was studded with iron

nails and bore a knocker shaped like an eagle.

Barely ten seconds passed, then the door was flung

open and there stood Xenophilius Lovegood, barefoot

and wearing what appeared to be a stained nightshirt.

His long white candyfloss hair was dirty and

unkempt. Xenophilius had been positively dapper at

Bill and Fleur’s wedding by comparison.

“What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?”

he cried in a high-pitched, querulous voice, looking

first at Hermione, then at Ron, and finally at Harry,

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upon which his mouth fell open in a perfect, comical O.

“Hello, Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry, holding out his

hand. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.”

Xenophilius did not take Harry’s hand, although the

eye that was not pointing inward at his nose slid

straight to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Would it be okay if we came in?” asked Harry.

“There’s something we’d like to ask you.”

“I … I’m not sure that’s advisable,” whispered

Xenophilius. He swallowed and cast a quick look

around the garden. “Rather a shock … My word … I

… I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to —”

“It won’t take long,” said Harry, slightly disappointed

by this less-than-warm welcome.

“I — oh, all right then. Come in, quickly. Quickly!”

They were barely over the threshold when Xenophilius

slammed the door shut behind them. They were

standing in the most peculiar kitchen Harry had ever

seen. The room was perfectly circular, so that it felt

like being inside a giant pepper pot. Everything was

curved to fit the walls — the stove, the sink, and the

cupboards — and all of it had been painted with

flowers, insects, and birds in bright primary colors.

Harry thought he recognized Luna’s style: The effect,

in such an enclosed space, was slightly

overwhelming.

In the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral

staircase led to the upper levels. There was a great

deal of clattering and banging coming from overhead:

Harry wondered what Luna could be doing.

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“You’d better come up,” said Xenophilius, still looking extremely uncomfortable, and he led the way.

The room above seemed to be a combination of living

room and workplace, and as such, was even more

cluttered than the kitchen. Though much smaller and

entirely round, the room somewhat resembled the

Room of Requirement on the unforgettable occasion

that it had transformed itself into a gigantic labyrinth

comprised of centuries of hidden objects. There were

piles upon piles of books and papers on every surface.

Delicately made models of creatures Harry did not

recognize, all flapping wings or snapping jaws, hung

from the ceiling.

Luna was not there: The thing that was making such

a racket was a wooden object covered in magically

turning cogs and wheels. It looked like the bizarre

offspring of a workbench and a set of old shelves, but

after a moment Harry deduced that it was an old-

fashioned printing press, due to the fact that it was

churning out Quibblers.

“Excuse me,” said Xenophilius, and he strode over to

the machine, seized a grubby tablecloth from beneath

an immense number of books and papers, which all

tumbled onto the floor, and threw it over the press,

somewhat muffling the loud bangs and clatters. He

then faced Harry.

“Why have you come here?”

Before Harry could speak, however, Hermione let out

a small cry of shock.

“Mr. Lovegood — what’s that?”

She was pointing at an enormous, gray spiral horn,

not unlike that of a unicorn, which had been

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mounted on the wall, protruding several feet into the room.

“It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” said

Xenophilius.

“No it isn’t!” said Hermione.

“Hermione,” muttered Harry, embarrassed, “now’s not

the moment —”

“But Harry, it’s an Erumpent horn! It’s a Class B

Tradeable Material and it’s an extraordinarily

dangerous thing to have in a house!”

“How d’you know it’s an Erumpent horn?” asked Ron,

edging away from the horn as fast as he could, given

the extreme clutter of the room.

“There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where

to Find Them! Mr. Lovegood, you need to get rid of it

straightaway, don’t you know it can explode at the

slightest touch?”

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” said Xenophilius

very clearly, a mulish look upon his face, “is a shy

and highly magical creature, and its horn —”

“Mr. Lovegood, I recognize the grooved markings

around the base, that’s an Erumpent horn and it’s

incredibly dangerous — I don’t know where you got it

—”

“I bought it,” said Xenophilius dogmatically, “two

weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard who knew

of my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A Christmas

surprise for my Luna. Now,” he said, turning to

Harry, “why exactly have you come here, Mr. Potter?”

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“We need some help,” said Harry, before Hermione

could start again.

“Ah,” said Xenophilius. “Help. Hmm.”

His good eye moved again to Harry’s scar. He seemed

simultaneously terrified and mesmerized.

“Yes. The thing is … helping Harry Potter … rather

dangerous …”

“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s

their first duty to help Harry?” said Ron. “In that

magazine of yours?”

Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed

printing press, still banging and clattering beneath

the tablecloth.

“Er — yes, I have expressed that view. However —”

“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?”

said Ron.

Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his

eyes darting between the three of them. Harry had the

impression that he was undergoing some painful

internal struggle.

“Where’s Luna?” asked Hermione. “Let’s see what she

thinks.”

Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself.

Finally he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over

the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the

stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She … she

will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then —

yes, very well. I shall try to help you.”

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He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they

heard the front door open and close. They looked at

each other.

“Cowardly old wart,” said Ron. “Luna’s got ten times

his guts.”

“He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them

if the Death Eaters find out I was here,” said Harry.

“Well, I agree with Ron,” said Hermione. “Awful old

hypocrite, telling everyone else to help you and trying

to worm out of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep

away from that horn.”

Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the

room. He could see a stream, a thin, glittering ribbon

lying far below them at the base of the hill. They were

very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he

stared in the direction of the Burrow, now invisible

beyond another line of hills. Ginny was over there

somewhere. They were closer to each other today than

they had been since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but she

could have no idea he was gazing toward her now,

thinking of her. He supposed he ought to be glad of it;

anyone he came into contact with was in danger,

Xenophilius’s attitude proved that.

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell

upon another peculiar object standing upon the

cluttered, curved sideboard: a stone bust of a

beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most

bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that

resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the

sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wings was stuck to

a leather strap that ran over the top of her head,

while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a

second strap around her forehead.

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“Look at this,” said Harry.

“Fetching,” said Ron. “Surprised he didn’t wear that

to the wedding.”

They heard the front door close, and a moment later

Xenophilius had climbed back up the spiral staircase

into the room, his thin legs now encased in

Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted

teacups and a steaming teapot.

“Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he said,

shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms and joining

Harry at the statue’s side. “Modeled, fittingly enough,

upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw.

‘ Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure!’ ”

He indicated the objects like ear trumpets.

“These are the Wrackspurt siphons — to remove all

sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate

area. Here,” he pointed out the tiny wings, “a billywig

propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind.

Finally,” he pointed to the orange radish, “the

Dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept

the extraordinary.”

Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which

Hermione had managed to balance precariously on

one of the cluttered side tables.

“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?” said

Xenophilius. “We make it ourselves.” As he started to

pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as

beetroot juice, he added, “Luna is down beyond

Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here.

She ought not to be too long, she has caught nearly

enough Plimpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit

down and help yourselves to sugar.

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“Now,” he removed a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sat down, his Wellingtoned legs

crossed, “how may I help you, Mr. Potter?”

“Well,” said Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nodded

encouragingly, “it’s about that symbol you were

wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s

wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.”

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows.

“Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”

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THE TALE OF THE THREE

BROTHERS

Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione. Neither of

them seemed to have understood what Xenophilius

had said either.

“The Deathly Hallows?”

“That’s right,” said Xenophilius. “You haven’t heard of

them? I’m not surprised. Very, very few wizards

believe. Witness that knuckle-headed young man at

your brother’s wedding,” he nodded at Ron, “who

attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known

Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is nothing Dark

about the Hallows — at least, not in that crude sense.

One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other

believers, in the hope that they might help one with

the Quest.”

He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot

infusion and drank some.

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“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I still don’t really

understand.”

To be polite, he took a sip from his cup too, and

almost gagged: The stuff was quite disgusting, as

though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every

Flavor Beans.

“Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows,”

said Xenophilius, smacking his lips in apparent

appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.

“But what are the Deathly Hallows?” asked Hermione.

Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup.

“I assume that you are all familiar with “The Tale of

the Three Brothers’?”

Harry said, “No,” but Ron and Hermione both said,

“Yes.” Xenophilius nodded gravely.

“Well, well, Mr. Potter, the whole thing starts with

‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ … I have a copy

somewhere. …”

He glanced vaguely around the room, at the piles of

parchment and books, but Hermione said, “I’ve got a

copy, Mr. Lovegood, I’ve got it right here.”

And she pulled out The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the small, beaded bag.

“The original?” inquired Xenophilius sharply, and

when she nodded, he said, “Well then, why don’t you

read it aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all

understand.”

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“Er … all right,” said Hermione nervously. She opened the book, and Harry saw that the symbol they were

investigating headed the top of the page as she gave a

little cough, and began to read.

“ ‘ There were once three brothers who were traveling

along a lonely, winding road at twilight —’ ”

“Midnight, our mum always told us,” said Ron, who

had stretched out, arms behind his head, to listen.

Hermione shot him a look of annoyance.

“Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!”

said Ron.

“Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our

lives,” said Harry before he could stop himself.

Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much

attention, but was staring out of the window at the

sky. “Go on, Hermione.”

“ ‘ In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to

wade through and too dangerous to swim across.

However, these brothers were learned in the magical

arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made

a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They

were halfway across it when they found their path

blocked by a hooded figure.

“ ‘ And Death spoke to them —’ ”

“Sorry,” interjected Harry, “but Death spoke to them?”

“It’s a fairy tale, Harry!”

“Right, sorry. Go on.”

“ ‘ And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had

been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers

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usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning.

He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon

their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for

having been clever enough to evade him.

“ ‘ So the oldest brother, who was a combative man,

asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence:

a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a

wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death!

So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the

river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there,

and gave it to the oldest brother.

“ ‘ Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man,

decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further,

and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So

Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it

to the second brother, and told him that the stone

would have the power to bring back the dead.

“ ‘ And then Death asked the third and youngest

brother what he would like. The youngest brother was

the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and

he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that

would enable him to go forth from that place without

being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly,

handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility. ’ ”

“Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupted

again.

“So he can sneak up on people,” said Ron.

“Sometimes he gets bored of running at them,

flapping his arms and shrieking … sorry, Hermione.”

“ ‘ Then Death stood aside and allowed the three

brothers to continue on their way, and they did so,

talking with wonder of the adventure they had had,

and admiring Death’s gifts.

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“ ‘ In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.

“ ‘ The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and

reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard

with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally, with the Elder

Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel

that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor,

the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he

boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched

from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible.

“ ‘ That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest

brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The thief

took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest

brother’s throat.

“ ‘ And so Death took the first brother for his own.

“ ‘ Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own

home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone

that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it

thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight,

the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry,

before her untimely death, appeared at once before

him.

“ ‘ Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by

a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world,

she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the

second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing,

killed himself so as truly to join her.

“ ‘ And so Death took the second brother for his own.

“ ‘ But though Death searched for the third brother for

many years, he was never able to find him. It was only

when he had attained a great age that the youngest

brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and

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gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they

departed this life. ’ ”

Hermione closed the book. It was a moment or two

before Xenophilius seemed to realize that she had

stopped reading, then he withdrew his gaze from the

window and said, “Well, there you are.”

“Sorry?” said Hermione, sounding confused.

“Those are the Deathly Hallows,” said Xenophilius.

He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow,

and pulled a torn piece of parchment from between

more books.

“The Elder Wand,” he said, and he drew a straight

vertical line upon the parchment. “The Resurrection

Stone,” he said, and he added a circle on top of the

line. “The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finished, enclosing

both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol

that so intrigued Hermione. “Together,” he said, “the

Deathly Hallows.”

“But there’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly

Hallows’ in the story,” said Hermione.

“Well, of course not,” said Xenophilius, maddeningly

smug. “That is a children’s tale, told to amuse rather

than to instruct. Those of us who understand these

matters, however, recognize that the ancient story

refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united,

will make the possessor master of Death.”

There was a short silence in which Xenophilius

glanced out of the window. Already the sun was low

in the sky.

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“Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon,” he said

quietly.

“When you say ‘master of Death’ —” said Ron.

“Master,” said Xenophilius, waving an airy hand.

“Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer.”

“But then … do you mean …” said Hermione slowly,

and Harry could tell that she was trying to keep any

trace of skepticism out of her voice, “that you believe

these objects — these Hallows — actually exist?”

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again.

“Well, of course.”

“But,” said Hermione, and Harry could hear her

restraint starting to crack, “Mr. Lovegood, how can

you possibly believe — ?”

“Luna has told me all about you, young lady,” said

Xenophilius. “You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but

painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded.”

“Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione,” said

Ron, nodding toward the ludicrous headdress. His

voice shook with the strain of not laughing.

“Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione began again. “We all know

that there are such things as Invisibility Cloaks. They

are rare, but they exist. But —”

“Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of

Invisibility, Miss Granger! I mean to say, it is not a

traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm,

or carrying a Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from

Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade

with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking

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about a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving

constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter

what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have you

ever seen like that, Miss Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, then closed it

again, looking more confused than ever. She, Harry,

and Ron glanced at one another, and Harry knew that

they were all thinking the same thing. It so happened

that a cloak exactly like the one Xenophilius had just

described was in the room with them at that very

moment.

“Exactly,” said Xenophilius, as if he had defeated

them all in reasoned argument. “None of you have

ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be

immeasurably rich, would he not?”

He glanced out of the window again. The sky was now

tinged with the faintest trace of pink.

“All right,” said Hermione, disconcerted. “Say the

Cloak existed … what about the stone, Mr. Lovegood?

The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?”

“What of it?”

“Well, how can that be real?”

“Prove that it is not,” said Xenophilius.

Hermione looked outraged.

“But that’s — I’m sorry, but that’s completely

ridiculous! How can I possibly prove it doesn’t exist?

Do you expect me to get hold of — of all the pebbles

in the world and test them? I mean, you could claim

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that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!”

“Yes, you could,” said Xenophilius. “I am glad to see

that you are opening your mind a little.”

“So the Elder Wand,” said Harry quickly, before

Hermione could retort, “you think that exists too?”

“Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence,” said

Xenophilius. “The Elder Wand is the Hallow that is

most easily traced, because of the way in which it

passes from hand to hand.”

“Which is what?” asked Harry.

“Which is that the possessor of the wand must

capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly

master of it,” said Xenophilius. “Surely you have

heard of the way the wand came to Egbert the

Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of

how Godelot died in his own cellar after his son,

Hereward, took the wand from him? Of the dreadful

Loxias, who took the wand from Barnabas Deverill,

whom he had killed? The bloody trail of the Elder

Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding

history.”

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was frowning at

Xenophilius, but she did not contradict him.

“So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?”

asked Ron.

“Alas, who knows?” said Xenophilius, as he gazed out

of the window. “Who knows where the Elder Wand

lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius.

Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias,

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and which took the wand? And who can say who may

have defeated them? History, alas, does not tell us.”

There was a pause. Finally Hermione asked stiffly,

“Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything

to do with the Deathly Hallows?”

Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted

in Harry’s memory, but he could not locate it. Peverell

… he had heard that name before. …

“But you have been misleading me, young woman!”

said Xenophilius, now sitting up much straighter in

his chair and goggling at Hermione. “I thought you

were new to the Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers

believe that the Peverells have everything —

everything! — to do with the Hallows!”

“Who are the Peverells?” asked Ron.

“That was the name on the grave with the mark on it,

in Godric’s Hollow,” said Hermione, still watching

Xenophilius. “Ignotus Peverell.”

“Exactly!” said Xenophilius, his forefinger raised

pedantically. “The sign of the Deathly Hallows on

Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!”

“Of what?” asked Ron.

“Why, that the three brothers in the story were

actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus,

and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the

Hallows!”

With another glance at the window he got to his feet,

picked up the tray, and headed for the spiral

staircase.

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“You will stay for dinner?” he called, as he vanished downstairs again. “Everybody always requests our

recipe for Freshwater Plimpy soup.”

“Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St.

Mungo’s,” said Ron under his breath.

Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius

moving about in the kitchen downstairs before

speaking.

“What do you think?” he asked Hermione.

“Oh, Harry,” she said wearily, “it’s a pile of utter

rubbish. This can’t be what the sign really means.

This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste

of time.”

“I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-

Horned Snorkacks,” said Ron.

“You don’t believe it either?” Harry asked him.

“Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell

kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it? ‘Don’t go looking

for trouble, don’t pick fights, don’t go messing around

with stuff that’s best left alone! Just keep your head

down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay’

Come to think of it,” Ron added, “maybe that story’s

why elder wands are supposed to be unlucky.”

“What are you talking about?”

“One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born

witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone

by midnight.’ ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’ You

must’ve heard them. My mum’s full of them.”

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“Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione

reminded him. “We were taught different

superstitions.” She sighed deeply as a rather pungent

smell drifted up from the kitchen. The one good thing

about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it

seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed

at Ron. “I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a

morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one

you’d choose —”

The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione

said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry

said, “the stone.”

They looked at each other, half surprised, half

amused.

“You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told

Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if

you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione,

come on!”

“We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry.

“And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t

noticed!” said Hermione. “Whereas the wand would be

bound to attract trouble —”

“Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if

you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it

over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable

wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard

enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut —”

“Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said

Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true

thing he said to us was that there have been stories

about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.”

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“There have?” asked Harry.

Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so

endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at

each other.

“The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up

under different names through the centuries, usually

in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting

about them. Professor Binns mentioned some of

them, but — oh, it’s all nonsense. Wands are only as

powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards

just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better

than other people’s.”

“But how do you know,” said Harry, “that those

wands — the Deathstick and the Wand of Destiny —

aren’t the same wand, surfacing over the centuries

under different names?”

“What, and they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by

Death?” said Ron.

Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to

him was, after all, ridiculous. His wand, he reminded

himself, had been of holly, not elder, and it had been

made by Ollivander, whatever it had done that night

Voldemort had pursued him across the skies. And if it

had been unbeatable, how could it have been broken?

“So why would you take the stone?” Ron asked him.

“Well, if you could bring people back, we could have

Sirius … Mad-Eye … Dumbledore … my parents. …”

Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled.

“But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t

want to come back, would they?” said Harry, thinking

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about the tale they had just heard. “I don’t suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone

that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked

Hermione.

“No,” she replied sadly. “I don’t think anyone except

Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that’s possible.

Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s

Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you

immortal, a stone to reverse death.”

The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger: It

was something like burning underpants. Harry

wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough

of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his

feelings.

“What about the Cloak, though?” said Ron slowly.

“Don’t you realize, he’s right? I’ve got so used to

Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to

think. I’ve never heard of one like Harry’s. It’s

infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it —”

“Of course not — we’re invisible when we’re under it,

Ron!”

“But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and

they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true! It’s

never occurred to me before, but I’ve heard stuff

about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or

them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes

in. Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly

new, is it, but it’s just … perfect!”

“Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone …”

As they argued in whispers, Harry moved around the

room, only half listening. Reaching the spiral stair, he

raised his eyes absently to the next level and was

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distracted at once. His own face was looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above.

After a moment’s bewilderment, he realized that it

was not a mirror, but a painting. Curious, he began

to climb the stairs.

“Harry, what are you doing? I don’t think you should

look around when he’s not here!”

But Harry had already reached the next level.

Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five

beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione,

Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the

portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain

magic about them all the same: Harry thought they

breathed. What appeared to be fine golden chains

wove around the pictures, linking them together, but

after examining them for a minute or so, Harry

realized that the chains were actually one word,

repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends …

friends … friends …

Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna. He looked

around the room. There was a large photograph

beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who

looked very like her. They were hugging. Luna looked

rather better-groomed in this picture than Harry had

ever seen her in life. The picture was dusty. This

struck Harry as slightly odd. He stared around.

Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also

thick with dust. There were no clothes in the

wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a

cold, unfriendly look, as though it had not been slept

in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over the

nearest window, across a bloodred sky.

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“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked as Harry descended

the staircase, but before he could respond,

Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the

kitchen, now holding a tray laden with bowls.

“Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry. “Where’s Luna?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where’s Luna?”

Xenophilius halted on the top step.

“I — I’ve already told you. She is down at Bottom

Bridge, fishing for Plimpies.”

“So why have you only laid that tray for four?”

Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out.

The only noise was the continued chugging of the

printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as

Xenophilius’s hands shook.

“I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks,” said Harry.

“Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in.

Where is she? And why do you keep looking out of the

window?”

Xenophilius dropped the tray: The bowls bounced and

smashed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew their

wands: Xenophilius froze, his hand about to enter his

pocket. At that moment the printing press gave a

huge bang and numerous Quibblers came streaming

across the floor from underneath the tablecloth; the

press fell silent at last.

Hermione stooped down and picked up one of the

magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood.

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“Harry, look at this.”

He strode over to her as quickly as he could through

all the clutter. The front of The Quibbler carried his

own picture, emblazoned with the words

UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE and captioned with

the reward money.

“The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?” Harry

asked coldly, his mind working very fast. “Is that

what you were doing when you went into the garden,

Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?”

Xenophilius licked his lips.

“They took my Luna,” he whispered. “Because of what

I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know

where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they

might give her back to me if I — if I —”

“Hand over Harry?” Hermione finished for him.

“No deal,” said Ron flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re

leaving.”

Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips

drawn back into a dreadful leer.

“They will be here at any moment. I must save Luna. I

cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.”

He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and

Harry had a sudden vision of his mother doing the

same thing in front of his crib.

“Don’t make us hurt you,” Harry said. “Get out of the

way, Mr. Lovegood.”

“HARRY!” Hermione screamed.

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Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows.

As the three of them looked away from him,

Xenophilius drew his wand. Harry realized their

mistake just in time: He launched himself sideways,

shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way as

Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room

and hit the Erumpent horn.

There was a colossal explosion. The sound of it

seemed to blow the room apart: Fragments of wood

and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with

an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flew

through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to

see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his

head. He heard Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and a

series of sickening metallic thuds, which told him

that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and

fallen backward down the spiral stairs.

Half buried in rubble, Harry tried to raise himself: He

could barely breathe or see for dust. Half of the

ceiling had fallen in, and the end of Luna’s bed was

hanging through the hole. The bust of Rowena

Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing,

fragments of torn parchment were floating through

the air, and most of the printing press lay on its side,

blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then

another white shape moved close by, and Hermione,

coated in dust like a second statue, pressed her finger

to her lips.

The door downstairs crashed open.

“Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry,

Travers?” said a rough voice. “Didn’t I tell you this

nutter was just raving as usual?”

There was a bang and a scream of pain from

Xenophilius.

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“No … no … upstairs … Potter!”

“I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming

back for anything less than some solid information!

Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your

daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress? And the

week before” — another bang, another squeal —

“when you thought we’d give her back if you offered

us proof there are Crumple” — bang — “Headed” —

bang — “Snorkacks?”

“No — no — I beg you!” sobbed Xenophilius. “It really

is Potter! Really!”

“And now it turns out you only called us here to try

and blow us up!” roared the Death Eater, and there

was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of

agony from Xenophilius.

“The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn,” said

a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled

staircase. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could

try clearing it? Might bring the place down.”

“You lying piece of filth,” shouted the wizard named

Selwyn. “You’ve never seen Potter in your life, have

you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you?

And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?”

“I swear … I swear … Potter’s upstairs!”

“Homenum revelio, ” said the voice at the foot of the

stairs.

Harry heard Hermione gasp, and he had the odd

sensation that something was swooping low over him,

immersing his body in its shadow.

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“There’s someone up there all right, Selwyn,” said the second man sharply.

“It’s Potter, I tell you, it’s Potter!” sobbed Xenophilius.

“Please … please … give me Luna, just let me have

Luna. …”

“You can have your little girl, Lovegood,” said Selwyn,

“if you get up those stairs and bring me down Harry

Potter. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got

an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll

see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to

bury.”

Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair. There

were scurryings and scrapings: Xenophilius was

trying to get through the debris on the stairs.

“Come on,” Harry whispered, “we’ve got to get out of

here.”

He started to dig himself out under cover of all the

noise Xenophilius was making on the staircase. Ron

was buried deepest: Harry and Hermione climbed, as

quietly as they could, over all the wreckage to where

he lay, trying to prise a heavy chest of drawers off his

legs. While Xenophilius’s banging and scraping drew

nearer and nearer, Hermione managed to free Ron

with the use of a Hover Charm.

“All right,” breathed Hermione, as the broken printing

press blocking the top of the stairs began to tremble;

Xenophilius was feet away from them. She was still

white with dust. “Do you trust me, Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“Okay then,” Hermione whispered, “give me the

Invisibility Cloak. Ron, you’re going to put it on.”

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“Me? But Harry —”

“Please, Ron! Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron,

grab my shoulder.”

Harry held out his left hand. Ron vanished beneath

the Cloak. The printing press blocking the stairs was

vibrating: Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a

Hover Charm. Harry did not know what Hermione

was waiting for.

“Hold tight,” she whispered. “Hold tight … any second

…”

Xenophilius’s paper-white face appeared over the top

of the sideboard.

“Obliviate!” cried Hermione, pointing her wand first

into his face, then at the floor beneath them.

“Deprimo!”

She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. They

fell like boulders, Harry still holding onto her hand for

dear life; there was a scream from below, and he

glimpsed two men trying to get out of the way as vast

quantities of rubble and broken furniture rained all

around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione

twisted in midair and the thundering of the collapsing

house rang in Harry’s ears as she dragged him once

more into darkness.

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THE DEATHLY HALLOWS

Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at

once. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a

field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a

circle around them, waving her wand.

“Protego Totalum … Salvio Hexia …”

“That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging

from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to

Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I

can’t believe we got out of that!”

“Cave Inimicum … Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent

horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been

blown apart!”

“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans

and the cuts to his legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do

to him?”

“Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione.

“That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a

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glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew

Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”

“Why hide me, though?” asked Ron.

“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron!

They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father

supported Harry! What would happen to your family if

they knew you’re with him?”

“But what about your mum and dad?”

“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione. “They should

be all right. They don’t know anything.”

“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.

“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I

don’t know what we’d do without you.”

She beamed, but became solemn at once.

“What about Luna?”

“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive —

” began Ron.

“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione.

“She must be alive, she must!”

“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron.

“Whether she survives the place, though … Loads

don’t. …”

“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to

contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna,

much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably

teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and

Nargles.”

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“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a

hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if

—”

“— if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death

Eaters, yeah,” said Ron.

They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where

Ron made them tea. After their narrow escape, the

chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar,

and friendly.

“Oh, why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a

few minutes’ silence. “Harry, you were right, it was

Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of

time! The Deathly Hallows … such rubbish …

although actually,” a sudden thought seemed to have

struck her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t

he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly

Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until

the Death Eaters arrived!”

“I don’t think so,” said Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder

making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d

think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught

me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan,

because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a

whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of

pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon

he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth,

just to keep us talking.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione.

“Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot

of nonsense in all my life.”

“Hang on, though,” said Ron. “The Chamber of

Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”

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“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!”

“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said

Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak —”

“ ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” said

Hermione firmly. “A story about how humans are

frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as

hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have

everything we need already!”

“I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,”

said Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so

disliked over in his fingers.

“There’s no such thing, Harry!”

“You said there have been loads of wands — the

Deathstick and whatever they were called —”

“All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder

Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her

fingers sketched quotation marks around the name,

and her tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise

the dead, and that’s that!”

“When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it

made my mum and dad appear … and Cedric …”

“But they weren’t really back from the dead, were

they?” said Hermione. “Those kinds of — of pale

imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone

back to life.”

“But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back,

did she? The story says that once people are dead,

they belong with the dead. But the second brother

still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even

lived with her for a while. …”

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He saw concern and something less easily definable

in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glanced at

Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared

her with his talk of living with dead people.

“So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s

Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly

sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?”

“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of

subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his

grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything

important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The

only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ is

Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed

it from Kreacher,” she explained as Ron raised his

eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are

now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells

were one of the earliest families to vanish.”

“ ‘Extinct in the male line’?” repeated Ron.

“It means the name’s died out,” said Hermione,

“centuries ago, in the case of the Peverells. They could

still have descendants, though, they’d just be called

something different.”

And then it came to Harry in one shining piece, the

memory that had stirred at the sound of the name

“Peverell”: a filthy old man brandishing an ugly ring

in the face of a Ministry official, and he cried aloud,

“Marvolo Gaunt!”

“Sorry?” said Ron and Hermione together.

“Marvolo Gaunt! You-Know-Who’s grandfather! In the

Pensieve! With Dumbledore! Marvolo Gaunt said he

was descended from the Peverells!”

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Ron and Hermione looked bewildered.

“The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo

Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it! I

saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s

face, he nearly shoved it up his nose!”

“The Peverell coat of arms?” said Hermione sharply.

“Could you see what it looked like?”

“Not really,” said Harry, trying to remember. “There

was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see;

maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close

up after it had been cracked open.”

Harry saw Hermione’s comprehension in the sudden

widening of her eyes. Ron was looking from one to the

other, astonished.

“Blimey … You reckon it was this sign again? The

sign of the Hallows?”

“Why not?” said Harry excitedly. “Marvolo Gaunt was

an ignorant old git who lived like a pig, all he cared

about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed

down through the centuries, he might not have

known what it really was. There were no books in that

house, and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy

tales to his kids. He’d have loved to think the

scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because

as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made

you practically royal.”

“Yes … and that’s all very interesting,” said Hermione

cautiously, “but Harry, if you’re thinking what I think

you’re think —”

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“Well, why not? Why not?” said Harry, abandoning caution. “It was a stone, wasn’t it?” He looked at Ron

for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”

Ron’s mouth fell open.

“Blimey — but would it still work if Dumbledore broke

— ?”

“Work? Work? Ron, it never worked! There’s no such

thing as a Resurrection Stone!”

Hermione had leapt to her feet, looking exasperated

and angry. “Harry, you’re trying to fit everything into

the Hallows story —”

“Fit everything in?” he repeated. “Hermione, it fits of

its own accord! I know the sign of the Deathly Hallows

was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from

the Peverells!”

“A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on

the stone properly!”

“Where d’you reckon the ring is now?” Ron asked

Harry. “What did Dumbledore do with it after he

broke it open?”

But Harry’s imagination was racing ahead, far beyond

Ron and Hermione’s. …

Three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make

the possessor master of Death … Master … Conqueror

… Vanquisher … The last enemy that shall be

destroyed is death. …

And he saw himself, possessor of the Hallows, facing

Voldemort, whose Horcruxes were no match …

Neither can live while the other survives. … Was this

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the answer? Hallows versus Horcruxes? Was there a

way, after all, to ensure that he was the one who

triumphed? If he were the master of the Deathly

Hallows, would he be safe?

“Harry?”

But he scarcely heard Hermione: He had pulled out

his Invisibility Cloak and was running it through his

fingers, the cloth supple as water, light as air. He had

never seen anything to equal it in his nearly seven

years in the Wizarding world. The Cloak was exactly

what Xenophilius had described: A cloak that really

and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and

endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable

concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it. …

And then, with a gasp, he remembered —

“Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents

died!”

His voice shook and he could feel the color in his face,

but he did not care.

“My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the

Cloak! This is why! He wanted to examine it, because

he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is

buried in Godric’s Hollow. …” Harry was walking

blindly around the tent, feeling as though great new

vistas of truth were opening all around him. “He’s my

ancestor! I’m descended from the third brother! It all

makes sense!”

He felt armed in certainty, in his belief in the Hallows,

as if the mere idea of possessing them was giving him

protection, and he felt joyous as he turned back to

the other two.

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“Harry,” said Hermione again, but he was busy

undoing the pouch around his neck, his fingers

shaking hard.

“Read it,” he told her, pushing his mother’s letter into

her hand. “Read it! Dumbledore had the Cloak,

Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn’t need

a Cloak, he could perform a Disillusionment Charm

so powerful that he made himself completely invisible

without one!”

Something fell to the floor and rolled, glittering, under

a chair: He had dislodged the Snitch when he pulled

out the letter. He stooped to pick it up, and then the

newly tapped spring of fabulous discoveries threw

him another gift, and shock and wonder erupted

inside him so that he shouted out.

“IT’S IN HERE! He left me the ring — it’s in the

Snitch!”

“You — you reckon?”

He could not understand why Ron looked taken

aback. It was so obvious, so clear to Harry:

Everything fit, everything. … His Cloak was the third

Hallow, and when he discovered how to open the

Snitch he would have the second, and then all he

needed to do was find the first Hallow, the Elder

Wand, and then —

But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage: All

his excitement, all his hope and happiness were

extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the

darkness, and the glorious spell was broken.

“That’s what he’s after.”

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The change in his voice made Ron and Hermione look

even more scared.

“You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wand.”

He turned his back on their strained, incredulous

faces. He knew it was the truth. It all made sense.

Voldemort was not seeking a new wand; he was

seeking an old wand, a very old wand indeed. Harry

walked to the entrance of the tent, forgetting about

Ron and Hermione as he looked out into the night,

thinking. …

Voldemort had been raised in a Muggle orphanage.

Nobody could have told him The Tales of Beedle the

Bard when he was a child, any more than Harry had

heard them. Hardly any wizards believed in the

Deathly Hallows. Was it likely that Voldemort knew

about them?

Harry gazed into the darkness. … If Voldemort had

known about the Deathly Hallows, surely he would

have sought them, done anything to possess them:

three objects that made the possessor master of

Death? If he had known about the Deathly Hallows,

he might not have needed Horcruxes in the first

place. Didn’t the simple fact that he had taken a

Hallow, and turned it into a Horcrux, demonstrate

that he did not know this last great Wizarding secret?

Which meant that Voldemort sought the Elder Wand

without realizing its full power, without

understanding that it was one of three … for the

wand was the Hallow that could not be hidden, whose

existence was best known. … The bloody trail of the

Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of

Wizarding history …

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Harry watched the cloudy sky, curves of smoke-gray

and silver sliding over the face of the white moon. He

felt lightheaded with amazement at his discoveries.

He turned back into the tent. It was a shock to see

Ron and Hermione standing exactly where he had left

them, Hermione still holding Lily’s letter, Ron at her

side looking slightly anxious. Didn’t they realize how

far they had traveled in the last few minutes?

“This is it,” Harry said, trying to bring them inside the

glow of his own astonished certainty. “This explains

everything. The Deathly Hallows are real, and I’ve got

one — maybe two —”

He held up the Snitch.

“— and You-Know-Who’s chasing the third, but he

doesn’t realize … he just thinks it’s a powerful wand

—”

“Harry,” said Hermione, moving across to him and

handing him back Lily’s letter, “I’m sorry, but I think

you’ve got this wrong, all wrong.”

“But don’t you see? It all fits —”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “It doesn’t, Harry, you’re

just getting carried away. Please,” she said as he

started to speak, “please just answer me this: If the

Deathly Hallows really existed, and Dumbledore knew

about them, knew that the person who possessed all

three of them would be master of Death — Harry, why

wouldn’t he have told you? Why?”

He had his answer ready.

“But you said it, Hermione! You’ve got to find out

about them for yourself! It’s a Quest!”

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“But I only said that to try and persuade you to come to the Lovegoods’!” cried Hermione in exasperation. “I

didn’t really believe it!”

Harry took no notice.

“Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself.

He let me try my strength, take risks. This feels like

the kind of thing he’d do.”

“Harry, this isn’t a game, this isn’t practice! This is

the real thing, and Dumbledore left you very clear

instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes! That

symbol doesn’t mean anything, forget the Deathly

Hallows, we can’t afford to get sidetracked —”

Harry was barely listening to her. He was turning the

Snitch over and over in his hands, half expecting it to

break open, to reveal the Resurrection Stone, to prove

to Hermione that he was right, that the Deathly

Hallows were real.

She appealed to Ron.

“You don’t believe in this, do you?”

Harry looked up. Ron hesitated.

“I dunno … I mean … bits of it sort of fit together,”

said Ron awkwardly. “But when you look at the whole

thing …” He took a deep breath. “I think we’re

supposed to get rid of Horcruxes, Harry. That’s what

Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe … maybe we should

forget about this Hallows business.”

“Thank you, Ron,” said Hermione. “I’ll take first

watch.”

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And she strode past Harry and sat down in the tent

entrance, bringing the action to a fierce full stop.

But Harry hardly slept that night. The idea of the

Deathly Hallows had taken possession of him, and he

could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled

through his mind: the wand, the stone, and the

Cloak, if he could just possess them all. …

I open at the close. … But what was ‘the close’? Why

couldn’t he have the stone now? If only he had the

stone, he could ask Dumbledore these questions in

person … and Harry murmured words to the Snitch

in the darkness, trying everything, even Parseltongue,

but the golden ball would not open. …

And the wand, the Elder Wand, where was that

hidden? Where was Voldemort searching now? Harry

wished his scar would burn and show him

Voldemort’s thoughts, because for the first time ever,

he and Voldemort were united in wanting the very

same thing. … Hermione would not like that idea, of

course. … But then, she did not believe …

Xenophilius had been right, in a way … Limited.

Narrow. Close-minded. The truth was that she was

scared of the idea of the Deathly Hallows, especially of

the Resurrection Stone … and Harry pressed his

mouth again to the Snitch, kissing it, nearly

swallowing it, but the cold metal did not yield. …

It was nearly dawn when he remembered Luna, alone

in a cell in Azkaban, surrounded by dementors, and

he suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He had forgotten

all about her in his feverish contemplation of the

Hallows. If only they could rescue her; but dementors

in those numbers would be virtually unassailable.

Now he came to think about it, he had not yet tried

casting a Patronus with the blackthorn wand. … He

must try that in the morning. …

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If only there was a way of getting a better wand …

And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick,

unbeatable, invincible, swallowed him once more. …

They packed up the tent next morning and moved on

through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour

pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the

tent that night, and persisted through the whole

week, through sodden landscapes that Harry found

bleak and depressing. He could think only of the

Deathly Hallows. It was as though a flame had been

lit inside him that nothing, not Hermione’s flat

disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts, could

extinguish. And yet the fiercer the longing for the

Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful it made

him. He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined

indifference was as bad as the relentless rain for

dampening his spirits, but neither could erode his

certainty, which remained absolute. Harry’s belief in

and longing for the Hallows consumed him so much

that he felt quite isolated from the other two and their

obsession with the Horcruxes.

“Obsession?” said Hermione in a low fierce voice,

when Harry was careless enough to use the word one

evening, after Hermione had told him off for his lack

of interest in locating more Horcruxes. “We’re not the

ones with an obsession, Harry! We’re the ones trying

to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!”

But he was impervious to the veiled criticism.

Dumbledore had left the sign of the Hallows for

Hermione to decipher, and he had also, Harry

remained convinced of it, left the Resurrection Stone

hidden in the golden Snitch. Neither can live while the

other survives. … master of Death … Why didn’t Ron

and Hermione understand?

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“ ‘ The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death, ’ ”

Harry quoted calmly.

“I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to

be fighting?” Hermione retorted, and Harry gave up

on her.

Even the mystery of the silver doe, which the other

two insisted on discussing, seemed less important to

Harry now, a vaguely interesting sideshow. The only

other thing that mattered to him was that his scar

had begun to prickle again, although he did all he

could to hide this fact from the other two. He sought

solitude whenever it happened, but was disappointed

by what he saw. The visions he and Voldemort were

sharing had changed in quality; they had become

blurred, shifting as though they were moving in and

out of focus. Harry was just able to make out the

indistinct features of an object that looked like a

skull, and something like a mountain that was more

shadow than substance. Used to images sharp as

reality, Harry was disconcerted by the change. He was

worried that the connection between himself and

Voldemort had been damaged, a connection that he

both feared and, whatever he had told Hermione,

prized. Somehow Harry connected these unsatisfying,

vague images with the destruction of his wand, as if it

was the blackthorn wand’s fault that he could no

longer see into Voldemort’s mind as well as before.

As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but

notice, even through his new self-absorption, that

Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he

was determined to make up for having walked out on

them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into

listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership

qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and

exhorting the other two into action.

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“Three Horcruxes left,” he kept saying. “We need a

plan of action, come on! Where haven’t we looked?

Let’s go through it again. The orphanage …”

Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and

Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom

Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or murdered,

Ron and Hermione raked over them again, Harry

joining in only to stop Hermione pestering him. He

would have been happy to sit alone in silence, trying

to read Voldemort’s thoughts, to find out more about

the Elder Wand, but Ron insisted on journeying to

ever more unlikely places simply, Harry was aware, to

keep them moving.

“You never know,” was Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper

Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to

live there. Let’s go and have a poke around.”

These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought

them within occasional sight of Snatchers.

“Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death

Eaters,” said Ron. “The lot that got me were a bit

pathetic, but Bill reckons some of them are really

dangerous. They said on Potterwatch —”

“On what?” said Harry.

“Potterwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was

called? The program I keep trying to get on the radio,

the only one that tells the truth about what’s going

on! Nearly all the programs are following You-Know-

Who’s line, all except Potterwatch. I really want you to

hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in. …”

Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to

beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while

the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch

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snatches of advice on how to treat dragon pox, and

once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong

Love.” While he tapped, Ron continued to try to hit on

the correct password, muttering strings of random

words under his breath.

“They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he

told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them.

I’m bound to get one in the end. …”

But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry

was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty,

staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had

forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron

shouted excitedly from inside the tent.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in

here, Harry!”

Roused for the first time in days from his

contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried

back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione

kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione,

who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just

for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed,

staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most

familiar voice was issuing.

“… apologize for our temporary absence from the

airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls

in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”

“But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.

“I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?”

“… now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee

was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of

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our regular contributors have joined me here this

evening. Evening, boys!”

“Hi.”

“Evening, River.”

“ ‘River,’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained. “They’ve all got

code names, but you can usually tell —”

“Shh!” said Hermione.

“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee

went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths

that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily

Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is

with great regret that we inform our listeners of the

murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”

Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and

Hermione gazed at one another in horror.

“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is

believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a

second goblin, both believed to have been traveling

with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have

escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any

knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters

are desperate for news.

“Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has

been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities

are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members

of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the

Killing Curse — more evidence, as if it were needed, of

the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more

than a recreational sport under the new regime.

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“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in

Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several

months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that

her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries

inflicted by Dark Magic.

“Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a

minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk

Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the

unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered

by the Death Eaters.”

Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not

speak. Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him

was afraid of what might come next. It was the first

time he had felt fully connected to the outside world

for a long time.

“Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we turn to

regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the

new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep,

measured, reassuring.

“Kingsley!” burst out Ron.

“We know!” said Hermione, hushing him.

“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their

suffering as they continue to sustain heavy

casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to

hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches

risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and

neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d

like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their

example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over

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any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

“And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners

who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be

‘Wizards first’?” asked Lee.

“I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to

‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’ ” replied

Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human

life is worth the same, and worth saving.”

“Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for

Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” said

Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular

feature ‘Pals of Potter.’ ”

“Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron

started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a

whisper.

“We know it’s Lupin!”

“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time

you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is

still alive?”

“I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in

my mind that his death would be proclaimed as

widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had

happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at

the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy

Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which

we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of

innocence, the need to keep resisting.”

A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry.

Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things

he had said when they had last met?

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“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”

“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin,

then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his

instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of

tears.

“Nearly always right,” she repeated.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told

me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently

she’s getting pretty big too. …”

“… and our usual update on those friends of Harry

Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee

was saying.

“Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the

more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now

been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood,

erstwhile editor of The Quibbler, ” said Lupin.

“At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron.

“We have also heard within the last few hours that

Rubeus Hagrid” — all three of them gasped, and so

nearly missed the rest of the sentence — “well-known

gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly

escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where

he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’

party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken

into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”

“I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters,

if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asked

Lee.

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“It would tend to give you an edge,” agreed Lupin

gravely. “May I just add that while we here at

Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge

even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against

following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Support Harry Potter’ parties

are unwise in the present climate.”

“Indeed they are, Romulus,” said Lee, “so we suggest

that you continue to show your devotion to the man

with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch!

And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard

who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like

to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to

give his views on some of the more insane rumors

circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new

correspondent: Rodent.”

“ ‘ Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry,

Ron, and Hermione cried out together:

“Fred!”

“No — is it George?”

“It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as

whichever twin it was said,

“I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to

be ‘Rapier’!”

“Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us

your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing

about the Chief Death Eater?”

“Yes, River, I can,” said Fred. “As our listeners will

know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a

garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s

strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a

nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged

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sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good

nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”

“Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley. “The air

of mystery is creating more terror than actually

showing himself.”

“Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm

down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing

stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-

Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes.

That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check

whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If

it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it

really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the

last thing you ever do.”

For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was

laughing: He could feel the weight of tension leaving

him.

“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?”

asked Lee.

“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all

the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred.

“Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of

security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he

is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move

faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo

when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long

way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. I

never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”

“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,”

said Lee. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of

another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be

possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we

shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next

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password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe:

Keep faith. Good night.”

The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the

tuning panel went out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione

were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices

was an extraordinary tonic; Harry had become so

used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that

other people were resisting Voldemort. It was like

waking from a long sleep.

“Good, eh?” said Ron happily.

“Brilliant,” said Harry.

“It’s so brave of them,” sighed Hermione admiringly.

“If they were found …”

“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” said Ron.

“Like us.”

“But did you hear what Fred said?” asked Harry

excitedly; now the broadcast was over, his thoughts

turned again toward his all-consuming obsession.

“He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew

it!”

“Harry —”

“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not

to admit it? Vol —”

“HARRY, NO!”

“— demort’s after the Elder Wand!”

“The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet

as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you,

Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore — we’ve got

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to put the protection back around us — quickly — it’s how they find —”

But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The

Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to

spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and

nearer: rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the

Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: Their

lamps went out.

“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a

rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re

in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at

you and we don’t care who we curse!”

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MALFOY MANOR

Harry looked around at the other two, now mere

outlines in the darkness. He saw Hermione point her

wand, not toward the outside, but into his face; there

was a bang, a burst of white light, and he buckled in

agony, unable to see. He could feel his face swelling

rapidly under his hands as heavy footfalls

surrounded him.

“Get up, vermin.”

Unknown hands dragged Harry roughly off the

ground. Before he could stop them, someone had

rummaged through his pockets and removed the

blackthorn wand. Harry clutched at his excruciatingly

painful face, which felt unrecognizable beneath his

fingers, tight, swollen, and puffy as though he had

suffered some violent allergic reaction. His eyes had

been reduced to slits through which he could barely

see; his glasses fell off as he was bundled out of the

tent; all he could make out were the blurred shapes of

four or five people wrestling Ron and Hermione

outside too.

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“Get — off — her!” Ron shouted. There was the

unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron

grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, “No! Leave

him alone, leave him alone!”

“Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done

to him if he’s on my list,” said the horribly familiar,

rasping voice. “Delicious girl … What a treat … I do

enjoy the softness of the skin. …”

Harry’s stomach turned over. He knew who this was:

Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who was permitted to

wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired

savagery.

“Search the tent!” said another voice.

Harry was thrown facedown onto the ground. A thud

told him that Ron had been cast down beside him.

They could hear footsteps and crashes; the men were

pushing over chairs inside the tent as they searched.

“Now, let’s see who we’ve got,” said Greyback’s

gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled

over onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his

face and Greyback laughed.

“I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down.

What happened to you, ugly?”

Harry did not answer immediately.

“I said, ” repeated Greyback, and Harry received a

blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in

pain, “what happened to you?”

“Stung,” Harry muttered. “Been stung.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” said a second voice.

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“What’s your name?” snarled Greyback.

“Dudley,” said Harry.

“And your first name?”

“I — Vernon. Vernon Dudley.”

“Check the list, Scabior,” said Greyback, and Harry

heard him move sideways to look down at Ron,

instead. “And what about you, ginger?”

“Stan Shunpike,” said Ron.

“Like ’ell you are,” said the man called Scabior. “We

know Stan Shunpike, ’e’s put a bit of work our way.”

There was another thud.

“I’b Bardy,” said Ron, and Harry could tell that his

mouth was full of blood. “Bardy Weadley.”

“A Weasley?” rasped Greyback. “So you’re related to

blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And

lastly, your pretty little friend …” The relish in his

voice made Harry’s flesh crawl.

“Easy, Greyback,” said Scabior over the jeering of the

others.

“Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a

bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny.

Who are you, girly?”

“Penelope Clearwater,” said Hermione. She sounded

terrified, but convincing.

“What’s your blood status?”

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“Half-blood,” said Hermione.

“Easy enough to check,” said Scabior. “But the ’ole lot

of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age —”

“We’b lebt,” said Ron.

“Left, ’ave you, ginger?” said Scabior. “And you

decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a

laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”

“Nod a laugh,” said Ron. “Aggiden.”

“Accident?” There was more jeering laughter.

“You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s

name, Weasley?” growled Greyback. “The Order of the

Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

“Doh.”

“Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect,

so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members

have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up

with the other two prisoners!”

Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a

short way, pushed him down into a sitting position,

then started binding him back-to-back with other

people. Harry was still half blind, barely able to see

anything through his puffed-up eyes. When at last

the man tying them had walked away, Harry

whispered to the other prisoners.

“Anyone still got a wand?”

“No,” said Ron and Hermione from either side of him.

“This is all my fault. I said the name, I’m sorry —”

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“Harry?”

It was a new, but familiar, voice, and it came from

directly behind Harry, from the person tied to

Hermione’s left.

“Dean?”

“It is you! If they find out who they’ve got — ! They’re

Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for

gold —”

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was

saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by

Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the

tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and three

truants. You checked their names on the list yet,

Scabior?” he roared.

“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ’ere, Greyback.”

“Interesting,” said Greyback. “That’s interesting.”

He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through

the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids,

a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with

pointed brown teeth and sores at the corners of his

mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of

the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat,

and blood.

“So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on

that list under a different name? What House were

you in at Hogwarts?”

“Slytherin,” said Harry automatically.

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“Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,”

jeered Scabior out of the shadows. “But none of ’em

can tell us where the common room is.”

“It’s in the dungeons,” said Harry clearly. “You enter

through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and it’s

under the lake, so the light’s all green.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little

Slytherin,” said Scabior. “Good for you, Vernon,

’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s

your father?”

“He works at the Ministry,” Harry lied. He knew that

his whole story would collapse with the smallest

investigation, but on the other hand, he only had

until his face regained its usual appearance before

the game was up in any case. “Department of Magical

Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You know what, Greyback,” said Scabior. “I think

there is a Dudley in there.”

Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck,

get them safely out of this?

“Well, well,” said Greyback, and Harry could hear the

tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and

knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had

indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry

official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes

around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to

know that Greyback could see it. “If you’re telling the

truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to

the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for

picking you up.”

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“But,” said Harry, his mouth bone dry, “if you just let us —”

“Hey!” came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at

this, Greyback!”

A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry

saw a glint of silver in the light of their wands. They

had found Gryffindor’s sword.

“Ve-e-ry nice,” said Greyback appreciatively, taking it

from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks

goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like

this?”

“It’s my father’s,” Harry lied, hoping against hope that

it was too dark for Greyback to see the name etched

just below the hilt. “We borrowed it to cut firewood —”

“ ’ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the

Prophet!”

As Scabior said it, Harry’s scar, which was stretched

tight across his distended forehead, burned savagely.

More clearly than he could make out anything around

him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-

black and forbidding; Voldemort’s thoughts had

suddenly become razor-sharp again; he was gliding

toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly

euphoric purpose. …

So close … So close …

With a huge effort of will Harry closed his mind to

Voldemort’s thoughts, pulling himself back to where

he sat, tied to Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook in

the darkness, listening to Greyback and Scabior.

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“ ‘’ ermione Granger, ’ ” Scabior was saying, “ ‘ the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with ’arry

Potter. ’ ”

Harry’s scar burned in the silence, but he made a

supreme effort to keep himself present, not to slip

into Voldemort’s mind. He heard the creak of

Greyback’s boots as he crouched down in front of

Hermione.

“You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell

of a lot like you.”

“It isn’t! It isn’t me!”

Hermione’s terrified squeak was as good as a

confession.

“ ‘… known to be traveling with Harry Potter, ’ ”

repeated Greyback quietly.

A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry’s scar

was exquisitely painful, but he struggled with all his

strength against the pull of Voldemort’s thoughts: It

had never been so important to remain in his own

right mind.

“Well, this changes things, doesn’t it?” whispered

Greyback. Nobody spoke: Harry sensed the gang of

Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Hermione’s arm

trembling against his. Greyback got up and took a

couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching down

again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

“What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked

softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he

pressed a filthy finger to the taut scar.

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“Don’t touch it!” Harry yelled; he could not stop

himself; he thought he might be sick from the pain of

it.

“I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” breathed

Greyback.

“I found glasses!” yelped one of the Snatchers

skulking in the background. “There was glasses in the

tent, Greyback, wait —”

And seconds later Harry’s glasses had been rammed

back onto his face. The Snatchers were closing in

now, peering at him.

“It is!” rasped Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!”

They all took several steps backward, stunned by

what they had done. Harry, still fighting to remain

present inside his own splitting head, could think of

nothing to say: Fragmented visions were breaking

across the surface of his mind —

— He was gliding around the high walls of the black

fortress —

No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave

danger —

— looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest

tower —

He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in

low voices —

— Time to fly …

“… to the Ministry?”

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“To hell with the Ministry,” growled Greyback. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we

take him straight to You-Know-Who.”

“Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” said Scabior, sounding

awed, terrified.

“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got — they say he’s

using the Malfoys’ place as a base. We’ll take the boy

there.”

Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling

Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear

Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but

only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the

Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this

highest honor.

Harry’s scar seared again —

— and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the

window at the very top of the tower —

“… completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t,

Greyback, we’re dead.”

“Who’s in charge here?” roared Greyback, covering his

moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him

plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons

right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along,

any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get

the girl thrown in!”

— The window was the merest slit in the black rock,

not big enough for a man to enter. … A skeletal figure

was just visible through it, curled beneath a blanket. …

Dead, or sleeping … ?

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“All right!” said Scabior. “All right, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with

’em?”

“Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods,

that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as

well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune

right there.”

The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could

hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified.

“Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” said

Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could

feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. “On

three! One — two — three —”

They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them.

Harry struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand,

but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were

squeezed tightly against him on either side, he could

not separate from the group, and as the breath was

squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully

still —

— as he forced himself through the slit of a window

like a snake and landed, lightly as vapor, inside the

cell-like room —

The prisoners lurched into one another as they

landed in a country lane. Harry’s eyes, still puffy, took

a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of

wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a

long drive. He experienced the tiniest trickle of relief.

The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was not

here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to

resist the vision, in some strange, fortresslike place,

at the top of a tower. How long it would take

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Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that

Harry was here, was another matter. …

One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook

them.

“How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t

— blimey!”

He whipped his hands away in fright. The iron was

contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and

coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a

clanging, echoing voice: “State your purpose!”

“We’ve got Potter!” Greyback roared triumphantly.

“We’ve captured Harry Potter!”

The gates swung open.

“Come on!” said Greyback to his men, and the

prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the

drive, between high hedges that muffled their

footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above

him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He

stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback;

now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-

back to the four other prisoners. Closing his puffy

eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him

for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was

doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught. …

The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket

and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of

a face. … The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes

fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled.

Most of his teeth were gone. …

“So, you have come. I thought you would … one day.

But your journey was pointless. I never had it. ”

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“You lie!”

As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s

scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched

his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain

present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.

Light spilled out over all of them.

“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.

“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”

rasped Greyback.

“Who are you?”

“You know me!” There was resentment in the

werewolf’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught

Harry Potter!”

Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to

face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle

around too.

“I know ’e’s swollen, ma’am, but it’s ’im!” piped up

Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ’is scar.

And this ’ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been

traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt

it’s ’im, and we’ve got ’is wand as well! ’Ere, ma’am —”

Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy

scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the

blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.

“Bring them in,” she said.

Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up

broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.

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“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays.

If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”

The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside;

even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make

out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal

chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits

against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from

chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the

prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.

“What is this?”

The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius

Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now: He

could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear

mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though

his scar was still burning.

“They say they’ve got Potter,” said Narcissa’s cold

voice. “Draco, come here.”

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw

him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was,

rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed

blur beneath white-blond hair.

Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to

place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.

“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.

Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great

gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through

the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the

first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.

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His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature

distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached

his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around

his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood

there, he would have wondered who was wearing his

glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was

sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact

with Draco as the latter approached.

“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid.

“Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

“I can’t — I can’t be sure,” said Draco. He was keeping

his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of

looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.

“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”

Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.

“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the

Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv —”

“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him,

I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.

“Of course not, of course not!” said Lucius

impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so

close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale

face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes.

With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he

was peering out from between the bars of a cage.

“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback.

“How did he get into this state?”

“That wasn’t us.”

“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.

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His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.

“There’s something there,” he whispered, “it could be

the scar, stretched tight. … Draco, come here, look

properly! What do you think?”

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his

father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that

while his father looked beside himself with

excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance,

even fear.

“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward

the fireplace where his mother stood watching.

“We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa called to

her husband in her cold, clear voice. “Completely sure

that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord …

They say this is his” — she was looking closely at the

blackthorn wand — “but it does not resemble

Ollivander’s description. … If we are mistaken, if we

call the Dark Lord here for nothing … Remember

what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”

“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback.

Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers

forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that

the light fell on Hermione instead.

“Wait,” said Narcissa sharply. “Yes — yes, she was in

Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the

Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”

“I … maybe … yeah.”

“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” shouted Lucius,

striding around the bound prisoners to face Ron. “It’s

them, Potter’s friends — Draco, look at him, isn’t it

Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name — ?”

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“Yeah,” said Draco again, his back to the prisoners.

“It could be.”

The drawing room door opened behind Harry. A

woman spoke, and the sound of the voice wound

Harry’s fear to an even higher pitch.

“What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?”

Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the

prisoners, and stopped on Harry’s right, staring at

Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes.

“But surely,” she said quietly, “this is the Mudblood

girl? This is Granger?”

“Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” cried Lucius. “And beside her,

we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at

last!”

“Potter?” shrieked Bellatrix, and she backed away, the

better to take in Harry. “Are you sure? Well then, the

Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

She dragged back her left sleeve: Harry saw the Dark

Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and knew that

she was about to touch it, to summon her beloved

master —

“I was about to call him!” said Lucius, and his hand

actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her

from touching the Mark. “I shall summon him, Bella,

Potter has been brought to my house, and it is

therefore upon my authority —”

“Your authority!” she sneered, attempting to wrench

her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority

when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take

your hands off me!”

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“This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy —”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” interjected

Greyback, “but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us

that’ll be claiming the gold —”

“Gold!” laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off

her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her

pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy

scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the

honor of his — of —”

She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon

something Harry could not see. Jubilant at her

capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and

ripped up his own sleeve —

“STOP!” shrieked Bellatrix. “Do not touch it, we shall

all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”

Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own

Mark. Bellatrix strode out of Harry’s limited line of

vision.

“What is that?” he heard her say.

“Sword,” grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.

“Give it to me.”

“It’s not yorn, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.”

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Harry knew

that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a

roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand.

“What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?”

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“Stupefy!” she screamed. “Stupefy!”

They were no match for her, even though there were

four of them against one of her: She was a witch, as

Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience.

They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who

had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms

outstretched. Out of the corners of his eyes Harry saw

Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword

of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face

waxen.

“Where did you get this sword?” she whispered to

Greyback as she pulled his wand out of his

unresisting grip.

“How dare you?” he snarled, his mouth the only thing

that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her.

He bared his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!”

“Where did you find this sword?” she repeated,

brandishing it in his face. “Snape sent it to my vault

in Gringotts!”

“It was in their tent,” rasped Greyback. “Release me, I

say!”

She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his

feet, but appeared too wary to approach her. He

prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails

clutching its back.

“Draco, move this scum outside,” said Bellatrix,

indicating the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got

the guts to finish them, then leave them in the

courtyard for me.”

“Don’t you dare speak to Draco like —” said Narcissa

furiously, but Bellatrix screamed,

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“Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can

possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious

problem!”

She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the

sword, examining its hilt. Then she turned to look at

the silent prisoners.

“If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed,” she

muttered, more to herself than to the others. “The

Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself. … But

if he finds out … I must … I must know. …”

She turned back to her sister again.

“The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I

think what to do!”

“This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my

—”

“Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!”

shrieked Bellatrix. She looked frightening, mad; a

thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned

a hole in the carpet.

Narcissa hesitated for a moment, then addressed the

werewolf.

“Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”

“Wait,” said Bellatrix sharply. “All except … except for

the Mudblood.”

Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

“No!” shouted Ron. “You can have me, keep me!”

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Bellatrix hit him across the face; the blow echoed

around the room.

“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she

said. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book.

Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they

are secure, but do nothing more to them — yet.”

She threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then took a

short silver knife from under her robes. She cut

Hermione free from the other prisoners, then dragged

her by the hair into the middle of the room, while

Greyback forced the rest of them to shuffle across to

another door, into a dark passageway, his wand held

out in front of him, projecting an invisible and

irresistible force.

“Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s

finished with her?” Greyback crooned as he forced

them along the corridor. “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two,

wouldn’t you, ginger?”

Harry could feel Ron shaking. They were forced down

a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back and in

danger of slipping and breaking their necks at any

moment. At the bottom was a heavy door. Greyback

unlocked it with a tap of his wand, then forced them

into a dank and musty room and left them in total

darkness. The echoing bang of the slammed cellar

door had not died away before there was a terrible,

drawn-out scream from directly above them.

“HERMIONE!” Ron bellowed, and he started to writhe

and struggle against the ropes tying them together, so

that Harry staggered. “HERMIONE!”

“Be quiet!” Harry said. “Shut up, Ron, we need to

work out a way —”

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“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”

“We need a plan, stop yelling — we need to get these

ropes off —”

“Harry?” came a whisper through the darkness. “Ron?

Is that you?”

Ron stopped shouting. There was a sound of

movement close by them, then Harry saw a shadow

moving closer.

“Harry? Ron?”

“Luna?”

“Yes, it’s me! Oh no, I didn’t want you to be caught!”

“Luna, can you help us get these ropes off?” said

Harry.

“Oh yes, I expect so. … There’s an old nail we use if

we need to break anything. … Just a moment …”

Hermione screamed again from overhead, and they

could hear Bellatrix screaming too, but her words

were inaudible, for Ron shouted again, “HERMIONE!

HERMIONE!”

“Mr. Ollivander?” Harry could hear Luna saying. “Mr.

Ollivander, have you got the nail? If you just move

over a little bit… I think it was beside the water jug.

…”

She was back within seconds.

“You’ll need to stay still,” she said.

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Harry could feel her digging at the rope’s tough fibers to work the knots free. From upstairs they heard

Bellatrix’s voice.

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this

sword? Where?”

“We found it — we found it — PLEASE!” Hermione

screamed again; Ron struggled harder than ever, and

the rusty nail slipped onto Harry’s wrist.

“Ron, please stay still!” Luna whispered. “I can’t see

what I’m doing —”

“My pocket!” said Ron. “In my pocket, there’s a

Deluminator, and it’s full of light!”

A few seconds later, there was a click, and the

luminescent spheres the Deluminator had sucked

from the lamps in the tent flew into the cellar: Unable

to rejoin their sources, they simply hung there, like

tiny suns, flooding the underground room with light.

Harry saw Luna, all eyes in her white face, and the

motionless figure of Ollivander the wandmaker,

curled up on the floor in the corner. Craning around,

he caught sight of their fellow prisoners: Dean and

Griphook the goblin, who seemed barely conscious,

kept standing by the ropes that bound him to the

humans.

“Oh, that’s much easier, thanks, Ron,” said Luna,

and she began hacking at their bindings again.

“Hello, Dean!”

From above came Bellatrix’s voice.

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You

have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth,

tell the truth!”

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Another terrible scream —

“HERMIONE!”

“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell

me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with

this knife!”

“There!”

Harry felt the ropes fall away and turned, rubbing his

wrists, to see Ron running around the cellar, looking

up at the low ceiling, searching for a trapdoor. Dean,

his face bruised and bloody, said “Thanks” to Luna

and stood there, shivering, but Griphook sank onto

the cellar floor, looking groggy and disoriented, many

welts across his swarthy face.

Ron was now trying to Disapparate without a wand.

“There’s no way out, Ron,” said Luna, watching his

fruitless efforts. “The cellar is completely escape-

proof. I tried, at first. Mr. Ollivander has been here for

a long time, he’s tried everything.”

Hermione was screaming again: The sound went

through Harry like physical pain. Barely conscious of

the fierce prickling of his scar, he too started to run

around the cellar, feeling the walls for he hardly knew

what, knowing in his heart that it was useless.

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!

CRUCIO!”

Hermione’s screams echoed off the walls upstairs,

Ron was half sobbing as he pounded the walls with

his fists, and Harry in utter desperation seized

Hagrid’s pouch from around his neck and groped

inside it: He pulled out Dumbledore’s Snitch and

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shook it, hoping for he did not know what — nothing happened — he waved the broken halves of the

phoenix wand, but they were lifeless — the mirror

fragment fell sparkling to the floor, and he saw a

gleam of brightest blue —

Dumbledore’s eye was gazing at him out of the mirror.

“Help us!” he yelled at it in mad desperation. “We’re in

the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us!”

The eye blinked and was gone.

Harry was not even sure that it had really been there.

He tilted the shard of mirror this way and that, and

saw nothing reflected there but the walls and ceiling

of their prison, and upstairs Hermione was screaming

worse than ever, and next to him Ron was bellowing,

“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”

“How did you get into my vault?” they heard Bellatrix

scream. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help

you?”

“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed. “We’ve

never been inside your vault. … It isn’t the real sword!

It’s a copy, just a copy!

“A copy?” screeched Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!”

“But we can find out easily!” came Lucius’s voice.

“Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the

sword is real or not!”

Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was

huddled on the floor.

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“Griphook,” he whispered into the goblin’s pointed

ear, “you must tell them that sword’s a fake, they

mustn’t know it’s the real one, Griphook, please —”

He could hear someone scuttling down the cellar

steps; next moment, Draco’s shaking voice spoke

from behind the door.

“Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don’t try

anything, or I’ll kill you!”

They did as they were bidden; as the lock turned, Ron

clicked the Deluminator and the lights whisked back

into his pocket, restoring the cellar’s darkness. The

door flew open; Malfoy marched inside, wand held out

in front of him, pale and determined. He seized the

little goblin by the arm and backed out again,

dragging Griphook with him. The door slammed shut

and at the same moment a loud crack echoed inside

the cellar.

Ron clicked the Deluminator. Three balls of light flew

back into the air from his pocket, revealing Dobby the

house-elf, who had just Apparated into their midst.

“DOB — !”

Harry hit Ron on the arm to stop him shouting, and

Ron looked terrified at his mistake. Footsteps crossed

the ceiling overhead: Draco marching Griphook to

Bellatrix.

Dobby’s enormous, tennis-ball-shaped eyes were

wide; he was trembling from his feet to the tips of his

ears. He was back in the home of his old masters, and

it was clear that he was petrified.

“Harry Potter,” he squeaked in the tiniest quiver of a

voice, “Dobby has come to rescue you.”

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“But how did you — ?”

An awful scream drowned Harry’s words: Hermione

was being tortured again. He cut to the essentials.

“You can Disapparate out of this cellar?” he asked

Dobby, who nodded, his ears flapping.

“And you can take humans with you?”

Dobby nodded again.

“Right. Dobby, I want you to grab Luna, Dean, and

Mr. Ollivander, and take them — take them to —”

“Bill and Fleur’s,” said Ron. “Shell Cottage on the

outskirts of Tinworth!”

The elf nodded for a third time.

“And then come back,” said Harry. “Can you do that,

Dobby?”

“Of course, Harry Potter,” whispered the little elf. He

hurried over to Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be

barely conscious. He took one of the wandmaker’s

hands in his own, then held out the other to Luna

and Dean, neither of whom moved.

“Harry, we want to help you!” Luna whispered.

“We can’t leave you here,” said Dean.

“Go, both of you! We’ll see you at Bill and Fleur’s.”

As Harry spoke, his scar burned worse than ever, and

for a few seconds he looked down, not upon the

wandmaker, but on another man who was just as old,

just as thin, but laughing scornfully.

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“Kill me, then, Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death will not bring you what you seek. … There is so

much you do not understand. …”

He felt Voldemort’s fury, but as Hermione screamed

again he shut it out, returning to the cellar and the

horror of his own present.

“Go!” Harry beseeched Luna and Dean. “Go! We’ll

follow, just go!”

They caught hold of the elf’s outstretched fingers.

There was another loud crack, and Dobby, Luna,

Dean, and Ollivander vanished.

“What was that?” shouted Lucius Malfoy from over

their heads. “Did you hear that? What was that noise

in the cellar?”

Harry and Ron stared at each other.

“Draco — no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!”

Footsteps crossed the room overhead, then there was

silence. Harry knew that the people in the drawing

room were listening for more noises from the cellar.

“We’re going to have to try and tackle him,” he

whispered to Ron. They had no choice: The moment

anyone entered the room and saw the absence of

three prisoners, they were lost. “Leave the lights on,”

Harry added, and as they heard someone descending

the steps outside the door, they backed against the

wall on either side of it.

“Stand back,” came Wormtail’s voice. “Stand away

from the door. I am coming in.”

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The door flew open. For a split second Wormtail gazed into the apparently empty cellar, ablaze with light

from the three miniature suns floating in midair.

Then Harry and Ron launched themselves upon him.

Ron seized Wormtail’s wand arm and forced it

upward; Harry slapped a hand to his mouth, muffling

his voice. Silently they struggled: Wormtail’s wand

emitted sparks; his silver hand closed around Harry’s

throat.

“What is it, Wormtail?” called Lucius Malfoy from

above.

“Nothing!” Ron called back, in a passable imitation of

Wormtail’s wheezy voice. “All fine!”

Harry could barely breathe.

“You’re going to kill me?” Harry choked, attempting to

prise off the metal fingers. “After I saved your life?

You owe me, Wormtail!”

The silver fingers slackened. Harry had not expected

it: He wrenched himself free, astonished, keeping his

hand over Wormtail’s mouth. He saw the ratlike

man’s small watery eyes widen with fear and surprise:

He seemed just as shocked as Harry at what his hand

had done, at the tiny, merciful impulse it had

betrayed, and he continued to struggle more

powerfully, as though to undo that moment of

weakness.

“And we’ll have that,” whispered Ron, tugging

Wormtail’s wand from his other hand.

Wandless, helpless, Pettigrew’s pupils dilated in

terror. His eyes had slid from Harry’s face to

something else. His own silver fingers were moving

inexorably toward his own throat.

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“No —”

Without pausing to think, Harry tried to drag back

the hand, but there was no stopping it. The silver tool

that Voldemort had given his most cowardly servant

had turned upon its disarmed and useless owner;

Pettigrew was reaping his reward for his hesitation,

his moment of pity; he was being strangled before

their eyes.

“No!”

Ron had released Wormtail too, and together he and

Harry tried to pull the crushing metal fingers from

around Wormtail’s throat, but it was no use.

Pettigrew was turning blue.

“Relashio!” said Ron, pointing the wand at the silver

hand, but nothing happened; Pettigrew dropped to his

knees, and at the same moment, Hermione gave a

dreadful scream from overhead. Wormtail’s eyes rolled

upward in his purple face; he gave a last twitch, and

was still.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then leaving

Wormtail’s body on the floor behind them, ran up the

stairs and back into the shadowy passageway leading

to the drawing room. Cautiously they crept along it

until they reached the drawing room door, which was

ajar. Now they had a clear view of Bellatrix looking

down at Griphook, who was holding Gryffindor’s

sword in his long-fingered hands. Hermione was lying

at Bellatrix’s feet. She was barely stirring.

“Well?” Bellatrix said to Griphook. “Is it the true

sword?”

Harry waited, holding his breath, fighting against the

prickling of his scar.

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“No,” said Griphook. “It is a fake.”

“Are you sure?” panted Bellatrix. “Quite sure?”

“Yes,” said the goblin.

Relief broke across her face, all tension drained from

it.

“Good,” she said, and with a casual flick of her wand

she slashed another deep cut into the goblin’s face,

and he dropped with a yell at her feet. She kicked him

aside. “And now,” she said in a voice that burst with

triumph, “we call the Dark Lord!”

And she pushed back her sleeve and touched her

forefinger to the Dark Mark.

At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open

again. His true surroundings vanished: He was

Voldemort, and the skeletal wizard before him was

laughing toothlessly at him; he was enraged at the

summons he felt — he had warned them, he had told

them to summon him for nothing less than Potter. If

they were mistaken …

“Kill me, then!” demanded the old man. “You will not

win, you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be

yours —”

And Voldemort’s fury broke: A burst of green light

filled the prison room and the frail old body was lifted

from its hard bed and then fell back, lifeless, and

Voldemort returned to the window, his wrath barely

controllable. … They would suffer his retribution if

they had no good reason for calling him back. …

“And I think,” said Bellatrix’s voice, “we can dispose of

the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.”

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“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked

around, shocked; she turned her wand to face Ron

instead —

“Expelliarmus!” he roared, pointing Wormtail’s wand

at Bellatrix, and hers flew into the air and was caught

by Harry, who had sprinted after Ron. Lucius,

Narcissa, Draco, and Greyback wheeled about; Harry

yelled, “Stupefy!” and Lucius Malfoy collapsed onto

the hearth. Jets of light flew from Draco’s, Narcissa’s,

and Greyback’s wands; Harry threw himself to the

floor, rolling behind a sofa to avoid them.

“STOP OR SHE DIES!”

Panting, Harry peered around the edge of the sofa.

Bellatrix was supporting Hermione, who seemed to be

unconscious, and was holding her short silver knife

to Hermione’s throat.

“Drop your wands,” she whispered. “Drop them, or

we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Ron stood rigid, clutching Wormtail’s wand. Harry

straightened up, still holding Bellatrix’s.

“I said, drop them!” she screeched, pressing the blade

into Hermione’s throat: Harry saw beads of blood

appear there.

“All right!” he shouted, and he dropped Bellatrix’s

wand onto the floor at his feet. Ron did the same with

Wormtail’s. Both raised their hands to shoulder

height.

“Good!” she leered. “Draco, pick them up! The Dark

Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!”

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Harry knew it; his scar was bursting with the pain of it, and he could feel Voldemort flying through the sky

from far away, over a dark and stormy sea, and soon

he would be close enough to Apparate to them, and

Harry could see no way out.

“Now,” said Bellatrix softly, as Draco hurried back to

her with the wands, “Cissy, I think we ought to tie

these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes

care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will

not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you

have done tonight.”

At the last word there was a peculiar grinding noise

from above. All of them looked upward in time to see

the crystal chandelier tremble; then, with a creak and

an ominous jingling, it began to fall. Bellatrix was

directly beneath it; dropping Hermione, she threw

herself aside with a scream. The chandelier crashed

to the floor in an explosion of crystal and chains,

falling on top of Hermione and the goblin, who still

clutched the sword of Gryffindor. Glittering shards of

crystal flew in all directions: Draco doubled over, his

hands covering his bloody face.

As Ron ran to pull Hermione out of the wreckage,

Harry took his chance: He leapt over an armchair and

wrested the three wands from Draco’s grip, pointed all

of them at Greyback, and yelled, “Stupefy!” The

werewolf was lifted off his feet by the triple spell, flew

up to the ceiling, and then smashed to the ground.

As Narcissa dragged Draco out of the way of further

harm, Bellatrix sprang to her feet, her hair flying as

she brandished the silver knife; but Narcissa had

directed her wand at the doorway.

“Dobby!” she screamed, and even Bellatrix froze.

“You! You dropped the chandelier — ?”

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The tiny elf trotted into the room, his shaking finger pointing at his old mistress.

“You must not hurt Harry Potter,” he squeaked.

“Kill him, Cissy!” shrieked Bellatrix, but there was

another loud crack, and Narcissa’s wand too flew into

the air and landed on the other side of the room.

“You dirty little monkey!” bawled Bellatrix. “How dare

you take a witch’s wand, how dare you defy your

masters?”

“Dobby has no master!” squealed the elf. “Dobby is a

free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and

his friends!”

Harry’s scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly he

knew that they had moments, seconds before

Voldemort was with them.

“Ron, catch — and GO!” he yelled, throwing one of the

wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out

from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning

goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one

shoulder, Harry seized Dobby’s hand and spun on the

spot to Disapparate.

As he turned into darkness he caught one last view of

the drawing room: of the pale, frozen figures of

Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was

Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s

knife flew across the room at the place where he was

vanishing —

Bill and Fleur’s … Shell Cottage … Bill and Fleur’s …

He had disappeared into the unknown; all he could

do was repeat the name of the destination and hope

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that it would suffice to take him there. The pain in his forehead pierced him, and the weight of the goblin

bore down upon him; he could feel the blade of

Gryffindor’s sword bumping against his back; Dobby’s

hand jerked in his; he wondered whether the elf was

trying to take charge, to pull them in the right

direction, and tried, by squeezing the fingers, to

indicate that that was fine with him. …

And then they hit solid earth and smelled salty air.

Harry fell to his knees, relinquished Dobby’s hand,

and attempted to lower Griphook gently to the

ground.

“Are you all right?” he said as the goblin stirred, but

Griphook merely whimpered.

Harry squinted around through the darkness. There

seemed to be a cottage a short way away under the

wide starry sky, and he thought he saw movement

outside it.

“Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?” he whispered,

clutching the two wands he had brought from the

Malfoys’, ready to fight if he needed to. “Have we come

to the right place? Dobby?”

He looked around. The little elf stood feet from him.

“DOBBY!”

The elf swayed slightly, stars reflected in his wide,

shining eyes. Together, he and Harry looked down at

the silver hilt of the knife protruding from the elf’s

heaving chest.

“Dobby — no — HELP!” Harry bellowed toward the

cottage, toward the people moving there. “HELP!”

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He did not know or care whether they were wizards or Muggles, friends or foes; all he cared about was that a

dark stain was spreading across Dobby’s front, and

that he had stretched out his thin arms to Harry with

a look of supplication. Harry caught him and laid him

sideways on the cool grass.

“Dobby, no, don’t die, don’t die —”

The elf’s eyes found him, and his lips trembled with

the effort to form words.

“Harry … Potter …”

And then with a little shudder the elf became quite

still, and his eyes were nothing more than great

glassy orbs, sprinkled with light from the stars they

could not see.

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THE WANDMAKER

It was like sinking into an old nightmare; for an

instant Harry knelt again beside Dumbledore’s body

at the foot of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, but in

reality he was staring at a tiny body curled upon the

grass, pierced by Bellatrix’s silver knife. Harry’s voice

was still saying, “Dobby … Dobby …” even though he

knew that the elf had gone where he could not call

him back.

After a minute or so he realized that they had, after

all, come to the right place, for here were Bill and

Fleur, Dean and Luna, gathering around him as he

knelt over the elf.

“Hermione?” he said suddenly. “Where is she?”

“Ron’s taken her inside,” said Bill. “She’ll be all right.”

Harry looked back down at Dobby. He stretched out a

hand and pulled the sharp blade from the elf’s body,

then dragged off his own jacket and covered Dobby in

it like a blanket.

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The sea was rushing against rock somewhere nearby;

Harry listened to it while the others talked, discussing

matters in which he could take no interest, making

decisions. Dean carried the injured Griphook into the

house, Fleur hurrying with them; now Bill was

making suggestions about burying the elf. Harry

agreed without really knowing what he was saying. As

he did so, he gazed down at the tiny body, and his

scar prickled and burned, and in one part of his

mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long

telescope, he saw Voldemort punishing those they

had left behind at Malfoy Manor. His rage was

dreadful and yet Harry’s grief for Dobby seemed to

diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that

reached Harry from across a vast, silent ocean.

“I want to do it properly,” were the first words of

which Harry was fully conscious of speaking. “Not by

magic. Have you got a spade?”

And shortly afterward he had set to work, alone,

digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him

at the end of the garden, between bushes. He dug

with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work,

glorying in the non-magic of it, for every drop of his

sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who

had saved their lives.

His scar burned, but he was master of the pain; he

felt it, yet was apart from it. He had learned control at

last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, the very

thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from

Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to

possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief

for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry

now, while he mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove

Voldemort out … though Dumbledore, of course,

would have said that it was love. …

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On Harry dug, deeper and deeper into the hard, cold earth, subsuming his grief in sweat, denying the pain

in his scar. In the darkness, with nothing but the

sound of his own breath and the rushing sea to keep

him company, the things that had happened at the

Malfoys’ returned to him, the things he had heard

came back to him, and understanding blossomed in

the darkness. …

The steady rhythm of his arms beat time with his

thoughts. Hallows … Horcruxes … Hallows …

Horcruxes … Yet he no longer burned with that weird,

obsessive longing. Loss and fear had snuffed it out:

He felt as though he had been slapped awake again.

Deeper and deeper Harry sank into the grave, and he

knew where Voldemort had been tonight, and whom

he had killed in the topmost cell of Nurmengard, and

why. …

And he thought of Wormtail, dead because of one

small unconscious impulse of mercy. … Dumbledore

had foreseen that. … How much more had he known?

Harry lost track of time. He knew only that the

darkness had lightened a few degrees when he was

rejoined by Ron and Dean.

“How’s Hermione?”

“Better,” said Ron. “Fleur’s looking after her.”

Harry had his retort ready for when they asked him

why he had not simply created a perfect grave with

his wand, but he did not need it. They jumped down

into the hole he had made with spades of their own,

and together they worked in silence until the hole

seemed deep enough.

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Harry wrapped the elf more snugly in his jacket. Ron sat on the edge of the grave and stripped off his shoes

and socks, which he placed upon the elf’s bare feet.

Dean produced a woolen hat, which Harry placed

carefully upon Dobby’s head, muffling his batlike

ears.

“We should close his eyes.”

Harry had not heard the others coming through the

darkness. Bill was wearing a traveling cloak, Fleur a

large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded

a bottle of what Harry recognized to be Skele-Gro.

Hermione was wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown,

pale and unsteady on her feet; Ron put an arm

around her when she reached him. Luna, who was

huddled in one of Fleur’s coats, crouched down and

placed her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf’s

eyelids, sliding them over his glassy stare.

“There,” she said softly. “Now he could be sleeping.”

Harry placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny

limbs so that he might have been resting, then

climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the little

body. He forced himself not to break down as he

remembered Dumbledore’s funeral, and the rows and

rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in

the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore’s

achievements, the stateliness of the white marble

tomb. He felt that Dobby deserved just as grand a

funeral, and yet here the elf lay between bushes in a

roughly dug hole.

“I think we ought to say something,” piped up Luna.

“I’ll go first, shall I?”

And as everybody looked at her, she addressed the

dead elf at the bottom of the grave.

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“Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from

that cellar. It’s so unfair that you had to die, when

you were so good and brave. I’ll always remember

what you did for us. I hope you’re happy now.”

She turned and looked expectantly at Ron, who

cleared his throat and said in a thick voice, “Yeah …

thanks, Dobby.”

“Thanks,” muttered Dean.

Harry swallowed.

“Good-bye, Dobby,” he said. It was all he could

manage, but Luna had said it all for him. Bill raised

his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose

up into the air and fell neatly upon it, a small,

reddish mound.

“D’you mind if I stay here a moment?” he asked the

others.

They murmured words he did not catch; he felt gentle

pats upon his back, and then they all traipsed back

toward the cottage, leaving Harry alone beside the elf.

He looked around: There were a number of large

white stones, smoothed by the sea, marking the edge

of the flower beds. He picked up one of the largest

and laid it, pillowlike, over the place where Dobby’s

head now rested. He then felt in his pocket for a

wand.

There were two in there. He had forgotten, lost track;

he could not now remember whose wands these were;

he seemed to remember wrenching them out of

someone’s hand. He selected the shorter of the two,

which felt friendlier in his hand, and pointed it at the

rock.

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Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts

appeared upon the rock’s surface. He knew that

Hermione could have done it more neatly, and

probably more quickly, but he wanted to mark the

spot as he had wanted to dig the grave. When Harry

stood up again, the stone read:

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.

He looked down at his handiwork for a few more

seconds, then walked away, his scar still prickling a

little, and his mind full of those things that had come

to him in the grave, ideas that had taken shape in the

darkness, ideas both fascinating and terrible.

They were all sitting in the living room when he

entered the little hall, their attention focused upon

Bill, who was talking. The room was light-colored,

pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly

in the fireplace. Harry did not want to drop mud upon

the carpet, so he stood in the doorway, listening.

“… lucky that Ginny’s on holiday. If she’d been at

Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we

reached her. Now we know she’s safe too.”

He looked around and saw Harry standing there.

“I’ve been getting them all out of the Burrow,” he

explained. “Moved them to Muriel’s. The Death Eaters

know Ron’s with you now, they’re bound to target the

family — don’t apologize,” he added at the sight of

Harry’s expression. “It was always a matter of time,

Dad’s been saying so for months. We’re the biggest

blood-traitor family there is.”

“How are they protected?” asked Harry.

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“Fidelius Charm. Dad’s Secret-Keeper. And we’ve

done it on this cottage too; I’m Secret-Keeper here.

None of us can go to work, but that’s hardly the most

important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook

are well enough, we’ll move them to Muriel’s too.

There isn’t much room here, but she’s got plenty.

Griphook’s legs are on the mend, Fleur’s given him

Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour

or —”

“No,” Harry said, and Bill looked startled. “I need both

of them here. I need to talk to them. It’s important.”

He heard the authority in his own voice, the

conviction, the sense of purpose that had come to him

as he dug Dobby’s grave. All of their faces were

turned toward him, looking puzzled.

“I’m going to wash,” Harry told Bill, looking down at

his hands, still covered in mud and Dobby’s blood.

“Then I’ll need to see them, straightaway.”

He walked into the little kitchen, to the basin beneath

a window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking

over the horizon, shell pink and faintly gold, as he

washed, again following the train of thought that had

come to him in the dark garden. …

Dobby would never be able to tell them who had sent

him to the cellar, but Harry knew what he had seen.

A piercing blue eye had looked out of the mirror

fragment, and then help had come. Help will always

be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.

Harry dried his hands, impervious to the beauty of

the scene outside the window and to the murmuring

of the others in the sitting room. He looked out over

the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before,

closer to the heart of it all.

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And still his scar prickled, and he knew that

Voldemort was getting there too. Harry understood

and yet did not understand. His instinct was telling

him one thing, his brain quite another. The

Dumbledore in Harry’s head smiled, surveying Harry

over the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in

prayer.

You gave Ron the Deluminator. You understood him. …

You gave him a way back. …

And you understood Wormtail too. … You knew there

was a bit of regret there, somewhere. …

And if you knew them … What did you know about

me, Dumbledore?

Am I meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know

how hard I’d find that? Is that why you made it this

difficult? So I’d have time to work that out?

Harry stood quite still, eyes glazed, watching the place

where a bright gold rim of dazzling sun was rising

over the horizon. Then he looked down at his clean

hands and was momentarily surprised to see the

cloth he was holding in them. He set it down and

returned to the hall, and as he did so, he felt his scar

pulse angrily, and there flashed across his mind, swift

as the reflection of a dragonfly over water, the outline

of a building he knew extremely well.

Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs.

“I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander,” Harry

said.

“No,” said Fleur. “You will ’ave to wait, ’Arry. Zey are

both ill, tired —”

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“I’m sorry,” he said without heat, “but it can’t wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately — and separately.

It’s urgent.”

“Harry, what the hell’s going on?” asked Bill. “You

turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half-

conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she’s

been tortured, and Ron’s just refused to tell me

anything —”

“We can’t tell you what we’re doing,” said Harry flatly.

“You’re in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left

us a mission. We’re not supposed to talk about it to

anyone else.”

Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look

at her; he was staring at Harry. His deeply scarred

face was hard to read. Finally Bill said, “All right. Who

do you want to talk to first?”

Harry hesitated. He knew what hung on his decision.

There was hardly any time left; now was the moment

to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows?

“Griphook,” Harry said. “I’ll speak to Griphook first.”

His heart was racing as if he had been sprinting and

had just cleared an enormous obstacle.

“Up here, then,” said Bill, leading the way.

Harry had walked up several steps before stopping

and looking back.

“I need you two as well!” he called to Ron and

Hermione, who had been skulking, half concealed, in

the doorway of the sitting room.

They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved.

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“How are you?” Harry asked Hermione. “You were

amazing — coming up with that story when she was

hurting you like that —”

Hermione gave a weak smile as Ron gave her a one-

armed squeeze.

“What are we doing now, Harry?” he asked.

“You’ll see. Come on.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Bill up the steep

stairs onto a small landing. Three doors led off it.

“In here,” said Bill, opening the door into his and

Fleur’s room. It too had a view of the sea, now flecked

with gold in the sunrise. Harry moved to the window,

turned his back on the spectacular view, and waited,

his arms folded, his scar prickling. Hermione took the

chair beside the dressing table; Ron sat on the arm.

Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he

set down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunted

thanks, and Bill left, closing the door upon them all.

“I’m sorry to take you out of bed,” said Harry. “How

are your legs?”

“Painful,” replied the goblin. “But mending.”

He was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and

wore a strange look: half truculent, half intrigued.

Harry noted the goblin’s sallow skin, his long thin

fingers, his black eyes. Fleur had removed his shoes:

His long feet were dirty. He was larger than a house-

elf, but not by much. His domed head was much

bigger than a human’s.

“You probably don’t remember —” Harry began.

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“— that I was the goblin who showed you to your

vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?” said

Griphook. “I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst

goblins, you are very famous.”

Harry and the goblin looked at each other, sizing each

other up. Harry’s scar was still prickling. He wanted

to get through this interview with Griphook quickly,

and at the same time was afraid of making a false

move. While he tried to decide on the best way to

approach his request, the goblin broke the silence.

“You buried the elf,” he said, sounding unexpectedly

rancorous. “I watched you from the window of the

bedroom next door.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

Griphook looked at him out of the corners of his

slanting black eyes.

“You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter.”

“In what way?” asked Harry, rubbing his scar

absently.

“You dug the grave.”

“So?”

Griphook did not answer. Harry rather thought he

was being sneered at for acting like a Muggle, but it

did not much matter to him whether Griphook

approved of Dobby’s grave or not. He gathered himself

for the attack.

“Griphook, I need to ask —”

“You also rescued a goblin.”

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“What?”

“You brought me here. Saved me.”

“Well, I take it you’re not sorry?” said Harry a little

impatiently.

“No, Harry Potter,” said Griphook, and with one finger

he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin, “but

you are a very odd wizard.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Well, I need some help,

Griphook, and you can give it to me.”

The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but

continued to frown at Harry as though he had never

seen anything like him.

“I need to break into a Gringotts vault.”

Harry had not meant to say it so baldly; the words

were forced from him as pain shot through his

lightning scar and he saw, again, the outline of

Hogwarts. He closed his mind firmly. He needed to

deal with Griphook first. Ron and Hermione were

staring at Harry as though he had gone mad.

“Harry —” said Hermione, but she was cut off by

Griphook.

“Break into a Gringotts vault?” repeated the goblin,

wincing a little as he shifted his position upon the

bed. “It is impossible.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ron contradicted him. “It’s been done.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “The same day I first met you,

Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago.”

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“The vault in question was empty at the time,”

snapped the goblin, and Harry understood that even

though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended

at the idea of its defenses being breached. “Its

protection was minimal.”

“Well, the vault we need to get into isn’t empty, and

I’m guessing its protection will be pretty powerful,”

said Harry. “It belongs to the Lestranges.”

He saw Hermione and Ron look at each other,

astonished, but there would be time enough to

explain after Griphook had given his answer.

“You have no chance,” said Griphook flatly. “No

chance at all. If you seek beneath our floors, a

treasure that was never yours —”

“Thief, you have been warned, beware — yeah, I

know, I remember,” said Harry. “But I’m not trying to

get myself any treasure, I’m not trying to take

anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?”

The goblin looked slantwise at Harry, and the

lightning scar on Harry’s forehead prickled, but he

ignored it, refusing to acknowledge its pain or its

invitation.

“If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that

they did not seek personal gain,” said Griphook

finally, “it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and

elves are not used to the protection or the respect

that you have shown this night. Not from wand-

carriers.”

“Wand-carriers,” repeated Harry: The phrase fell oddly

upon his ears as his scar prickled, as Voldemort

turned his thoughts northward, and as Harry burned

to question Ollivander next door.

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“The right to carry a wand,” said the goblin quietly,

“has long been contested between wizards and

goblins.”

“Well, goblins can do magic without wands,” said

Ron.

“That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the

secrets of wand-lore with other magical beings, they

deny us the possibility of extending our powers!”

“Well, goblins won’t share any of their magic either,”

said Ron. “You won’t tell us how to make swords and

armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work

metal in a way wizards have never —”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry, noting Griphook’s

rising color. “This isn’t about wizards versus goblins

or any other sort of magical creature —”

Griphook gave a nasty laugh.

“But it is, it is about precisely that! As the Dark Lord

becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still

more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under

Wizarding rule, house-elves are slaughtered, and who

amongst the wand-carriers protests?”

“We do!” said Hermione. She had sat up straight, her

eyes bright. “We protest! And I’m hunted quite as

much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I’m a Mudblood!”

“Don’t call yourself —” Ron muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I?” said Hermione. “Mudblood, and

proud of it! I’ve got no higher position under this new

order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose

to torture, back at the Malfoys’!”

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As she spoke, she pulled aside the neck of the

dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had

made, scarlet against her throat.

“Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free?”

she asked. “Did you know that we’ve wanted elves to

be freed for years?” (Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on

the arm of Hermione’s chair.) “You can’t want You-

Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!”

The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiosity

he had shown Harry.

“What do you seek within the Lestranges’ vault?” he

asked abruptly. “The sword that lies inside it is a

fake. This is the real one.” He looked from one to the

other of them. “I think that you already know this.

You asked me to lie for you back there.”

“But the fake sword isn’t the only thing in that vault,

is it?” asked Harry. “Perhaps you’ve seen the other

things in there?”

His heart was pounding harder than ever. He

redoubled his efforts to ignore the pulsing of his scar.

The goblin twisted his beard around his finger again.

“It is against our code to speak of the secrets of

Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous

treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our

care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.”

The goblin stroked the sword, and his black eyes

roved from Harry to Hermione to Ron and then back

again.

“So young,” he said finally, “to be fighting so many.”

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“Will you help us?” said Harry. “We haven’t got a hope of breaking in without a goblin’s help. You’re our one

chance.”

“I shall … think about it,” said Griphook

maddeningly.

“But —” Ron started angrily; Hermione nudged him in

the ribs.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

The goblin bowed his great domed head in

acknowledgement, then flexed his short legs.

“I think,” he said, settling himself ostentatiously upon

Bill and Fleur’s bed, “that the Skele-Gro has finished

its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me. …”

“Yeah, of course,” said Harry, but before leaving the

room he leaned forward and took the sword of

Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not

protest, but Harry thought he saw resentment in the

goblin’s eyes as he closed the door upon him.

“Little git,” whispered Ron. “He’s enjoying keeping us

hanging.”

“Harry,” whispered Hermione, pulling them both away

from the door, into the middle of the still-dark

landing, “are you saying what I think you’re saying?

Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’

vault?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Bellatrix was terrified when she

thought we’d been in there, she was beside herself.

Why? What did she think we’d seen, what else did she

think we might have taken? Something she was

petrified You-Know-Who would find out about.”

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“But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-

Who’s been, places he’s done something important?”

said Ron, looking baffled. “Was he ever inside the

Lestranges’ vault?”

“I don’t know whether he was ever inside Gringotts,”

said Harry. “He never had gold there when he was

younger, because nobody left him anything. He would

have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first

time he ever went to Diagon Alley.”

Harry’s scar throbbed, but he ignored it; he wanted

Ron and Hermione to understand about Gringotts

before they spoke to Ollivander.

“I think he would have envied anyone who had a key

to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a real

symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don’t

forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They

were his most devoted servants before he fell, and

they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it

the night he came back, I heard him.”

Harry rubbed his scar.

“I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a

Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the

truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a

treasured possession and asked her to place it in her

vault. The safest place in the world for anything you

want to hide, Hagrid told me … except for Hogwarts.”

When Harry had finished speaking, Ron shook his

head.

“You really understand him.”

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“Bits of him,” said Harry. “Bits … I just wish I’d

understood Dumbledore as much. But we’ll see.

Come on — Ollivander now.”

Ron and Hermione looked bewildered but impressed

as they followed him across the little landing and

knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur’s. A

weak “Come in!” answered them.

The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest

from the window. He had been held in the cellar for

more than a year, and tortured, Harry knew, on at

least one occasion. He was emaciated, the bones of

his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish

skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their

sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket

could have belonged to a skeleton. Harry sat down on

the empty bed, beside Ron and Hermione. The rising

sun was not visible here. The room faced the cliff-top

garden and the freshly dug grave.

“Mr. Ollivander, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Harry said.

“My dear boy.” Ollivander’s voice was feeble. “You

rescued us. I thought we would die in that place. I

can never thank you … never thank you … enough.”

“We were glad to do it.”

Harry’s scar throbbed. He knew, he was certain, that

there was hardly any time left in which to beat

Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart

him. He felt a flutter of panic … yet he had made his

decision when he chose to speak to Griphook first.

Feigning a calm he did not feel, he groped in the

pouch around his neck and took out the two halves of

his broken wand.

“Mr. Ollivander, I need some help.”

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“Anything. Anything,” said the wandmaker weakly.

“Can you mend this? Is it possible?”

Ollivander held out a trembling hand, and Harry

placed the two barely connected halves into his palm.

“Holly and phoenix feather,” said Ollivander in a

tremulous voice. “Eleven inches. Nice and supple.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Can you — ?”

“No,” whispered Ollivander. “I am sorry, very sorry,

but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage

cannot be repaired by any means that I know of.”

Harry had been braced to hear it, but it was a blow

nevertheless. He took the wand halves back and

replaced them in the pouch around his neck.

Ollivander stared at the place where the shattered

wand had vanished, and did not look away until

Harry had taken from his pocket the two wands he

had brought from the Malfoys’.

“Can you identify these?” Harry asked.

The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held

it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his

knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.

“Walnut and dragon heartstring,” he said. “Twelve-

and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand

belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“And this one?”

Ollivander performed the same examination.

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“Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely.

Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco

Malfoy.”

“Was?” repeated Harry. “Isn’t it still his?”

“Perhaps not. If you took it —”

“— I did —”

“— then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of

taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand

itself. In general, however, where a wand has been

won, its allegiance will change.”

There was silence in the room, except for the distant

rushing of the sea.

“You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” said

Harry, “like they can think for themselves.”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” said Ollivander. “That

much has always been clear to those of us who have

studied wandlore.”

“A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen

them, though?” asked Harry.

“Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to

channel your magic through almost any instrument.

The best results, however, must always come where

there is the strongest affinity between wizard and

wand. These connections are complex. An initial

attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience,

the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from

the wand.”

The sea gushed forward and backward; it was a

mournful sound.

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“I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force,” said Harry. “Can I use it safely?”

“I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but

the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its

new master.”

“So I should use this one?” said Ron, pulling

Wormtail’s wand out of his pocket and handing it to

Ollivander.

“Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine-and-a-

quarter inches. Brittle. I was forced to make this

shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes,

if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and

do it well, than another wand.”

“And this holds true for all wands, does it?” asked

Harry.

“I think so,” replied Ollivander, his protuberant eyes

upon Harry’s face. “You ask deep questions, Mr.

Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch

of magic.”

“So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to

take true possession of a wand?” asked Harry.

Ollivander swallowed.

“Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary

to kill.”

“There are legends, though,” said Harry, and as his

heart rate quickened, the pain in his scar became

more intense; he was sure that Voldemort had

decided to put his idea into action. “Legends about a

wand — or wands — that have passed from hand to

hand by murder.”

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Ollivander turned pale. Against the snowy pillow he was light gray, and his eyes were enormous,

bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear.

“Only one wand, I think,” he whispered.

“And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?”

asked Harry.

“I — how?” croaked Ollivander, and he looked

appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help. “How do

you know this?”

“He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the

connection between our wands,” said Harry.

Ollivander looked terrified.

“He tortured me, you must understand that! The

Cruciatus Curse, I — I had no choice but to tell him

what I knew, what I guessed!”

“I understand,” said Harry. “You told him about the

twin cores? You said he just had to borrow another

wizard’s wand?”

Ollivander looked horrified, transfixed, by the amount

that Harry knew. He nodded slowly.

“But it didn’t work,” Harry went on. “Mine still beat

the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?”

Ollivander shook his head as slowly as he had just

nodded.

“I had … never heard of such a thing. Your wand

performed something unique that night. The

connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet

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why your wand should have snapped the borrowed

wand, I do not know. …”

“We were talking about the other wand, the wand that

changes hands by murder. When You-Know-Who

realized my wand had done something strange, he

came back and asked about that other wand, didn’t

he?”

“How do you know this?”

Harry did not answer.

“Yes, he asked,” whispered Ollivander. “He wanted to

know everything I could tell him about the wand

variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of

Destiny, or the Elder Wand.”

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione. She looked

flabbergasted.

“The Dark Lord,” said Ollivander in hushed and

frightened tones, “had always been happy with the

wand I made him — yew and phoenix feather,

thirteen-and-a-half inches — until he discovered the

connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another,

more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer

yours.”

“But he’ll know soon, if he doesn’t already, that

mine’s broken beyond repair,” said Harry quietly.

“No!” said Hermione, sounding frightened. “He can’t

know that, Harry, how could he — ?”

“Priori Incantatem,” said Harry. “We left your wand

and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys’, Hermione. If

they examine them properly, make them re-create the

spells they’ve cast lately, they’ll see that yours broke

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mine, they’ll see that you tried and failed to mend it, and they’ll realize that I’ve been using the blackthorn

one ever since.”

The little color she had regained since their arrival

had drained from her face. Ron gave Harry a

reproachful look, and said, “Let’s not worry about

that now —”

But Mr. Ollivander intervened.

“The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only

for your destruction, Mr. Potter. He is determined to

possess it because he believes it will make him truly

invulnerable.”

“And will it?”

“The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear

attack,” said Ollivander, “but the idea of the Dark

Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit

… formidable.”

Harry was suddenly reminded of how he had been

unsure, when they first met, of how much he liked

Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and

imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of the Dark wizard

in possession of this wand seemed to enthrall him as

much as it repulsed him.

“You — you really think this wand exists, then, Mr.

Ollivander?” asked Hermione.

“Oh yes,” said Ollivander. “Yes, it is perfectly possible

to trace the wand’s course through history. There are

gaps, of course, and long ones, where it vanishes from

view, temporarily lost or hidden; but always it

resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics

that those who are learned in wandlore recognize.

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There are written accounts, some of them obscure,

that I and other wandmakers have made it our

business to study. They have the ring of authenticity.”

“So you — you don’t think it can be a fairy tale or a

myth?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“No,” said Ollivander. “Whether it needs to pass by

murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that

may be simply due to the fact that it is such a

desirable object, and arouses such passions in

wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong

hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of

us who study the power of wands.”

“Mr. Ollivander,” said Harry, “you told You-Know-Who

that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn’t you?”

Ollivander turned, if possible, even paler. He looked

ghostly as he gulped.

“But how — how do you — ?”

“Never mind how I know it,” said Harry, closing his

eyes momentarily as his scar burned and he saw, for

mere seconds, a vision of the main street in

Hogsmeade, still dark, because it was so much

farther north. “You told You-Know-Who that

Gregorovitch had the wand?”

“It was a rumor,” whispered Ollivander. “A rumor,

years and years ago, long before you were born! I

believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see

how good it would be for business: that he was

studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder

Wand!”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Harry. He stood up. “Mr.

Ollivander, one last thing, and then we’ll let you get

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some rest. What do you know about the Deathly

Hallows?”

“The — the what?” asked the wandmaker, looking

utterly bewildered.

“The Deathly Hallows.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is

this still something to do with wands?”

Harry looked into the sunken face and believed that

Ollivander was not acting. He did not know about the

Hallows.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “Thank you very much. We’ll

leave you to get some rest now.”

Ollivander looked stricken.

“He was torturing me!” he gasped. “The Cruciatus

Curse … you have no idea. …”

“I do,” said Harry. “I really do. Please get some rest.

Thank you for telling me all of this.”

He led Ron and Hermione down the staircase. Harry

caught a glimpse of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean

sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front

of them. They all looked up at Harry as he appeared

in the doorway, but he merely nodded to them and

continued into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind

him. The reddish mound of earth that covered Dobby

lay ahead, and Harry walked back to it, as the pain in

his head built more and more powerfully. It was a

huge effort now to close down the visions that were

forcing themselves upon him, but he knew that he

would have to resist only a little longer. He would

yield very soon, because he needed to know that his

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theory was right. He must make only one more short

effort, so that he could explain to Ron and Hermione.

“Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago,”

he said. “I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him.

When he tracked him down, he found that

Gregorovitch didn’t have it anymore: It was stolen

from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwald found out

that Gregorovitch had it, I don’t know — but if

Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor,

it can’t have been that difficult.”

Voldemort was at the gates of Hogwarts; Harry could

see him standing there, and see too the lamp bobbing

in the pre-dawn, coming closer and closer.

“And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become

powerful. And at the height of his power, when

Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could

stop him, he dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and

he took the Elder Wand.”

“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?” said Ron. “But

then — where is it now?”

“At Hogwarts,” said Harry, fighting to remain with

them in the cliff-top garden.

“But then, let’s go!” said Ron urgently. “Harry, let’s go

and get it before he does!”

“It’s too late for that,” said Harry. He could not help

himself, but clutched his head, trying to help it resist.

“He knows where it is. He’s there now.”

“Harry!” Ron said furiously. “How long have you

known this — why have we been wasting time? Why

did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone —

we could still go —”

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“No,” said Harry, and he sank to his knees in the

grass. “Hermione’s right. Dumbledore didn’t want me

to have it. He didn’t want me to take it. He wanted me

to get the Horcruxes.”

“The unbeatable wand, Harry!” moaned Ron.

“I’m not supposed to … I’m supposed to get the

Horcruxes. …”

And now everything was cool and dark: The sun was

barely visible over the horizon as he glided alongside

Snape, up through the grounds toward the lake.

“I shall join you in the castle shortly,” he said in his

high, cold voice. “Leave me now.”

Snape bowed and set off back up the path, his black

cloak billowing behind him. Harry walked slowly,

waiting for Snape’s figure to disappear. It would not

do for Snape, or indeed anyone else, to see where he

was going. But there were no lights in the castle

windows, and he could conceal himself … and in a

second he had cast upon himself a Disillusionment

Charm that hid him even from his own eyes.

And he walked on, around the edge of the lake, taking

in the outlines of the beloved castle, his first kingdom,

his birthright. …

And here it was, beside the lake, reflected in the dark

waters. The white marble tomb, an unnecessary blot

on the familiar landscape. He felt again that rush of

controlled euphoria, that heady sense of purpose in

destruction. He raised the old yew wand: How fitting

that this would be its last great act.

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The tomb split open from head to foot. The shrouded figure was as long and thin as it had been in life. He

raised the wand again.

The wrappings fell open. The face was translucent,

pale, sunken, yet almost perfectly preserved. They

had left his spectacles on the crooked nose: He felt

amused derision. Dumbledore’s hands were folded

upon his chest, and there it lay, clutched beneath

them, buried with him.

Had the old fool imagined that marble or death would

protect the wand? Had he thought that the Dark Lord

would be scared to violate his tomb? The spiderlike

hand swooped and pulled the wand from

Dumbledore’s grasp, and as he took it, a shower of

sparks flew from its tip, sparkling over the corpse of

its last owner, ready to serve a new master at last.

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SHELL COTTAGE

Bill and Fleur’s cottage stood alone on a cliff

overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells

and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place.

Wherever Harry went inside the tiny cottage or its

garden, he could hear the constant ebb and flow of

the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering

creature. He spent much of the next few days making

excuses to escape the crowded cottage, craving the

cliff-top view of open sky and wide, empty sea, and

the feel of cold, salty wind on his face.

The enormity of his decision not to race Voldemort to

the wand still scared Harry. He could not remember,

ever before, choosing not to act. He was full of doubts,

doubts that Ron could not help voicing whenever they

were together.

“What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the

symbol in time to get the wand?” “What if working out

what the symbol meant made you ‘worthy’ to get the

Hallows?” “Harry, if that really is the Elder Wand,

how the hell are we supposed to finish off You-Know-

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Who?” Harry had no answers: There were moments

when he wondered whether it had been outright

madness not to try to prevent Voldemort breaking

open the tomb. He could not even explain

satisfactorily why he had decided against it: Every

time he tried to reconstruct the internal arguments

that had led to his decision, they sounded feebler to

him.

The odd thing was that Hermione’s support made him

feel just as confused as Ron’s doubts. Now forced to

accept that the Elder Wand was real, she maintained

that it was an evil object, and that the way Voldemort

had taken possession of it was repellent, not to be

considered.

“You could never have done that, Harry,” she said

again and again. “You couldn’t have broken into

Dumbledore’s grave.”

But the idea of Dumbledore’s corpse frightened Harry

much less than the possibility that he might have

misunderstood the living Dumbledore’s intentions. He

felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had

chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering

whether he had misread the signs, whether he should

not have taken the other way. From time to time,

anger at Dumbledore crashed over him again,

powerful as the waves slamming themselves against

the cliff beneath the cottage, anger that Dumbledore

had not explained before he died.

“But is he dead?” said Ron, three days after they had

arrived at the cottage. Harry had been staring out

over the wall that separated the cottage garden from

the cliff when Ron and Hermione had found him; he

wished they had not, having no wish to join in with

their argument.

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“Yes, he is, Ron, please don’t start that again!”

“Look at the facts, Hermione,” said Ron, speaking

across Harry, who continued to gaze at the horizon.

“The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the

mirror —”

“Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don’t

you, Harry?”

“I could have,” said Harry without looking at her.

“But you don’t think you did, do you?” asked Ron.

“No, I don’t,” said Harry.

“There you go!” said Ron quickly, before Hermione

could carry on. “If it wasn’t Dumbledore, explain how

Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?”

“I can’t — but can you explain how Dumbledore sent

him to us if he’s lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?”

“I dunno, it could’ve been his ghost!”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t come back as a ghost,” said

Harry. There was little about Dumbledore he was sure

of now, but he knew that much. “He would have gone

on.”

“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” asked Ron, but before

Harry could say any more, a voice behind them said, “

’Arry?”

Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair

flying in the breeze.

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“ ’Arry, Grip’ook would like to speak to you. ’E eez in ze smallest bedroom, ’e says ’e does not want to be

over’eard.”

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver

messages was clear; she looked irritable as she

walked back around the house.

Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in

the tiniest of the cottage’s three bedrooms, in which

Hermione and Luna slept by night. He had drawn the

red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky,

which gave the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest

of the airy, light cottage.

“I have reached my decision, Harry Potter,” said the

goblin, who was sitting cross-legged in a low chair,

drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. “Though

the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base

treachery, I have decided to help you —”

“That’s great!” said Harry, relief surging through him.

“Griphook, thank you, we’re really —”

“— in return,” said the goblin firmly, “for payment.”

Slightly taken aback, Harry hesitated.

“How much do you want? I’ve got gold.”

“Not gold,” said Griphook. “I have gold.”

His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his

eyes.

“I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

Harry’s spirits plummeted.

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“You can’t have that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Then,” said the goblin softly, “we have a problem.”

“We can give you something else,” said Ron eagerly.

“I’ll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can

take your pick once we get into the vault.”

He had said the wrong thing. Griphook flushed

angrily.

“I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure

treasures to which I have no right!”

“The sword’s ours —”

“It is not,” said the goblin.

“We’re Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor’s —”

“And before it was Gryffindor’s, whose was it?”

demanded the goblin, sitting up straight.

“No one’s,” said Ron. “It was made for him, wasn’t it?”

“No!” cried the goblin, bristling with anger as he

pointed a long finger at Ron. “Wizarding arrogance

again! That sword was Ragnuk the First’s, taken from

him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a

masterpiece of goblinwork! It belongs with the

goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or

leave it!”

Griphook glared at them. Harry glanced at the other

two, then said, “We need to discuss this, Griphook, if

that’s all right. Could you give us a few minutes?”

The goblin nodded, looking sour.

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Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Harry walked

to the fireplace, brow furrowed, trying to think what

to do. Behind him, Ron said, “He’s having a laugh. We

can’t let him have that sword.”

“It is true?” Harry asked Hermione. “Was the sword

stolen by Gryffindor?”

“I don’t know,” she said hopelessly. “Wizarding history

often skates over what the wizards have done to other

magical races, but there’s no account that I know of

that says Gryffindor stole the sword.”

“It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” said Ron, “about

how the wizards are always trying to get one over on

them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he

hasn’t asked for one of our wands.”

“Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards,

Ron,” said Hermione. “They’ve been treated brutally in

the past.”

“Goblins aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though,

are they?” said Ron. “They’ve killed plenty of us.

They’ve fought dirty too.”

“But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most

underhanded and violent isn’t going to make him

more likely to help us, is it?”

There was a pause while they tried to think of a way

around the problem. Harry looked out of the window

at Dobby’s grave. Luna was arranging sea lavender in

a jam jar beside the headstone.

“Okay,” said Ron, and Harry turned back to face him,

“how’s this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until

we get inside the vault, and then he can have it.

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There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, and give him the fake.”

“Ron, he’d know the difference better than we would!”

said Hermione. “He’s the only one who realized there

had been a swap!”

“Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes —”

He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving

him.

“That,” she said quietly, “is despicable. Ask for his

help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why

goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?”

Ron’s ears had turned red.

“All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think

of! What’s your solution, then?”

“We need to offer him something else, something just

as valuable.”

“Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient

goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.”

Silence fell between them again. Harry was sure that

the goblin would accept nothing but the sword, even

if they had something as valuable to offer him. Yet the

sword was their one, indispensable weapon against

the Horcruxes.

He closed his eyes for a moment or two and listened

to the rush of the sea. The idea that Gryffindor might

have stolen the sword was unpleasant to him: He had

always been proud to be a Gryffindor; Gryffindor had

been the champion of Muggle-borns, the wizard who

had clashed with the pureblood-loving Slytherin. …

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“Maybe he’s lying,” Harry said, opening his eyes

again. “Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn’t take the

sword. How do we know the goblin version of history’s

right?”

“Does it make a difference?” asked Hermione.

“Changes how I feel about it,” said Harry.

He took a deep breath.

“We’ll tell him he can have the sword after he’s helped

us get into that vault — but we’ll be careful to avoid

telling him exactly when he can have it.”

A grin spread slowly across Ron’s face. Hermione,

however, looked alarmed.

“Harry, we can’t —”

“He can have it,” Harry went on, “after we’ve used it

on all of the Horcruxes. I’ll make sure he gets it then.

I’ll keep my word.”

“But that could be years!” said Hermione.

“I know that, but he needn’t. I won’t be lying …

really.”

Harry met her eyes with a mixture of defiance and

shame. He remembered the words that had been

engraved over the gateway to Nurmengard: FOR THE

GREATER GOOD. He pushed the idea away. What

choice did they have?

“I don’t like it,” said Hermione.

“Nor do I, much,” Harry admitted.

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“Well, I think it’s genius,” said Ron, standing up

again. “Let’s go and tell him.”

Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry made the offer,

careful to phrase it so as not to give any definite time

for the handover of the sword. Hermione frowned at

the floor while he was speaking; he felt irritated at

her, afraid that she might give the game away.

However, Griphook had eyes for nobody but Harry.

“I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me

the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Then shake,” said the goblin, holding out his hand.

Harry took it and shook. He wondered whether those

black eyes saw any misgivings in his own. Then

Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands

together, and said, “So. We begin!”

It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over

again. They settled to work in the smallest bedroom,

which was kept, according to Griphook’s preference,

in semidarkness.

“I have visited the Lestranges’ vault only once,”

Griphook told them, “on the occasion I was told to

place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most

ancient chambers. The oldest Wizarding families store

their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults

are largest and best protected. …”

They remained shut in the cupboardlike room for

hours at a time. Slowly the days stretched into weeks.

There was problem after problem to overcome, not

least of which was that their store of Polyjuice Potion

was greatly depleted.

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“There’s really only enough left for one of us,” said Hermione, tilting the thick mudlike potion against the

lamplight.

“That’ll be enough,” said Harry, who was examining

Griphook’s hand-drawn map of the deepest

passageways.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly

fail to notice that something was going on now that

Harry, Ron, and Hermione only emerged for

mealtimes. Nobody asked questions, although Harry

often felt Bill’s eyes on the three of them at the table,

thoughtful, concerned.

The longer they spent together, the more Harry

realized that he did not much like the goblin.

Griphook was unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughed at

the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seemed to

relish the possibility that they might have to hurt

other wizards to reach the Lestranges’ vault. Harry

could tell that his distaste was shared by the other

two, but they did not discuss it: They needed

Griphook.

The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them.

Even after his legs had mended, he continued to

request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail

Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst

from Fleur) went upstairs to tell him that the

arrangement could not continue. Thereafter Griphook

joined them at the overcrowded table, although he

refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on

lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi.

Harry felt responsible: It was, after all, he who had

insisted that the goblin remain at Shell Cottage so

that he could question him; his fault that the whole

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Weasley family had been driven into hiding, that Bill, Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley could no longer work.

“I’m sorry,” he told Fleur, one blustery April evening

as he helped her prepare dinner. “I never meant you

to have to deal with all of this.”

She had just set some knives to work, chopping up

steaks for Griphook and Bill, who had preferred his

meat bloody ever since he had been attacked by

Greyback. While the knives sliced away behind her,

her somewhat irritable expression softened.

“ ’Arry, you saved my sister’s life, I do not forget.”

This was not, strictly speaking, true, but Harry

decided against reminding her that Gabrielle had

never been in real danger.

“Anyway,” Fleur went on, pointing her wand at a pot

of sauce on the stove, which began to bubble at once,

“Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel’s zis evening. Zat will

make zings easier. Ze goblin,” she scowled a little at

the mention of him, “can move downstairs, and you,

Ron, and Dean can take zat room.”

“We don’t mind sleeping in the living room,” said

Harry, who knew that Griphook would think poorly of

having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy

was essential to their plans. “Don’t worry about us.”

And when she tried to protest he went on, “We’ll be off

your hands soon too, Ron, Hermione, and I. We won’t

need to be here much longer.”

“But what do you mean?” she said, frowning at him,

her wand pointing at the casserole dish now

suspended in midair. “Of course you must not leave,

you are safe ’ere!”

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She looked rather like Mrs. Weasley as she said it, and he was glad that the back door opened at that

moment. Luna and Dean entered, their hair damp

from the rain outside and their arms full of driftwood.

“… and tiny little ears,” Luna was saying, “a bit like a

hippo’s, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if

you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a

waltz, nothing too fast. …”

Looking uncomfortable, Dean shrugged at Harry as

he passed, following Luna into the combined dining

and sitting room where Ron and Hermione were

laying the dinner table. Seizing the chance to escape

Fleur’s questions, Harry grabbed two jugs of pumpkin

juice and followed them.

“… and if you ever come to our house I’ll be able to

show you the horn, Daddy wrote to me about it but I

haven’t seen it yet, because the Death Eaters took me

from the Hogwarts Express and I never got home for

Christmas,” Luna was saying, as she and Dean relaid

the fire.

“Luna, we told you,” Hermione called over to her.

“That horn exploded. It came from an Erumpent, not

a Crumple-Horned Snorkack —”

“No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn,” said Luna

serenely. “Daddy told me. It will probably have re-

formed by now, they mend themselves, you know.”

Hermione shook her head and continued laying down

forks as Bill appeared, leading Mr. Ollivander down

the stairs. The wandmaker still looked exceptionally

frail, and he clung to Bill’s arm as the latter

supported him, carrying a large suitcase.

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“I’m going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander,” said Luna, approaching the old man.

“And I you, my dear,” said Ollivander, patting her on

the shoulder. “You were an inexpressible comfort to

me in that terrible place.”

“So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander,” said Fleur, kissing him

on both cheeks. “And I wonder whezzer you could

oblige me by delivering a package to Bill’s Auntie

Muriel? I never returned ’er tiara.”

“It will be an honor,” said Ollivander with a little bow,

“the very least I can do in return for your generous

hospitality.”

Fleur drew out a worn velvet case, which she opened

to show the wandmaker. The tiara sat glittering and

twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

“Moonstones and diamonds,” said Griphook, who had

sidled into the room without Harry noticing. “Made by

goblins, I think?”

“And paid for by wizards,” said Bill quietly, and the

goblin shot him a look that was both furtive and

challenging.

A strong wind gusted against the cottage windows as

Bill and Ollivander set off into the night. The rest of

them squeezed in around the table; elbow to elbow

and with barely enough room to move, they started to

eat. The fire crackled and popped in the grate beside

them. Fleur, Harry noticed, was merely playing with

her food; she glanced at the window every few

minutes; however, Bill returned before they had

finished their first course, his long hair tangled by the

wind.

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“Everything’s fine,” he told Fleur. “Ollivander settled in, Mum and Dad say hello. Ginny sends you all her

love. Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall,

they’re still operating an Owl-Order business out of

her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara

back, though. She said she thought we’d stolen it.”

“Ah, she eez charmante, your aunt,” said Fleur

crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates

to rise and form a stack in midair. She caught them

and marched out of the room.

“Daddy’s made a tiara,” piped up Luna. “Well, more of

a crown, really.”

Ron caught Harry’s eye and grinned; Harry knew that

he was remembering the ludicrous headdress they

had seen on their visit to Xenophilius.

“Yes, he’s trying to re-create the lost diadem of

Ravenclaw. He thinks he’s identified most of the main

elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made

a difference —”

There was a bang on the front door. Everyone’s head

turned toward it. Fleur came running out of the

kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumped to his feet,

his wand pointing at the door; Harry, Ron, and

Hermione did the same. Silently Griphook slipped

beneath the table, out of sight.

“Who is it?” Bill called.

“It is I, Remus John Lupin!” called a voice over the

howling wind. Harry experienced a thrill of fear; what

had happened? “I am a werewolf, married to

Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of

Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come

in an emergency!”

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“Lupin,” muttered Bill, and he ran to the door and

wrenched it open.

Lupin fell over the threshold. He was white-faced,

wrapped in a traveling cloak, his graying hair

windswept. He straightened up, looked around the

room, making sure of who was there, then cried

aloud, “It’s a boy! We’ve named him Ted, after Dora’s

father!”

Hermione shrieked.

“Wha — ? Tonks — Tonks has had the baby?”

“Yes, yes, she’s had the baby!” shouted Lupin. All

around the table came cries of delight, sighs of relief:

Hermione and Fleur both squealed,

“Congratulations!” and Ron said, “Blimey, a baby!” as

if he had never heard of such a thing before.

“Yes — yes — a boy,” said Lupin again, who seemed

dazed by his own happiness. He strode around the

table and hugged Harry; the scene in the basement of

Grimmauld Place might never have happened.

“You’ll be godfather?” he said as he released Harry.

“M-me?” stammered Harry

“You, yes, of course — Dora quite agrees, no one

better —”

“I — yeah — blimey —”

Harry felt overwhelmed, astonished, delighted; now

Bill was hurrying to fetch wine, and Fleur was

persuading Lupin to join them for a drink.

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“I can’t stay long, I must get back,” said Lupin,

beaming around at them all: He looked years younger

than Harry had ever seen him. “Thank you, thank

you, Bill.”

Bill had soon filled all of their goblets, they stood and

raised them high in a toast.

“To Teddy Remus Lupin,” said Lupin, “a great wizard

in the making!”

“ ’Oo does ’e look like?” Fleur inquired.

“I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like

me. Not much hair. It looked black when he was

born, but I swear it’s turned ginger in the hour since.

Probably be blond by the time I get back. Andromeda

says Tonks’s hair started changing color the day that

she was born.” He drained his goblet. “Oh, go on

then, just one more,” he added, beaming, as Bill made

to fill it again.

The wind buffeted the little cottage and the fire leapt

and crackled, and Bill was soon opening another

bottle of wine. Lupin’s news seemed to have taken

them out of themselves, removed them for a while

from their state of siege: Tidings of new life were

exhilarating. Only the goblin seemed untouched by

the suddenly festive atmosphere, and after a while he

slunk back to the bedroom he now occupied alone.

Harry thought he was the only one who had noticed

this, until he saw Bill’s eyes following the goblin up

the stairs.

“No … no … I really must get back,” said Lupin at

last, declining yet another goblet of wine. He got to his

feet and pulled his traveling cloak back around

himself.

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“Good-bye, good-bye — I’ll try and bring some

pictures in a few days’ time — they’ll all be so glad to

know that I’ve seen you —”

He fastened his cloak and made his farewells,

hugging the women and grasping hands with the

men, then, still beaming, returned into the wild night.

“Godfather, Harry!” said Bill as they walked into the

kitchen together, helping clear the table. “A real

honor! Congratulations!”

As Harry set down the empty goblets he was carrying,

Bill pulled the door behind him closed, shutting out

the still-voluble voices of the others, who were

continuing to celebrate even in Lupin’s absence.

“I wanted a private word, actually, Harry. It hasn’t

been easy to get an opportunity with the cottage this

full of people.”

Bill hesitated.

“Harry, you’re planning something with Griphook.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Harry did not

bother to deny it. He merely looked at Bill, waiting.

“I know goblins,” said Bill. “I’ve worked for Gringotts

ever since I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be

friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin

friends — or, at least, goblins I know well, and like.”

Again, Bill hesitated.

“Harry, what do you want from Griphook, and what

have you promised him in return?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Harry. “Sorry, Bill.”

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The kitchen door opened behind them; Fleur was

trying to bring through more empty goblets.

“Wait,” Bill told her. “Just a moment.”

She backed out and he closed the door again.

“Then I have to say this,” Bill went on. “If you have

struck any kind of bargain with Griphook, and most

particularly if that bargain involves treasure, you

must be exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of

ownership, payment, and repayment are not the same

as human ones.”

Harry felt a slight squirm of discomfort, as though a

small snake had stirred inside him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We are talking about a different breed of being,” said

Bill. “Dealings between wizards and goblins have been

fraught for centuries — but you’ll know all that from

History of Magic. There has been fault on both sides, I

would never claim that wizards have been innocent.

However, there is a belief among some goblins, and

those at Gringotts are perhaps most prone to it, that

wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and

treasure, that they have no respect for goblin

ownership.”

“I respect —” Harry began, but Bill shook his head.

“You don’t understand, Harry, nobody could

understand unless they have lived with goblins. To a

goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is

the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects

are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs.”

“But if it was bought —”

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“— then they would consider it rented by the one who had paid the money. They have, however, great

difficulty with the idea of goblin-made objects passing

from wizard to wizard. You saw Griphook’s face when

the tiara passed under his eyes. He disapproves. I

believe he thinks, as do the fiercest of his kind, that it

ought to have been returned to the goblins once the

original purchaser died. They consider our habit of

keeping goblin-made objects, passing them from

wizard to wizard without further payment, little more

than theft.”

Harry had an ominous feeling now; he wondered

whether Bill guessed more than he was letting on.

“All I am saying,” said Bill, setting his hand on the

door back into the sitting room, “is to be very careful

what you promise goblins, Harry. It would be less

dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a

promise to a goblin.”

“Right,” said Harry as Bill opened the door, “yeah.

Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”

As he followed Bill back to the others a wry thought

came to him, born no doubt of the wine he had

drunk. He seemed set on course to become just as

reckless a godfather to Teddy Lupin as Sirius Black

had been to him.

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GRINGOTTS

Their plans were made, their preparations complete;

in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black

hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione had been

wearing at Malfoy Manor) lay curled in a small glass

phial on the mantelpiece.

“And you’ll be using her actual wand,” said Harry,

nodding toward the walnut wand, “so I reckon you’ll

be pretty convincing.”

Hermione looked frightened that the wand might sting

or bite her as she picked it up.

“I hate this thing,” she said in a low voice. “I really

hate it. It feels all wrong, it doesn’t work properly for

me. … It’s like a bit of her. ”

Harry could not help but remember how Hermione

had dismissed his loathing of the blackthorn wand,

insisting that he was imagining things when it did not

work as well as his own, telling him to simply

practice. He chose not to repeat her own advice back

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to her, however; the eve of their attempted assault on Gringotts felt like the wrong moment to antagonize

her.

“It’ll probably help you get in character, though,” said

Ron. “Think what that wand’s done!”

“But that’s my point!” said Hermione. “This is the

wand that tortured Neville’s mum and dad, and who

knows how many other people? This is the wand that

killed Sirius!”

Harry had not thought of that: He looked down at the

wand and was visited by a brutal urge to snap it, to

slice it in half with Gryffindor’s sword, which was

propped against the wall beside him.

“I miss my wand,” Hermione said miserably. “I wish

Mr. Ollivander could have made me another one too.”

Mr. Ollivander had sent Luna a new wand that

morning. She was out on the back lawn at that

moment, testing its capabilities in the late afternoon

sun. Dean, who had lost his wand to the Snatchers,

was watching rather gloomily.

Harry looked down at the hawthorn wand that had

once belonged to Draco Malfoy. He had been

surprised, but pleased, to discover that it worked for

him at least as well as Hermione’s had done.

Remembering what Ollivander had told them of the

secret workings of wands, Harry thought he knew

what Hermione’s problem was: She had not won the

walnut wand’s allegiance by taking it personally from

Bellatrix.

The door of the bedroom opened and Griphook

entered. Harry reached instinctively for the hilt of the

sword and drew it close to him, but regretted his

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action at once: He could tell that the goblin had

noticed. Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment, he

said, “We’ve just been checking the last-minute stuff,

Griphook. We’ve told Bill and Fleur we’re leaving

tomorrow, and we’ve told them not to get up to see us

off.”

They had been firm on this point, because Hermione

would need to transform into Bellatrix before they left,

and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or suspected

about what they were about to do, the better. They

had also explained that they would not be returning.

As they had lost Perkins’s old tent on the night that

the Snatchers caught them, Bill had lent them

another one. It was now packed inside the beaded

bag, which, Harry was impressed to learn, Hermione

had protected from the Snatchers by the simple

expedient of stuffing it down her sock.

Though he would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean,

not to mention the home comforts they had enjoyed

over the last few weeks, Harry was looking forward to

escaping the confinement of Shell Cottage. He was

tired of trying to make sure that they were not

overheard, tired of being shut in the tiny, dark

bedroom. Most of all, he longed to be rid of Griphook.

However, precisely how and when they were to part

from the goblin without handing over Gryffindor’s

sword remained a question to which Harry had no

answer. It had been impossible to decide how they

were going to do it, because the goblin rarely left

Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone together for more

than five minutes at a time: “He could give my mother

lessons,” growled Ron, as the goblin’s long fingers

kept appearing around the edges of doors. With Bill’s

warning in mind, Harry could not help suspecting

that Griphook was on the watch for possible

skulduggery. Hermione disapproved so heartily of the

planned double-cross that Harry had given up

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attempting to pick her brains on how best to do it; Ron, on the rare occasions that they had been able to

snatch a few Griphook-free moments, had come up

with nothing better than “We’ll just have to wing it,

mate.”

Harry slept badly that night. Lying awake in the early

hours, he thought back to the way he had felt the

night before they had infiltrated the Ministry of Magic

and remembered a determination, almost an

excitement. Now he was experiencing jolts of anxiety,

nagging doubts: He could not shake off the fear that it

was all going to go wrong. He kept telling himself that

their plan was good, that Griphook knew what they

were facing, that they were well-prepared for all the

difficulties they were likely to encounter, yet still he

felt uneasy. Once or twice he heard Ron stir and was

sure that he too was awake, but they were sharing

the sitting room with Dean, so Harry did not speak.

It was a relief when six o’clock arrived and they could

slip out of their sleeping bags, dress in the

semidarkness, then creep out into the garden, where

they were to meet Hermione and Griphook. The dawn

was chilly, but there was little wind now that it was

May. Harry looked up at the stars still glimmering

palely in the dark sky and listened to the sea washing

backward and forward against the cliff: He was going

to miss the sound.

Small green shoots were forcing their way up through

the red earth of Dobby’s grave now; in a year’s time

the mound would be covered in flowers. The white

stone that bore the elf’s name had already acquired a

weathered look. He realized now that they could

hardly have laid Dobby to rest in a more beautiful

place, but Harry ached with sadness to think of

leaving him behind. Looking down on the grave, he

wondered yet again how the elf had known where to

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come to rescue them. His fingers moved

absentmindedly to the little pouch still strung around

his neck, through which he could feel the jagged

mirror fragment in which he had been sure he had

seen Dumbledore’s eye. Then the sound of a door

opening made him look around.

Bellatrix Lestrange was striding across the lawn

toward them, accompanied by Griphook. As she

walked, she was tucking the small, beaded bag into

the inside pocket of another set of the old robes they

had taken from Grimmauld Place. Though Harry

knew perfectly well that it was really Hermione, he

could not suppress a shiver of loathing. She was taller

than he was, her long black hair rippling down her

back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested

upon him; but then she spoke, and he heard

Hermione through Bellatrix’s low voice.

“She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay,

Ron, come here so I can do you. …”

“Right, but remember, I don’t like the beard too long

—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking

handsome —” “It’s not that, it gets in the way! But I

liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you

did last time.”

Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under

her breath as she transformed various aspects of

Ron’s appearance. He was to be given a completely

fake identity, and they were trusting to the malevolent

aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile

Harry and Griphook were to be concealed under the

Invisibility Cloak.

“There,” said Hermione, “how does he look, Harry?”

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It was just possible to discern Ron under his disguise, but only, Harry thought, because he knew him so

well. Ron’s hair was now long and wavy; he had a

thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a

short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows.

“Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” said Harry.

“Shall we go, then?”

All three of them glanced back at Shell Cottage, lying

dark and silent under the fading stars, then turned

and began to walk toward the point, just beyond the

boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stopped

working and they would be able to Disapparate. Once

past the gate, Griphook spoke.

“I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?”

Harry bent down and the goblin clambered onto his

back, his hands linked in front of Harry’s throat. He

was not heavy, but Harry disliked the feeling of the

goblin and the surprising strength with which he

clung on. Hermione pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of

the beaded bag and threw it over them both.

“Perfect,” she said, bending down to check Harry’s

feet. “I can’t see a thing. Let’s go.”

Harry turned on the spot, with Griphook on his

shoulders, concentrating with all his might on the

Leaky Cauldron, the inn that was the entrance to

Diagon Alley. The goblin clung even tighter as they

moved into the compressing darkness, and seconds

later Harry’s feet found pavement and he opened his

eyes on Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustled past

wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning,

quite unconscious of the little inn’s existence.

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The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted.

Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was

polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of

warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far

corner glanced at Hermione and drew back into the

shadows.

“Madam Lestrange,” murmured Tom, and as

Hermione passed he inclined his head subserviently.

“Good morning,” said Hermione, and as Harry crept

past, still carrying Griphook piggyback under the

Cloak, he saw Tom look surprised.

“Too polite,” Harry whispered in Hermione’s ear as

they passed out of the inn into the tiny backyard.

“You need to treat people like they’re scum!”

“Okay, okay!”

Hermione drew out Bellatrix’s wand and tapped a

brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once

the bricks began to whirl and spin: A hole appeared

in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider,

finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled

street that was Diagon Alley.

It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and

there were hardly any shoppers abroad. The crooked,

cobbled street was much altered now from the

bustling place Harry had visited before his first term

at Hogwarts so many years before. More shops than

ever were boarded up, though several new

establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been

created since his last visit. Harry’s own face glared

down at him from posters plastered over many

windows, always captioned with the words

UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.

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A number of ragged people sat huddled in doorways.

He heard them moaning to the few passersby,

pleading for gold, insisting that they were really

wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye.

As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed

Hermione. They seemed to melt away before her,

drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as

they could. Hermione looked after them curiously,

until the man with the bloodied bandage came

staggering right across her path.

“My children!” he bellowed, pointing at her. His voice

was cracked, high-pitched; he sounded distraught.

“Where are my children? What has he done with

them? You know, you know!”

“I — I really —” stammered Hermione.

The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat: Then,

with a bang and a burst of red light he was thrown

backward onto the ground, unconscious. Ron stood

there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock

visible behind his beard. Faces appeared at the

windows on either side of the street, while a little knot

of prosperous-looking passersby gathered their robes

about them and broke into gentle trots, keen to

vacate the scene.

Their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have

been more conspicuous; for a moment Harry

wondered whether it might not be better to leave now

and try to think of a different plan. Before they could

move or consult one another, however, they heard a

cry from behind them.

“Why, Madam Lestrange!”

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Harry whirled around and Griphook tightened his

hold around Harry’s neck: A tall, thin wizard with a

crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose was

striding toward them.

“It’s Travers,” hissed the goblin into Harry’s ear, but

at that moment Harry could not think who Travers

was. Hermione had drawn herself up to her fullest

height and said with as much contempt as she could

muster:

“And what do you want?”

Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted.

“He’s another Death Eater!” breathed Griphook, and

Harry sidled sideways to repeat the information into

Hermione’s ear.

“I merely sought to greet you,” said Travers coolly,

“but if my presence is not welcome …”

Harry recognized his voice now; Travers was one of

the Death Eaters who had been summoned to

Xenophilius’s house.

“No, no, not at all, Travers,” said Hermione quickly,

trying to cover up her mistake. “How are you?”

“Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and

about, Bellatrix.”

“Really? Why?” asked Hermione.

“Well,” Travers coughed, “I heard that the inhabitants

of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the

… ah … escape. ”

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Harry willed Hermione to keep her head. If this was true, and Bellatrix was not supposed to be out in

public —

“The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him

most faithfully in the past,” said Hermione in a

magnificent imitation of Bellatrix’s most

contemptuous manner. “Perhaps your credit is not as

good with him as mine is, Travers.”

Though the Death Eater looked offended, he also

seemed less suspicious. He glanced down at the man

Ron had just Stunned.

“How did it offend you?”

“It does not matter, it will not do so again,” said

Hermione coolly.

“Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” said

Travers. “While they do nothing but beg I have no

objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead

her case at the Ministry last week. ‘ I’m a witch, sir, I’m

a witch, let me prove it to you!’ ” he said in a squeaky

impersonation. “As if I was going to give her my wand

— but whose wand,” said Travers curiously, “are you

using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own

was —”

“I have my wand here,” said Hermione coldly, holding

up Bellatrix’s wand. “I don’t know what rumors you

have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly

misinformed.”

Travers seemed a little taken aback at that, and he

turned instead to Ron.

“Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.”

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“This is Dragomir Despard,” said Hermione; they had decided that a fictional foreigner was the safest cover

for Ron to assume. “He speaks very little English, but

he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has

traveled here from Transylvania to see our new

regime.”

“Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?”

“ ’Ow you?” said Ron, holding out his hand.

Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron’s hand

as though frightened of dirtying himself.

“So what brings you and your — ah — sympathetic

friend to Diagon Alley this early?” asked Travers.

“I need to visit Gringotts,” said Hermione.

“Alas, I also,” said Travers. “Gold, filthy gold! We

cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the

necessity of consorting with our long-fingered

friends.”

Harry felt Griphook’s clasped hands tighten

momentarily around his neck.

“Shall we?” said Travers, gesturing Hermione forward.

Hermione had no choice but to fall into step beside

him and head along the crooked, cobbled street

toward the place where the snowy-white Gringotts

stood towering over the other little shops. Ron sloped

along beside them, and Harry and Griphook followed.

A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they

needed, and the worst of it was, with Travers

marching at what he believed to be Bellatrix’s side,

there was no means for Harry to communicate with

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Hermione or Ron. All too soon they arrived at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze

doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the

liveried goblins who usually flanked the entrance had

been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were

clutching long thin golden rods.

“Ah, Probity Probes,” sighed Travers theatrically, “so

crude — but effective!”

And he set off up the steps, nodding left and right to

the wizards, who raised the golden rods and passed

them up and down his body. The Probes, Harry knew,

detected spells of concealment and hidden magical

objects. Knowing that he had only seconds; Harry

pointed Draco’s wand at each of the guards in turn

and murmured, “Confundo” twice. Unnoticed by

Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at

the inner hall, each of the guards gave a little start as

the spells hit them.

Hermione’s long black hair rippled behind her as she

climbed the steps.

“One moment, madam,” said the guard, raising his

Probe.

“But you’ve just done that!” said Hermione in

Bellatrix’s commanding, arrogant voice. Travers

looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was

confused. He stared down at the thin golden Probe

and then at his companion, who said in a slightly

dazed voice,

“Yeah, you’ve just checked them, Marius.”

Hermione swept forward, Ron by her side, Harry and

Griphook trotting invisibly behind them. Harry

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glanced back as they crossed the threshold: The

wizards were both scratching their heads.

Two goblins stood before the inner doors, which were

made of silver and which carried the poem warning of

dire retribution to potential thieves. Harry looked up

at it, and all of a sudden a knife-sharp memory came

to him: standing on this very spot on the day that he

had turned eleven, the most wonderful birthday of his

life, and Hagrid standing beside him saying, “Like I

said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it. ” Gringotts had

seemed a place of wonder that day, the enchanted

repository of a trove of gold he had never known he

possessed, and never for an instant could he have

dreamed that he would return to steal. … But within

seconds they were standing in the vast marble hall of

the bank.

The long counter was manned by goblins sitting on

high stools, serving the first customers of the day.

Hermione, Ron, and Travers headed toward an old

goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through

an eyeglass. Hermione allowed Travers to step ahead

of her on the pretext of explaining features of the hall

to Ron.

The goblin tossed the coin he was holding aside, said

to nobody in particular, “Leprechaun,” and then

greeted Travers, who passed over a tiny golden key,

which was examined and given back to him.

Hermione stepped forward.

“Madam Lestrange!” said the goblin, evidently

startled. “Dear me! How — how may I help you

today?”

“I wish to enter my vault,” said Hermione.

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The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Harry glanced around. Not only was Travers hanging back,

watching, but several other goblins had looked up

from their work to stare at Hermione.

“You have … identification?” asked the goblin.

“Identification? I — I have never been asked for

identification before!” said Hermione.

“They know!” whispered Griphook in Harry’s ear.

“They must have been warned there might be an

impostor!”

“Your wand will do, madam,” said the goblin. He held

out a slightly trembling hand, and in a dreadful blast

of realization Harry knew that the goblins of Gringotts

were aware that Bellatrix’s wand had been stolen.

“Act now, act now, ” whispered Griphook in Harry’s

ear, “the Imperius Curse!”

Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak,

pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the

first time in his life, “Imperio!”

A curious sensation shot down Harry’s arm, a feeling

of tingling warmth that seemed to flow from his mind,

down the sinews and veins connecting him to the

wand and the curse it had just cast. The goblin took

Bellatrix’s wand, examined it closely, and then said,

“Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam

Lestrange!”

“What?” said Hermione. “No, no, that’s mine —”

“A new wand?” said Travers, approaching the counter

again; still the goblins all around were watching. “But

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how could you have done, which wandmaker did you

use?”

Harry acted without thinking: Pointing his wand at

Travers, he muttered, “Imperio!” once more.

“Oh yes, I see,” said Travers, looking down at

Bellatrix’s wand, “yes, very handsome. And is it

working well? I always think wands require a little

breaking in, don’t you?”

Hermione looked utterly bewildered, but to Harry’s

enormous relief she accepted the bizarre turn of

events without comment.

The old goblin behind the counter clapped his hands

and a younger goblin approached.

“I shall need the Clankers,” he told the goblin, who

dashed away and returned a moment later with a

leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal,

which he handed to his senior. “Good, good! So, if you

will follow me, Madam Lestrange,” said the old goblin,

hopping down off his stool and vanishing from sight,

“I shall take you to your vault.”

He appeared around the end of the counter, jogging

happily toward them, the contents of the leather bag

still jingling. Travers was now standing quite still with

his mouth hanging wide open. Ron was drawing

attention to this odd phenomenon by regarding

Travers with confusion.

“Wait — Bogrod!”

Another goblin came scurrying around the counter.

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“We have instructions,” he said with a bow to

Hermione. “Forgive me, Madam, but there have been

special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange.”

He whispered urgently in Bogrod’s ear, but the

Imperiused goblin shook him off.

“I am aware of the instructions. Madam Lestrange

wishes to visit her vault. … Very old family … old

clients … This way, please …”

And, still clanking, he hurried toward one of the many

doors leading off the hall. Harry looked back at

Travers, who was still rooted to the spot looking

abnormally vacant, and made his decision: With a

flick of his wand he made Travers come with them,

walking meekly in their wake as they reached the

door and passed into the rough stone passageway

beyond, which was lit with flaming torches.

“We’re in trouble; they suspect,” said Harry as the

door slammed behind them and he pulled off the

Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jumped down from his

shoulders; neither Travers nor Bogrod showed the

slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Harry

Potter in their midst. “They’re Imperiused,” he added,

in response to Hermione and Ron’s confused queries

about Travers and Bogrod, who were both now

standing there looking blank. “I don’t think I did it

strongly enough, I don’t know. …”

And another memory darted through his mind, of the

real Bellatrix Lestrange shrieking at him when he had

first tried to use an Unforgivable Curse: “You need to

mean them, Potter!”

“What do we do?” asked Ron. “Shall we get out now,

while we can?”

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“If we can,” said Hermione, looking back toward the door into the main hall, beyond which who knew

what was happening.

“We’ve got this far, I say we go on,” said Harry.

“Good!” said Griphook. “So, we need Bogrod to control

the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will

not be room for the wizard.”

Harry pointed his wand at Travers.

“Imperio!”

The wizard turned and set off along the dark track at

a smart pace.

“What are you making him do?”

“Hide,” said Harry as he pointed his wand at Bogrod,

who whistled to summon a little cart that came

trundling along the tracks toward them out of the

darkness. Harry was sure he could hear shouting

behind them in the main hall as they all clambered

into it, Bogrod in front with Griphook, Harry, Ron,

and Hermione crammed together in the back.

With a jerk the cart moved off, gathering speed: They

hurtled past Travers, who was wriggling into a crack

in the wall, then the cart began twisting and turning

through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward

all the time. Harry could not hear anything over the

rattling of the cart on the tracks: His hair flew behind

him as they swerved between stalactites, flying ever

deeper into the earth, but he kept glancing back.

They might as well have left enormous footprints

behind them; the more he thought about it, the more

foolish it seemed to have disguised Hermione as

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Bellatrix, to have brought along Bellatrix’s wand,

when the Death Eaters knew who had stolen it —

They were deeper than Harry had ever penetrated

within Gringotts; they took a hairpin bend at speed

and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a

waterfall pounding over the track. Harry heard

Griphook shout, “No!” but there was no braking: They

zoomed through it. Water filled Harry’s eyes and

mouth: He could not see or breathe: Then, with an

awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all

thrown out of it. Harry heard the cart smash into

pieces against the passage wall, heard Hermione

shriek something, and felt himself glide back toward

the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly

on the rocky passage floor.

“C-Cushioning Charm,” Hermione spluttered, as Ron

pulled her to her feet, but to Harry’s horror he saw

that she was no longer Bellatrix; instead she stood

there in overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely

herself; Ron was red-haired and beardless again.

They were realizing it as they looked at each other,

feeling their own faces.

“The Thief’s Downfall!” said Griphook, clambering to

his feet and looking back at the deluge onto the

tracks, which, Harry knew now, had been more than

water. “It washes away all enchantment, all magical

concealment! They know there are impostors in

Gringotts, they have set off defenses against us!”

Harry saw Hermione checking that she still had the

beaded bag, and hurriedly thrust his own hand under

his jacket to make sure he had not lost the Invisibility

Cloak. Then he turned to see Bogrod shaking his

head in bewilderment: The Thief’s Downfall seemed to

have lifted the Imperius Curse.

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“We need him,” said Griphook, “we cannot enter the

vault without a Gringotts goblin. And we need the

Clankers!”

“Imperio!” Harry said again; his voice echoed through

the stone passage as he felt again the sense of heady

control that flowed from brain to wand. Bogrod

submitted once more to his will, his befuddled

expression changing to one of polite indifference, as

Ron hurried to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

“Harry, I think I can hear people coming!” said

Hermione, and she pointed Bellatrix’s wand at the

waterfall and cried, “Protego!” They saw the Shield

Charm break the flow of enchanted water as it flew up

the passageway.

“Good thinking,” said Harry. “Lead the way,

Griphook!”

“How are we going to get out again?” Ron asked as

they hurried on foot into the darkness after the

goblin, Bogrod panting in their wake like an old dog.

“Let’s worry about that when we have to,” said Harry.

He was trying to listen: He thought he could hear

something clanking and moving around nearby.

“Griphook, how much farther?”

“Not far, Harry Potter, not far …”

And they turned a corner and saw the thing for which

Harry had been prepared, but which still brought all

of them to a halt.

A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front

of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest

vaults in the place. The beast’s scales had turned pale

and flaky during its long incarceration under the

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ground; its eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs

driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked

wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the

chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its

ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that

made the rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a

jet of fire that sent them running back up the

passageway.

“It is partially blind,” panted Griphook, “but even

more savage for that. However, we have the means to

control it. It has learned what to expect when the

Clankers come. Give them to me.”

Ron passed the bag to Griphook, and the goblin

pulled out a number of small metal instruments that

when shaken made a loud, ringing noise like

miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook handed them

out: Bogrod accepted his meekly.

“You know what to do,” Griphook told Harry, Ron,

and Hermione. “It will expect pain when it hears the

noise: It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm

upon the door of the vault.”

They advanced around the corner again, shaking the

Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls,

grossly magnified, so that the inside of Harry’s skull

seemed to vibrate with the din. The dragon let out

another hoarse roar, then retreated. Harry could see

it trembling, and as they drew nearer he saw the

scars made by vicious slashes across its face, and

guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords

when it heard the sound of the Clankers.

“Make him press his hand to the door!” Griphook

urged Harry, who turned his wand again upon

Bogrod. The old goblin obeyed, pressing his palm to

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the wood, and the door of the vault melted away to

reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to

ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor,

the skins of strange creatures — some with long

spines, others with drooping wings — potions in

jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown.

“Search, fast!” said Harry as they all hurried inside

the vault.

He had described Hufflepuff’s cup to Ron and

Hermione, but if it was the other, unknown Horcrux

that resided in this vault, he did not know what it

looked like. He barely had time to glance around,

however, before there was a muffled clunk from

behind them: The door had reappeared, sealing them

inside the vault, and they were plunged into total

darkness.

“No matter, Bogrod will be able to release us!” said

Griphook as Ron gave a shout of surprise. “Light your

wands, can’t you? And hurry, we have very little

time!”

“Lumos!”

Harry shone his lit wand around the vault: Its beam

fell upon glittering jewels; he saw the fake sword of

Gryffindor lying on a high shelf amongst a jumble of

chains. Ron and Hermione had lit their wands too,

and were now examining the piles of objects

surrounding them.

“Harry, could this be — ? Aargh!”

Hermione screamed in pain, and Harry turned his

wand on her in time to see a jeweled goblet tumbling

from her grip. But as it fell, it split, became a shower

of goblets, so that a second later, with a great clatter,

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the floor was covered in identical cups rolling in every direction, the original impossible to discern amongst

them.

“It burned me!” moaned Hermione, sucking her

blistered fingers.

“They have added Gemino and Flagrante Curses!”

said Griphook. “Everything you touch will burn and

multiply, but the copies are worthless — and if you

continue to handle the treasure, you will eventually

be crushed to death by the weight of expanding gold!”

“Okay, don’t touch anything!” said Harry desperately,

but even as he said it, Ron accidentally nudged one of

the fallen goblets with his foot, and twenty more

exploded into being while Ron hopped on the spot,

part of his shoe burned away by contact with the hot

metal.

“Stand still, don’t move!” said Hermione, clutching at

Ron.

“Just look around!” said Harry. “Remember, the cup’s

small and gold, it’s got a badger engraved on it, two

handles — otherwise see if you can spot Ravenclaw’s

symbol anywhere, the eagle —”

They directed their wands into every nook and

crevice, turning cautiously on the spot. It was

impossible not to brush up against anything; Harry

sent a great cascade of fake Galleons onto the ground

where they joined the goblets, and now there was

scarcely room to place their feet, and the glowing gold

blazed with heat, so that the vault felt like a furnace.

Harry’s wandlight passed over shields and goblin-

made helmets set on shelves rising to the ceiling;

higher and higher he raised the beam, until suddenly

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it found an object that made his heart skip and his hand tremble.

“It’s there, it’s up there!”

Ron and Hermione pointed their wands at it too, so

that the little golden cup sparkled in a three-way

spotlight: the cup that had belonged to Helga

Hufflepuff, which had passed into the possession of

Hepzibah Smith, from whom it had been stolen by

Tom Riddle.

“And how the hell are we going to get up there

without touching anything?” asked Ron.

“Accio Cup!” cried Hermione, who had evidently

forgotten in her desperation what Griphook had told

them during their planning sessions.

“No use, no use!” snarled the goblin.

“Then what do we do?” said Harry, glaring at the

goblin. “If you want the sword, Griphook, then you’ll

have to help us more than — wait! Can I touch stuff

with the sword? Hermione, give it here!”

Hermione fumbled inside her robes, drew out the

beaded bag, rummaged for a few seconds, then

removed the shining sword. Harry seized it by its

rubied hilt and touched the tip of the blade to a silver

flagon nearby, which did not multiply.

“If I can just poke the sword through a handle — but

how am I going to get up there?”

The shelf on which the cup reposed was out of reach

for any of them, even Ron, who was tallest. The heat

from the enchanted treasure rose in waves, and sweat

ran down Harry’s face and back as he struggled to

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think of a way up to the cup; and then he heard the dragon roar on the other side of the vault door, and

the sound of clanking growing louder and louder.

They were truly trapped now: There was no way out

except through the door, and a horde of goblins

seemed to be approaching on the other side. Harry

looked at Ron and Hermione and saw terror in their

faces.

“Hermione,” said Harry as the clanking grew louder,

“I’ve got to get up there, we’ve got to get rid of it —”

She raised her wand, pointed it at Harry, and

whispered, “Levicorpus. ”

Hoisted into the air by his ankle, Harry hit a suit of

armor and replicas burst out of it like white-hot

bodies, filling the cramped space. With screams of

pain Ron, Hermione, and the two goblins were

knocked aside into other objects, which also began to

replicate. Half buried in a rising tide of red-hot

treasure, they struggled and yelled as Harry thrust

the sword through the handle of Hufflepuff’s cup,

hooking it onto the blade.

“Impervius!” screeched Hermione in an attempt to

protect herself, Ron, and the goblins from the burning

metal.

Then the worst scream yet made Harry look down:

Ron and Hermione were waist-deep in treasure,

struggling to keep Bogrod from slipping beneath the

rising tide, but Griphook had sunk out of sight and

nothing but the tips of a few long fingers were left in

view.

Harry seized Griphook’s fingers and pulled. The

blistered goblin emerged by degrees, howling.

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“Liberacorpus!” yelled Harry, and with a crash he and Griphook landed on the surface of the swelling

treasure, and the sword flew out of Harry’s hand.

“Get it!” Harry yelled, fighting the pain of the hot

metal on his skin, as Griphook clambered onto his

shoulders again, determined to avoid the swelling

mass of red-hot objects. “Where’s the sword? It had

the cup on it!”

The clanking on the other side of the door was

growing deafening — it was too late —

“There!”

It was Griphook who had seen it and Griphook who

lunged, and in that instant Harry knew that the

goblin had never expected them to keep their word.

One hand holding tightly to a fistful of Harry’s hair, to

make sure he did not fall into the heaving sea of

burning gold, Griphook seized the hilt of the sword

and swung it high out of Harry’s reach.

The tiny golden cup, skewered by the handle on the

sword’s blade, was flung into the air. The goblin still

astride him, Harry dived and caught it, and although

he could feel it scalding his flesh he did not relinquish

it, even while countless Hufflepuff cups burst from

his fist, raining down upon him as the entrance of the

vault opened up again and he found himself sliding

uncontrollably on an expanding avalanche of fiery

gold and silver that bore him, Ron, and Hermione into

the outer chamber.

Hardly aware of the pain from the burns covering his

body, and still borne along on the swell of replicating

treasure, Harry shoved the cup into his pocket and

reached up to retrieve the sword, but Griphook was

gone. Sliding from Harry’s shoulders the moment he

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could, he had sprinted for cover amongst the

surrounding goblins, brandishing the sword and

crying, “Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!” He vanished

into the midst of the advancing crowd, all of whom

were holding daggers and who accepted him without

question.

Slipping on the hot metal, Harry struggled to his feet

and knew that the only way out was through.

“Stupefy!” he bellowed, and Ron and Hermione joined

in: Jets of red light flew into the crowd of goblins, and

some toppled over, but others advanced, and Harry

saw several wizard guards running around the

corner.

The tethered dragon let out a roar, and a gush of

flame flew over the goblins: The wizards fled, doubled-

up, back the way they had come, and inspiration, or

madness, came to Harry. Pointing his wand at the

thick cuffs chaining the beast to the floor, he yelled,

“Relashio!”

The cuffs broke open with loud bangs.

“This way!” Harry yelled, and still shooting Stunning

Spells at the advancing goblins, he sprinted toward

the blind dragon.

“Harry — Harry — what are you doing?” cried

Hermione.

“Get up, climb up, come on —”

The dragon had not realized that it was free: Harry’s

foot found the crook of its hind leg and he pulled

himself up onto its back. The scales were hard as

steel; it did not even seem to feel him. He stretched

out an arm; Hermione hoisted herself up; Ron

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climbed on behind them, and a second later the

dragon became aware that it was untethered.

With a roar it reared: Harry dug in his knees,

clutching as tightly as he could to the jagged scales

as the wings opened, knocking the shrieking goblins

aside like skittles, and it soared into the air. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione, flat on its back, scraped against

the ceiling as it dived toward the passage opening,

while the pursuing goblins hurled daggers that

glanced off its flanks.

“We’ll never get out, it’s too big!” Hermione screamed,

but the dragon opened its mouth and belched flame

again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceiling

cracked and crumbled. By sheer force the dragon

clawed and fought its way through. Harry’s eyes were

shut tight against the heat and dust: Deafened by the

crashing of rock and the dragon’s roars, he could only

cling to its back, expecting to be shaken off at any

moment; then he heard Hermione yelling, “Defodio!”

She was helping the dragon enlarge the passageway,

carving out the ceiling as it struggled upward toward

the fresher air, away from the shrieking and clanking

goblins: Harry and Ron copied her, blasting the

ceiling apart with more gouging spells. They passed

the underground lake, and the great crawling,

snarling beast seemed to sense freedom and space

ahead of it, and behind them the passage was full of

the dragon’s thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of

rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking

of the goblins seemed to be growing more muffled,

while ahead, the dragon’s fire kept their progress

clear —

And then at last, by the combined force of their spells

and the dragon’s brute strength, they had blasted

their way out of the passage into the marble hallway.

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Goblins and wizards shrieked and ran for cover, and finally the dragon had room to stretch its wings:

Turning its horned head toward the cool outside air it

could smell beyond the entrance, it took off, and with

Harry, Ron, and Hermione still clinging to its back, it

forced its way through the metal doors, leaving them

buckled and hanging from their hinges, as it

staggered into Diagon Alley and launched itself into

the sky.

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THE FINAL HIDING PLACE

There was no means of steering; the dragon could not

see where it was going, and Harry knew that if it

turned sharply or rolled in midair they would find it

impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless,

as they climbed higher and higher, London unfurling

below them like a gray-and-green map, Harry’s

overwhelming feeling was of gratitude for an escape

that had seemed impossible. Crouching low over the

beast’s neck, he clung tight to the metallic scales, and

the cool breeze was soothing on his burned and

blistered skin, the dragon’s wings beating the air like

the sails of a windmill. Behind him, whether from

delight or fear he could not tell, Ron kept swearing at

the top of his voice, and Hermione seemed to be

sobbing.

After five minutes or so, Harry lost some of his

immediate dread that the dragon was going to throw

them off, for it seemed intent on nothing but getting

as far away from its underground prison as possible;

but the question of how and when they were to

dismount remained rather frightening. He had no idea

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how long dragons could fly without landing, nor how this particular dragon, which could barely see, would

locate a good place to put down. He glanced around

constantly, imagining that he could feel his scar

prickling. …

How long would it be before Voldemort knew that they

had broken into the Lestranges’ vault? How soon

would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? How

quickly would they realize what had been taken? And

then, when they discovered that the golden cup was

missing? Voldemort would know, at last, that they

were hunting Horcruxes. …

The dragon seemed to crave cooler and fresher air: It

climbed steadily until they were flying through wisps

of chilly cloud, and Harry could no longer make out

the little colored dots which were cars pouring in and

out of the capital. On and on they flew, over

countryside parceled out in patches of green and

brown, over roads and rivers winding through the

landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

“What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron yelled as

they flew farther and farther north.

“No idea,” Harry bellowed back. His hands were numb

with cold but he did not dare attempt to shift his grip.

He had been wondering for some time what they

would do if they saw the coast sail beneath them, if

the dragon headed for open sea; he was cold and

numb, not to mention desperately hungry and thirsty.

When, he wondered, had the beast itself last eaten?

Surely it would need sustenance before long? And

what if, at that point, it realized it had three highly

edible humans sitting on its back?

The sun slipped lower in the sky, which was turning

indigo; and still the dragon flew, cities and towns

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gliding out of sight beneath them, its enormous

shadow sliding over the earth like a great dark cloud.

Every part of Harry ached with the effort of holding on

to the dragon’s back.

“Is it my imagination,” shouted Ron after a

considerable stretch of silence, “or are we losing

height?”

Harry looked down and saw deep green mountains

and lakes, coppery in the sunset. The landscape

seemed to grow larger and more detailed as he

squinted over the side of the dragon, and he

wondered whether it had divined the presence of fresh

water by the flashes of reflected sunlight.

Lower and lower the dragon flew, in great spiraling

circles, honing in, it seemed, upon one of the smaller

lakes.

“I say we jump when it gets low enough!” Harry called

back to the others. “Straight into the water before it

realizes we’re here!”

They agreed, Hermione a little faintly, and now Harry

could see the dragon’s wide yellow underbelly rippling

in the surface of the water.

“NOW!”

He slithered over the side of the dragon and

plummeted feetfirst toward the surface of the lake;

the drop was greater than he had estimated and he

hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a

freezing, green, reed-filled world. He kicked toward

the surface and emerged, panting, to see enormous

ripples emanating in circles from the places where

Ron and Hermione had fallen. The dragon did not

seem to have noticed anything: It was already fifty

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feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up

water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione

emerged, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of

the lake, the dragon flew on, its wings beating hard,

and landed at last on a distant bank.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione struck out for the opposite

shore. The lake did not seem to be deep: Soon it was

more a question of fighting their way through reeds

and mud than swimming, and at last they flopped,

sodden, panting, and exhausted, onto slippery grass.

Hermione collapsed, coughing and shuddering.

Though Harry could have happily lain down and

slept, he staggered to his feet, drew out his wand, and

started casting the usual protective spells around

them.

When he had finished, he joined the others. It was the

first time that he had seen them properly since

escaping from the vault. Both had angry red burns all

over their faces and arms, and their clothing was

singed away in places. They were wincing as they

dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries.

Hermione handed Harry the bottle, then pulled out

three bottles of pumpkin juice she had brought from

Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of them.

They changed and then gulped down the juice.

“Well, on the upside,” said Ron finally, who was

sitting watching the skin on his hands regrow, “we got

the Horcrux. On the downside —”

“— no sword,” said Harry through gritted teeth, as he

dripped dittany through the singed hole in his jeans

onto the angry burn beneath.

“No sword,” repeated Ron. “That double-crossing little

scab …”

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Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he had just taken off and set it down on the

grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew

their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice.

“At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit

weird hanging round our necks,” said Ron, wiping his

mouth on the back of his hand.

Hermione looked across the lake to the far bank,

where the dragon was still drinking.

“What’ll happen to it, do you think?” she asked. “Will

it be all right?”

“You sound like Hagrid,” said Ron. “It’s a dragon,

Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to

worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,” said

Ron, “but I think they might have noticed we broke

into Gringotts.”

All three of them started to laugh, and once started, it

was difficult to stop. Harry’s ribs ached, he felt

lightheaded with hunger, but he lay back on the grass

beneath the reddening sky and laughed until his

throat was raw.

“What are we going to do, though?” said Hermione

finally, hiccuping herself back to seriousness. “He’ll

know, won’t he? You-Know-Who will know we know

about his Horcruxes!”

“Maybe they’ll be too scared to tell him?” said Ron

hopefully. “Maybe they’ll cover up —”

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The sky, the smell of lake water, the sound of Ron’s voice were extinguished: Pain cleaved Harry’s head

like a sword stroke. He was standing in a dimly lit

room, and a semicircle of wizards faced him, and on

the floor at his feet knelt a small, quaking figure.

“What did you say to me?” His voice was high and

cold, but fury and fear burned inside him. The one

thing he had dreaded — but it could not be true, he

could not see how …

The goblin was trembling, unable to meet the red eyes

high above his.

“Say it again!” murmured Voldemort. “Say it again!”

“M-my Lord,” stammered the goblin, its black eyes

wide with terror, “m-my Lord … we t-tried t-to st-stop

them. … Im-impostors, my Lord … broke — broke

into the — into the Lestranges’ v-vault. …”

“Impostors? What impostors? I thought Gringotts had

ways of revealing impostors? Who were they?”

“It was … it was … the P-Potter b-boy and t-two

accomplices. …”

“And they took?” he said, his voice rising, a terrible

fear gripping him. “Tell me! What did they take?”

“A … a s-small golden c-cup, m-my Lord …”

The scream of rage, of denial left him as if it were a

stranger’s: He was crazed, frenzied, it could not be

true, it was impossible, nobody had ever known: How

was it possible that the boy could have discovered his

secret?

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The Elder Wand slashed through the air and green

light erupted through the room; the kneeling goblin

rolled over, dead; the watching wizards scattered

before him, terrified: Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy

threw others behind them in their race for the door,

and again and again his wand fell, and those who

were left were slain, all of them, for bringing him this

news, for hearing about the golden cup —

Alone amongst the dead he stormed up and down,

and they passed before him in vision: his treasures,

his safeguards, his anchors to immortality — the

diary was destroyed and the cup was stolen: What if,

what if, the boy knew about the others? Could he

know, had he already acted, had he traced more of

them? Was Dumbledore at the root of this?

Dumbledore, who had always suspected him;

Dumbledore, dead on his orders; Dumbledore, whose

wand was his now, yet who reached out from the

ignominy of death through the boy, the boy —

But surely if the boy had destroyed any of his

Horcruxes, he, Lord Voldemort, would have known,

would have felt it? He, the greatest wizard of them all;

he, the most powerful; he, the killer of Dumbledore

and of how many other worthless, nameless men:

How could Lord Voldemort not have known, if he,

himself, most important and precious, had been

attacked, mutilated?

True, he had not felt it when the diary had been

destroyed, but he had thought that was because he

had no body to feel, being less than ghost. … No,

surely, the rest were safe. … The other Horcruxes

must be intact. …

But he must know, he must be sure. … He paced the

room, kicking aside the goblin’s corpse as he passed,

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and the pictures blurred and burned in his boiling

brain: the lake, the shack, and Hogwarts —

A modicum of calm cooled his rage now: How could

the boy know that he had hidden the ring in the

Gaunt shack? No one had ever known him to be

related to the Gaunts, he had hidden the connection,

the killings had never been traced to him: The ring,

surely, was safe.

And how could the boy, or anybody else, know about

the cave or penetrate its protection? The idea of the

locket being stolen was absurd. …

As for the school: He alone knew where in Hogwarts

he had stowed the Horcrux, because he alone had

plumbed the deepest secrets of that place. …

And there was still Nagini, who must remain close

now, no longer sent to do his bidding, under his

protection. …

But to be sure, to be utterly sure, he must return to

each of his hiding places, he must redouble protection

around each of his Horcruxes. … A job, like the quest

for the Elder Wand, that he must undertake alone …

Which should he visit first, which was in most

danger? An old unease flickered inside him.

Dumbledore had known his middle name. …

Dumbledore might have made the connection with

the Gaunts. … Their abandoned home was, perhaps,

the least secure of his hiding places, it was there that

he would go first. …

The lake, surely impossible … though was there a

slight possibility that Dumbledore might have known

some of his past misdeeds, through the orphanage.

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And Hogwarts … but he knew that his Horcrux there

was safe; it would be impossible for Potter to enter

Hogsmeade without detection, let alone the school.

Nevertheless, it would be prudent to alert Snape to

the fact that the boy might try to reenter the castle. …

To tell Snape why the boy might return would be

foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust

Bellatrix and Malfoy: Didn’t their stupidity and

carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to trust?

He would visit the Gaunt shack first, then, and take

Nagini with him: He would not be parted from the

snake anymore … and he strode from the room,

through the hall, and out into the dark garden where

the fountain played; he called the snake in

Parseltongue and it slithered out to join him like a

long shadow. …

Harry’s eyes flew open as he wrenched himself back

to the present: He was lying on the bank of the lake in

the setting sun, and Ron and Hermione were looking

down at him. Judging by their worried looks, and by

the continued pounding of his scar, his sudden

excursion into Voldemort’s mind had not passed

unnoticed. He struggled up, shivering, vaguely

surprised that he was still wet to his skin, and saw

the cup lying innocently in the grass before him, and

the lake, deep blue shot with gold in the failing sun.

“He knows.” His own voice sounded strange and low

after Voldemort’s high screams. “He knows, and he’s

going to check where the others are, and the last

one,” he was already on his feet, “is at Hogwarts. I

knew it. I knew it.”

“What?”

Ron was gaping at him; Hermione sat up, looking

worried.

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“But what did you see? How do you know?”

“I saw him find out about the cup, I — I was in his

head, he’s” — Harry remembered the killings — “he’s

seriously angry, and scared too, he can’t understand

how we knew, and now he’s going to check the others

are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is

safest, because Snape’s there, because it’ll be so hard

not to be seen getting in, I think he’ll check that one

last, but he could still be there within hours —”

“Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?” asked Ron,

now scrambling to his feet too.

“No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he

didn’t think about exactly where it is —”

“Wait, wait!” cried Hermione as Ron caught up the

Horcrux and Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak

again. “We can’t just go, we haven’t got a plan, we

need to —”

“We need to get going,” said Harry firmly. He had

been hoping to sleep, looking forward to getting into

the new tent, but that was impossible now. “Can you

imagine what he’s going to do once he realizes the

ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the

Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn’t safe enough?”

“But how are we going to get in?”

“We’ll go to Hogsmeade,” said Harry, “and try to work

something out once we see what the protection

around the school’s like. Get under the Cloak,

Hermione, I want to stick together this time.”

“But we don’t really fit —”

“It’ll be dark, no one’s going to notice our feet.”

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The flapping of enormous wings echoed across the

black water: The dragon had drunk its fill and risen

into the air. They paused in their preparations to

watch it climb higher and higher, now black against

the rapidly darkening sky, until it vanished over a

nearby mountain. Then Hermione walked forward

and took her place between the other two. Harry

pulled the Cloak down as far as it would go, and

together they turned on the spot into the crushing

darkness.

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THE MISSING MIRROR

Harry’s feet touched road. He saw the achingly

familiar Hogsmeade High Street: dark shop fronts,

and the outline of black mountains beyond the

village, and the curve in the road ahead that led off

toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows

of the Three Broomsticks, and with a lurch of the

heart he remembered, with piercing accuracy, how he

had landed here nearly a year before, supporting a

desperately weak Dumbledore; all this in a second,

upon landing — and then, even as he relaxed his grip

upon Ron’s and Hermione’s arms, it happened.

The air was rent by a scream that sounded like

Voldemort’s when he had realized the cup had been

stolen: It tore at every nerve in Harry’s body, and he

knew immediately that their appearance had caused

it. Even as he looked at the other two beneath the

Cloak, the door of the Three Broomsticks burst open

and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters

dashed into the street, their wands aloft.

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Harry seized Ron’s wrist as he raised his wand; there were too many of them to Stun: Even attempting it

would give away their position. One of the Death

Eaters waved his wand and the scream stopped, still

echoing around the distant mountains.

“Accio Cloak!” roared one of the Death Eaters.

Harry seized its folds, but it made no attempt to

escape: The Summoning Charm had not worked on it.

“Not under your wrapper, then, Potter?” yelled the

Death Eater who had tried the charm, and then to his

fellows, “Spread out. He’s here.”

Six of the Death Eaters ran toward them: Harry, Ron,

and Hermione backed as quickly as possible down the

nearest side street, and the Death Eaters missed

them by inches. They waited in the darkness,

listening to the footsteps running up and down,

beams of light flying along the street from the Death

Eaters’ searching wands.

“Let’s just leave!” Hermione whispered. “Disapparate

now!”

“Great idea,” said Ron, but before Harry could reply a

Death Eater shouted,

“We know you’re here, Potter, and there’s no getting

away! We’ll find you!”

“They were ready for us,” whispered Harry. “They set

up that spell to tell them we’d come. I reckon they’ve

done something to keep us here, trap us —”

“What about dementors?” called another Death Eater.

“Let ’em have free rein, they’d find him quick enough!”

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“The Dark Lord wants Potter dead by no hand but his

—”

“— an’ dementors won’t kill him! The Dark Lord

wants Potter’s life, not his soul. He’ll be easier to kill if

he’s been Kissed first!”

There were noises of agreement. Dread filled Harry:

To repel dementors they would have to produce

Patronuses, which would give them away

immediately.

“We’re going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!”

Hermione whispered.

Even as she said it, he felt the unnatural cold begin to

steal over the street. Light was sucked from the

environment right up to the stars, which vanished. In

the pitch-blackness, he felt Hermione take hold of his

arm and together, they turned on the spot.

The air through which they needed to move seemed to

have become solid: They could not Disapparate; the

Death Eaters had cast their charms well. The cold

was biting deeper and deeper into Harry’s flesh. He,

Ron, and Hermione retreated down the side street,

groping their way along the wall, trying not to make a

sound. Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly,

came dementors, ten or more of them, visible because

they were of a denser darkness than their

surroundings, with their black cloaks and their

scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in

the vicinity? Harry was sure of it: They seemed to be

coming more quickly now, taking those dragging,

rattling breaths he detested, tasting despair on the

air, closing in —

He raised his wand: He could not, would not, suffer

the Dementor’s Kiss, whatever happened afterward. It

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was of Ron and Hermione that he thought as he

whispered, “Expecto Patronum!”

The silver stag burst from his wand and charged: The

dementors scattered and there was a triumphant yell

from somewhere out of sight.

“It’s him, down there, down there, I saw his Patronus,

it was a stag!

The dementors had retreated, the stars were popping

out again, and the footsteps of the Death Eaters were

becoming louder; but before Harry in his panic could

decide what to do, there was a grinding of bolts

nearby, a door opened on the left-hand side of the

narrow street, and a rough voice said, “Potter, in here,

quick!”

He obeyed without hesitation: The three of them

hurtled through the open doorway.

“Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!” muttered a

tall figure, passing them on his way into the street

and slamming the door behind him.

Harry had had no idea where they were, but now he

saw, by the stuttering light of a single candle, the

grubby, sawdust-strewn bar of the Hog’s Head Inn.

They ran behind the counter and through a second

doorway, which led to a rickety wooden staircase that

they climbed as fast as they could. The stairs opened

onto a sitting room with a threadbare carpet and a

small fireplace, above which hung a single large oil

painting of a blonde girl who gazed out at the room

with a kind of vacant sweetness.

Shouts reached them from the street below. Still

wearing the Invisibility Cloak, they crept toward the

grimy window and looked down. Their savior, whom

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Harry now recognized as the Hog’s Head’s barman,

was the only person not wearing a hood.

“So what?” he was bellowing into one of the hooded

faces. “So what? You send dementors down my street,

I’ll send a Patronus back at ’em! I’m not having ’em

near me, I’ve told you that, I’m not having it!”

“That wasn’t your Patronus!” said a Death Eater.

“That was a stag, it was Potter’s!”

“Stag!” roared the barman, and he pulled out a wand.

“Stag! You idiot — Expecto Patronum!”

Something huge and horned erupted from the wand:

Head down, it charged toward the High Street and out

of sight.

“That’s not what I saw —” said the Death Eater,

though with less certainty.

“Curfew’s been broken, you heard the noise,” one of

his companions told the barman. “Someone was out

in the street against regulations —”

“If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to

your curfew!”

“You set off the Caterwauling Charm?”

“What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill

me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it,

then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you

haven’t pressed your little Dark Marks and

summoned him. He’s not going to like being called

here for me and my old cat, is he, now?”

“Don’t you worry about us,” said one of the Death

Eaters, “worry about yourself, breaking curfew!”

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“And where will you lot traffick potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down? What’ll happen to your

little sidelines then?”

“Are you threatening — ?”

“I keep my mouth shut, it’s why you come here, isn’t

it?”

“I still say I saw a stag Patronus!” shouted the first

Death Eater.

“Stag?” roared the barman. “It’s a goat, idiot!”

“All right, we made a mistake,” said the second Death

Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so

lenient!”

The Death Eaters strode back toward the High Street.

Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under

the Cloak, and sat down on a wobble-legged chair.

Harry drew the curtains tight shut, then pulled the

Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the

barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar,

then climbing the stairs.

Harry’s attention was caught by something on the

mantelpiece: a small, rectangular mirror propped on

top of it, right beneath the portrait of the girl.

The barman entered the room.

“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to

the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming

here?”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “We can’t thank you

enough. You saved our lives.”

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The barman grunted. Harry approached him, looking

up into the face, trying to see past the long, stringy,

wire-gray hair and beard. He wore spectacles. Behind

the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant

blue.

“It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.”

There was silence in the room. Harry and the barman

looked at each other.

“You sent Dobby.”

The barman nodded and looked around for the elf.

“Thought he’d be with you. Where’ve you left him?”

“He’s dead,” said Harry. “Bellatrix Lestrange killed

him.”

The barman’s face was impassive. After a few

moments he said, “I’m sorry to hear it. I liked that

elf.”

He turned away, lighting lamps with prods of his

wand, not looking at any of them.

“You’re Aberforth,” said Harry to the man’s back.

He neither confirmed nor denied it, but bent to light

the fire.

“How did you get this?” Harry asked, walking across

to Sirius’s mirror, the twin of the one he had broken

nearly two years before. “Bought it from Dung ’bout a

year ago,” said Aberforth. “Albus told me what it was.

Been trying to keep an eye out for you.”

Ron gasped.

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“The silver doe!” he said excitedly. “Was that you too?”

“What are you talking about?” said Aberforth.

“Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!”

“Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son.

Haven’t I just proved my Patronus is a goat?”

“Oh,” said Ron. “Yeah … well, I’m hungry!” he added

defensively as his stomach gave an enormous rumble.

“I got food,” said Aberforth, and he sloped out of the

room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of

bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which

he set upon a small table in front of the fire.

Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there

was silence but for the crackle of the fire, the clink of

goblets, and the sound of chewing.

“Right then,” said Aberforth when they had eaten

their fill, and Harry and Ron sat slumped dozily in

their chairs. “We need to think of the best way to get

you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard

what happens if anyone moves outdoors during

darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be

onto you like bow-truckles on doxy eggs. I don’t

reckon I’ll be able to pass off a stag as a goat a second

time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you

can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get

right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and

you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid.

He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever

since they tried to arrest him.”

“We’re not leaving,” said Harry. “We need to get into

Hogwarts.”

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” said Aberforth.

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“We’ve got to,” said Harry.

“What you’ve got to do,” said Aberforth, leaning

forward, “is to get as far from here as you can.”

“You don’t understand. There isn’t much time. We’ve

got to get into the castle. Dumbledore — I mean, your

brother — wanted us —”

The firelight made the grimy lenses of Aberforth’s

glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and

Harry remembered the blind eyes of the giant spider,

Aragog.

“My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” said

Aberforth, “and people had a habit of getting hurt

while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get

away from this school, Potter, and out of the country

if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes.

He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you

don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t understand,” said Harry again.

“Oh, don’t I?” said Aberforth quietly. “You don’t think

I understood my own brother? Think you knew Albus

better than I did?”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Harry, whose brain felt

sluggish with exhaustion and from the surfeit of food

and wine. “It’s … he left me a job.”

“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Nice job, I hope?

Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an

unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without

overstretching themselves?”

Ron gave a rather grim laugh. Hermione was looking

strained.

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“I-it’s not easy, no,” said Harry. “But I’ve got to —”

“ ‘Got to’? Why ‘ got to’? He’s dead, isn’t he?” said

Aberforth roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow

him! Save yourself!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I —” Harry felt overwhelmed; he could not explain, so

he took the offensive instead. “But you’re fighting too,

you’re in the Order of the Phoenix —”

“I was,” said Aberforth. “The Order of the Phoenix is

finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone

who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll

never be safe for you here, Potter, he wants you too

badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself.

Best take these two with you.” He jerked a thumb at

Ron and Hermione. “They’ll be in danger long as they

live now everyone knows they’ve been working with

you.”

“I can’t leave,” said Harry. “I’ve got a job —”

“Give it to someone else!”

“I can’t. It’s got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all

—”

“Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was

he honest with you?”

Harry wanted with all his heart to say “Yes,” but

somehow the simple word would not rise to his lips.

Aberforth seemed to know what he was thinking.

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“I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew

up, and Albus … he was a natural.”

The old man’s eyes traveled to the painting of the girl

over the mantelpiece. It was, now Harry looked

around properly, the only picture in the room. There

was no photograph of Albus Dumbledore, nor of

anyone else.

“Mr. Dumbledore?” said Hermione rather timidly. “Is

that your sister? Ariana?”

“Yes,” said Aberforth tersely. “Been reading Rita

Skeeter, have you, missy?”

Even by the rosy light of the fire it was clear that

Hermione had turned red.

“Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” said Harry,

trying to spare Hermione.

“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another

swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my

brother’s every orifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of

people, you three included, by the looks of it.”

Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the

doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had

riddled him for months now. He had made his choice

while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to

continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated

for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had

not been told everything that he wanted to know, but

simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he

did not want to hear anything that would deflect him

from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was

so strikingly like his brother’s: The bright blue eyes

gave the same impression that they were X-raying the

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object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that

Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised

him for it.

“Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very

much,” said Hermione in a low voice.

“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing, how

many of the people my brother cared about very

much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em

well alone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione breathlessly.

“Never you mind,” said Aberforth.

“But that’s a really serious thing to say!” said

Hermione. “Are you — are you talking about your

sister?”

Aberforth glared at her: His lips moved as if he were

chewing the words he was holding back. Then he

burst into speech.

“When my sister was six years old, she was attacked,

set upon, by three Muggle boys. They’d seen her

doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge:

She was a kid, she couldn’t control it, no witch or

wizard can at that age. What they saw scared them, I

expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and

when she couldn’t show them the trick, they got a bit

carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it.”

Hermione’s eyes were huge in the firelight; Ron looked

slightly sick. Aberforth stood up, tall as Albus, and

suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his

pain.

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“It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right again. She wouldn’t use magic, but she couldn’t get

rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it

exploded out of her when she couldn’t control it, and

at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly

she was sweet and scared and harmless.

“And my father went after the bastards that did it,”

said Aberforth, “and attacked them. And they locked

him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he’d

done it, because if the Ministry had known what

Ariana had become, she’d have been locked up in St.

Mungo’s for good. They’d have seen her as a serious

threat to the International Statute of Secrecy,

unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of

her at moments when she couldn’t keep it in any

longer.

“We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house,

put it about she was ill, and my mother looked after

her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.

“I was her favorite,” he said, and as he said it, a

grubby schoolboy seemed to look out through

Aberforth’s wrinkles and tangled beard. “Not Albus,

he was always up in his bedroom when he was home,

reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up

with his correspondence with ‘the most notable

magical names of the day,’ ” Aberforth sneered. “He

didn’t want to be bothered with her. She liked me

best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn’t do it for

my mother, I could get her to calm down when she

was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she

used to help me feed the goats.

“Then, when she was fourteen … See, I wasn’t there,”

said Aberforth. “If I’d been there, I could have calmed

her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother

wasn’t as young as she was, and … it was an

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accident. Ariana couldn’t control it. But my mother was killed.”

Harry felt a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion; he

did not want to hear any more, but Aberforth kept

talking, and Harry wondered how long it had been

since he had spoken about this; whether, in fact, he

had ever spoken about it.

“So that put paid to Albus’s trip round the world with

little Doge. The pair of ’em came home for my

mother’s funeral and then Doge went off on his own,

and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!”

Aberforth spat into the fire.

“I’d have looked after her, I told him so, I didn’t care

about school, I’d have stayed home and done it. He

told me I had to finish my education and he’d take

over from my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr.

Brilliant, there’s no prizes for looking after your half-

mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every

other day. But he did all right for a few weeks … till

he came.”

And now a positively dangerous look crept over

Aberforth’s face.

“Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to

talk to, someone just as bright and talented as he

was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then,

while they were hatching all their plans for a new

Wizarding order, and looking for Hallows, and

whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand

plans for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one

young girl got neglected, what did that matter, when

Albus was working for the greater good?

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“But after a few weeks of it, I’d had enough, I had. It was nearly time for me to go back to Hogwarts, so I

told ’em, both of ’em, face-to-face, like I am to you,

now,” and Aberforth looked down at Harry, and it

took little imagination to see him as a teenager, wiry

and angry, confronting his elder brother. “I told him,

you’d better give it up now. You can’t move her, she’s

in no fit state, you can’t take her with you, wherever it

is you’re planning to go, when you’re making your

clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a

following. He didn’t like that,” said Aberforth, and his

eyes were briefly occluded by the firelight on the

lenses of his glasses: They shone white and blind

again. “Grindelwald didn’t like that at all. He got

angry. He told me what a stupid little boy I was,

trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant

brother. … Didn’t I understand, my poor sister

wouldn’t have to be hidden once they’d changed the

world, and led the wizards out of hiding, and taught

the Muggles their place?

“And there was an argument … and I pulled out my

wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus

Curse used on me by my brother’s best friend — and

Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us

were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs

set her off, she couldn’t stand it —”

The color was draining from Aberforth’s face as

though he had suffered a mortal wound.

“— and I think she wanted to help, but she didn’t

really know what she was doing, and I don’t know

which of us did it, it could have been any of us — and

she was dead.”

His voice broke on the last word and he dropped

down into the nearest chair. Hermione’s face was wet

with tears, and Ron was almost as pale as Aberforth.

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Harry felt nothing but revulsion: He wished he had

not heard it, wished he could wash his mind clean of

it.

“I’m so … I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.

“Gone,” croaked Aberforth. “Gone forever.”

He wiped his nose on his cuff and cleared his throat.

“ ’Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a

track record already, back in his own country, and he

didn’t want Ariana set to his account too. And Albus

was free, wasn’t he? Free of the burden of his sister,

free to become the greatest wizard of the —”

“He was never free,” said Harry.

“I beg your pardon?” said Aberforth.

“Never,” said Harry. “The night that your brother died,

he drank a potion that drove him out of his mind. He

started screaming, pleading with someone who wasn’t

there. ‘Don’t hurt them, please … hurt me instead.’ ”

Ron and Hermione were staring at Harry. He had

never gone into details about what had happened on

the island on the lake: The events that had taken

place after he and Dumbledore had returned to

Hogwarts had eclipsed it so thoroughly.

“He thought he was back there with you and

Grindelwald, I know he did,” said Harry, remembering

Dumbledore whimpering, pleading. “He thought he

was watching Grindelwald hurting you and Ariana. …

It was torture to him, if you’d seen him then, you

wouldn’t say he was free.”

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Aberforth seemed lost in contemplation of his own

knotted and veined hands. After a long pause he said,

“How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t

more interested in the greater good than in you? How

can you be sure you aren’t dispensable, just like my

little sister?”

A shard of ice seemed to pierce Harry’s heart.

“I don’t believe it. Dumbledore loved Harry,” said

Hermione.

“Why didn’t he tell him to hide, then?” shot back

Aberforth. “Why didn’t he say to him, ‘Take care of

yourself, here’s how to survive’?”

“Because,” said Harry before Hermione could answer,

“sometimes you’ve got to think about more than your

own safety! Sometimes you’ve got to think about the

greater good! This is war!”

“You’re seventeen, boy!”

“I’m of age, and I’m going to keep fighting even if

you’ve given up!”

“Who says I’ve given up?”

“ ‘The Order of the Phoenix is finished,’ ” Harry

repeated. “ ‘You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and

anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding

themselves.’ ”

“I don’t say I like it, but it’s the truth!”

“No, it isn’t,” said Harry. “Your brother knew how to

finish You-Know-Who and he passed the knowledge

on to me. I’m going to keep going until I succeed — or

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I die. Don’t think I don’t know how this might end.

I’ve known it for years.”

He waited for Aberforth to jeer or to argue, but he did

not. He merely scowled.

“We need to get into Hogwarts,” said Harry again. “If

you can’t help us, we’ll wait till daybreak, leave you in

peace, and try to find a way in ourselves. If you can

help us — well, now would be a great time to mention

it.”

Aberforth remained fixed in his chair, gazing at Harry

with the eyes that were so extraordinarily like his

brother’s. At last he cleared his throat, got to his feet,

walked around the little table, and approached the

portrait of Ariana.

“You know what to do,” he said.

She smiled, turned, and walked away, not as people

in portraits usually did, out of the sides of their

frames, but along what seemed to be a long tunnel

painted behind her. They watched her slight figure

retreating until finally she was swallowed by the

darkness.

“Er — what — ?” began Ron.

“There’s only one way in now,” said Aberforth. “You

must know they’ve got all the old secret passageways

covered at both ends, dementors all around the

boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from

what my sources tell me. The place has never been so

heavily guarded. How you expect to do anything once

you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the

Carrows as his deputies … well, that’s your lookout,

isn’t it? You say you’re prepared to die.”

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“But what … ?” said Hermione, frowning at Ariana’s

picture.

A tiny white dot had reappeared at the end of the

painted tunnel, and now Ariana was walking back

toward them, growing bigger and bigger as she came.

But there was somebody else with her now, someone

taller than she was, who was limping along, looking

excited. His hair was longer than Harry had ever seen

it: He appeared to have suffered several gashes to his

face and his clothes were ripped and torn. Larger and

larger the two figures grew, until only their heads and

shoulders filled the portrait. Then the whole thing

swung forward on the wall like a little door, and the

entrance to a real tunnel was revealed. And out of it,

his hair overgrown, his face cut, his robes ripped,

clambered the real Neville Longbottom, who gave a

roar of delight, leapt down from the mantelpiece, and

yelled, “I knew you’d come! I knew it, Harry!”

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THE LOST DIADEM

“Neville — what the — how — ?”

But Neville had spotted Ron and Hermione, and with

yells of delight was hugging them too. The longer

Harry looked at Neville, the worse he appeared: One

of his eyes was swollen yellow and purple, there were

gouge marks on his face, and his general air of

unkemptness suggested that he had been living

rough. Nevertheless, his battered visage shone with

happiness as he let go of Hermione and said again, “I

knew you’d come! Kept telling Seamus it was a matter

of time!”

“Neville, what’s happened to you?”

“What? This?” Neville dismissed his injuries with a

shake of the head. “This is nothing. Seamus is worse.

You’ll see. Shall we get going then? Oh,” he turned to

Aberforth, “Ab, there might be a couple more people

on the way.”

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“Couple more?” repeated Aberforth ominously. “What

d’you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There’s a

curfew and a Caterwauling Charm on the whole

village!”

“I know, that’s why they’ll be Apparating directly into

the bar,” said Neville. “Just send them down the

passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot.”

Neville held out his hand to Hermione and helped her

to climb up onto the mantelpiece and into the tunnel;

Ron followed, then Neville. Harry addressed

Aberforth.

“I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved our

lives twice.”

“Look after ’em, then,” said Aberforth gruffly. “I might

not be able to save ’em a third time.”

Harry clambered up onto the mantelpiece and

through the hole behind Ariana’s portrait. There were

smooth stone steps on the other side: It looked as

though the passageway had been there for years.

Brass lamps hung from the walls and the earthy floor

was worn and smooth; as they walked, their shadows

rippled, fanlike, across the wall.

“How long’s this been here?” Ron asked as they set

off. “It isn’t on the Marauder’s Map, is it, Harry? I

thought there were only seven passages in and out of

school?”

“They sealed off all of those before the start of the

year,” said Neville. “There’s no chance of getting

through any of them now, not with curses over the

entrances and Death Eaters and dementors waiting at

the exits.” He started walking backward, beaming,

drinking them in. “Never mind that stuff. … Is it true?

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Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a

dragon? It’s everywhere, everyone’s talking about it,

Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about

it in the Great Hall at dinner!”

“Yeah, it’s true,” said Harry.

Neville laughed gleefully.

“What did you do with the dragon?”

“Released it into the wild,” said Ron. “Hermione was

all for keeping it as a pet —”

“Don’t exaggerate, Ron —”

“But what have you been doing? People have been

saying you’ve just been on the run, Harry, but I don’t

think so. I think you’ve been up to something.”

“You’re right,” said Harry, “but tell us about

Hogwarts, Neville, we haven’t heard anything.”

“It’s been … well, it’s not really like Hogwarts

anymore,” said Neville, the smile fading from his face

as he spoke. “Do you know about the Carrows?”

“Those two Death Eaters who teach here?”

“They do more than teach,” said Neville. “They’re in

charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the

Carrows.”

“Like Umbridge?”

“Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers

are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do

anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid

it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do.

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“Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be

Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just

the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the

Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions

—”

“What?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s united voices echoed up

and down the passage.

“Yeah,” said Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he

pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I

refused to do it. Some people are into it, though;

Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been

top in anything, I expect.

“Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies,

which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to

listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals,

stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into

hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the

natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,”

he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her

how much Muggle blood she and her brother have

got.”

“Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place

for getting a smart mouth.”

“You didn’t hear her,” said Neville. “You wouldn’t have

stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people

stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to

notice that when you did it, Harry.”

“But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” said

Ron, wincing slightly as they passed a lamp and

Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief.

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Neville shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much

pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy

but they won’t actually kill us.”

Harry did not know what was worse, the things that

Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which

he said them.

“The only people in real danger are the ones whose

friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble.

They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was

getting a bit too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they

dragged Luna off the train on the way back for

Christmas.”

“Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her —”

“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.”

From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Harry

recognized it as one of the fake Galleons that

Dumbledore’s Army had used to send one another

messages.

“These have been great,” said Neville, beaming at

Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were

communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak

out at night and put graffiti on the walls:

Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that.

Snape hated it.”

“You used to?” said Harry, who had noticed the past

tense.

“Well, it got more difficult as time went on,” said

Neville. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never

came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort

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of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was

behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me

hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught

releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they

tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”

“No kidding,” muttered Ron, as the passage began to

slope upward.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what

Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But

we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right

up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they

decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose,

and they went for Gran.”

“They what?” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione

together.

“Yeah,” said Neville, panting a little now, because the

passage was climbing so steeply, “well, you can see

their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping

kids to force their relatives to behave, I s’pose it was

only a matter of time before they did it the other way

around. Thing was,” he faced them, and Harry was

astonished to see that he was grinning, “they bit off a

bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old

witch living alone, they probably thought they didn’t

need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,”

Neville laughed, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and

Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he clapped a

hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she

was proud of me, that I’m my parents’ son, and to

keep it up.”

“Cool,” said Ron.

“Yeah,” said Neville happily. “Only thing was, once

they realized they had no hold over me, they decided

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Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to

Azkaban; either way, I knew it was time to disappear.”

“But,” said Ron, looking thoroughly confused, “aren’t

— aren’t we heading straight back into Hogwarts?”

“ ’Course,” said Neville. “You’ll see. We’re here.”

They turned a corner and there ahead of them was

the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps

led to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s

portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through.

As Harry followed, he heard Neville call out to unseen

people:

“Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?”

As Harry emerged into the room beyond the passage,

there were several screams and yells: “HARRY!” “It’s

Potter, it’s POTTER!” “Ron!” “Hermione!”

He had a confused impression of colored hangings, of

lamps and many faces. The next moment, he, Ron,

and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the

back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what

seemed to be more than twenty people: They might

just have won a Quidditch final.

“Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville called, and as the

crowd backed away, Harry was able to take in their

surroundings.

He did not recognize the room at all. It was enormous,

and looked rather like the interior of a particularly

sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s

cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the

ceiling and from a balcony that ran around the dark

wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were

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covered in bright tapestry hangings: Harry saw the

gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black

badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the

bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and

green of Slytherin alone were absent. There were

bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped

against the walls, and in the corner, a large wooden-

cased wireless.

“Where are we?”

“Room of Requirement, of course!” said Neville.

“Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were

chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a

hideout: I managed to get through the door and this

is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I

arrived, it was a load smaller, there was only one

hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s

expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.”

“And the Carrows can’t get in?” asked Harry, looking

around for the door.

“No,” said Seamus Finnigan, whom Harry had not

recognized until he spoke: Seamus’s face was bruised

and puffy. “It’s a proper hideout, as long as one of us

stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t

open. It’s all down to Neville. He really gets this room.

You’ve got to ask it for exactly what you need — like,

‘I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get

in’ — and it’ll do it for you! You’ve just got to make

sure you close the loopholes! Neville’s the man!”

“It’s quite straightforward, really,” said Neville

modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half,

and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get

something to eat, and that’s when the passage to the

Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met

Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because

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for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t really do.”

“Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to

Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” said Ron

to general astonishment.

“So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,”

said Seamus, “and it just makes more hammocks

every time we need them, and it even sprouted a

pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up —

”

“— and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,”

supplied Lavender Brown, whom Harry had not

noticed until that point. Now that he looked around

properly, he recognized many familiar faces. Both

Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie

Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner.

“Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” said Ernie.

“There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to

keep up with you on Potterwatch. ” He pointed at the

wireless. “You didn’t break into Gringotts?”

“They did!” said Neville. “And the dragon’s true too!”

There was a smattering of applause and a few

whoops; Ron took a bow.

“What were you after?” asked Seamus eagerly.

Before any of them could parry the question with one

of their own, Harry felt a terrible, scorching pain in

the lightning scar. As he turned his back hastily on

the curious and delighted faces, the Room of

Requirement vanished, and he was standing inside a

ruined stone shack, and the rotting floorboards were

ripped apart at his feet, a disinterred golden box lay

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open and empty beside the hole, and Voldemort’s

scream of fury vibrated inside his head.

With an enormous effort he pulled out of Voldemort’s

mind again, back to where he stood, swaying, in the

Room of Requirement, sweat pouring from his face

and Ron holding him up.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Neville was saying. “Want

to sit down? I expect you’re tired, aren’t — ?”

“No,” said Harry. He looked at Ron and Hermione,

trying to tell them without words that Voldemort had

just discovered the loss of one of the other Horcruxes.

Time was running out fast: If Voldemort chose to visit

Hogwarts next, they would miss their chance.

“We need to get going,” he said, and their expressions

told him that they understood.

“What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asked

Seamus. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” repeated Harry. He was exercising all his

willpower to prevent himself succumbing again to

Voldemort’s rage: His scar was still burning. “Well,

there’s something we — Ron, Hermione, and I — need

to do, and then we’ll get out of here.”

Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville

looked confused.

“What d’you mean, ‘get out of here’?”

“We haven’t come back to stay,” said Harry, rubbing

his scar, trying to soothe the pain. “There’s something

important we need to do —”

“What is it?”

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“I — I can’t tell you.”

There was a ripple of muttering at this: Neville’s

brows contracted.

“Why can’t you tell us? It’s something to do with

fighting You-Know-Who, right?”

“Well, yeah —”

“Then we’ll help you.”

The other members of Dumbledore’s Army were

nodding, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A

couple of them rose from their chairs to demonstrate

their willingness for immediate action.

“You don’t understand.” Harry seemed to have said

that a lot in the last few hours. “We — we can’t tell

you. We’ve got to do it — alone.”

“Why?” asked Neville.

“Because …” In his desperation to start looking for

the missing Horcrux, or at least to have a private

discussion with Ron and Hermione about where they

might commence their search, Harry found it difficult

to gather his thoughts. His scar was still searing.

“Dumbledore left the three of us a job,” he said

carefully, “and we weren’t supposed to tell — I mean,

he wanted us to do it, just the three of us.”

“We’re his army,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army.

We were all in it together, we’ve been keeping it going

while you three have been off on your own —”

“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” said Ron.

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“I never said it had, but I don’t see why you can’t trust us. Everyone in this room’s been fighting and

they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were

hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re

loyal to Dumbledore — loyal to you.”

“Look,” Harry began, without knowing what he was

going to say, but it did not matter: The tunnel door

had just opened behind him.

“We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I

thought you must be here!”

It was Luna and Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of

delight and ran to hug his best friend.

“Hi, everyone!” said Luna happily. “Oh, it’s great to be

back!”

“Luna,” said Harry distractedly, “what are you doing

here? How did you — ?”

“I sent for her,” said Neville, holding up the fake

Galleon. “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned

up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came

back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to

overthrow Snape and the Carrows.”

“Of course that’s what it means,” said Luna brightly.

“Isn’t it, Harry? We’re going to fight them out of

Hogwarts?”

“Listen,” said Harry with a rising sense of panic, “I’m

sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s

something we’ve got to do, and then —”

“You’re going to leave us in this mess?” demanded

Michael Corner.

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“No!” said Ron. “What we’re doing will benefit

everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of

You-Know-Who —”

“Then let us help!” said Neville angrily. “We want to be

a part of it!”

There was another noise behind them, and Harry

turned. His heart seemed to fail: Ginny was now

climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed

by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gave Harry a

radiant smile: He had forgotten, or had never fully

appreciated, how beautiful she was, but he had never

been less pleased to see her.

“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” said Fred, raising

his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. “He

wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway

station.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. Right behind Lee Jordan

came Harry’s old girlfriend, Cho Chang. She smiled at

him.

“I got the message,” she said, holding up her own fake

Galleon, and she walked over to sit beside Michael

Corner.

“So what’s the plan, Harry?” said George.

“There isn’t one,” said Harry, still disoriented by the

sudden appearance of all these people, unable to take

everything in while his scar was still burning so

fiercely.

“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My

favorite kind,” said Fred.

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“You’ve got to stop this!” Harry told Neville. “What did you call them all back for? This is insane —”

“We’re fighting, aren’t we?” said Dean, taking out his

fake Galleon. “The message said Harry was back, and

we were going to fight! I’ll have to get a wand, though

—”

“You haven’t got a wand — ?” began Seamus.

Ron turned suddenly to Harry.

“Why can’t they help?”

“What?”

“They can help.” He dropped his voice and said, so

that none of them could hear but Hermione, who

stood between them, “We don’t know where it is.

We’ve got to find it fast. We don’t have to tell them it’s

a Horcrux.”

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who murmured,

“I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re

looking for, we need them.” And when Harry looked

unconvinced, “You don’t have to do everything alone,

Harry.”

Harry thought fast, his scar still prickling, his head

threatening to split again. Dumbledore had warned

him against telling anyone but Ron and Hermione

about the Horcruxes. Secrets and lies, that’s how we

grew up, and Albus … he was a natural. … Was he turning into Dumbledore, keeping his secrets

clutched to his chest, afraid to trust? But

Dumbledore had trusted Snape, and where had that

led? To murder at the top of the highest tower …

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“All right,” he said quietly to the other two. “Okay,” he called to the room at large, and all noise ceased: Fred

and George, who had been cracking jokes for the

benefit of those nearest, fell silent, and all of them

looked alert, excited.

“There’s something we need to find,” Harry said.

“Something — something that’ll help us overthrow

You-Know-Who. It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t

know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw.

Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone

ever come across something with her eagle on it, for

instance?”

He looked hopefully toward the little group of

Ravenclaws, to Padma, Michael, Terry, and Cho, but

it was Luna who answered, perched on the arm of

Ginny’s chair.

“Well, there’s her lost diadem. I told you about it,

remember, Harry? The lost diadem of Ravenclaw?

Daddy’s trying to duplicate it.”

“Yeah, but the lost diadem,” said Michael Corner,

rolling his eyes, “is lost, Luna. That’s sort of the

point.”

“When was it lost?” asked Harry.

“Centuries ago, they say,” said Cho, and Harry’s heart

sank. “Professor Flitwick says the diadem vanished

with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but,” she

appealed to her fellow Ravenclaws, “nobody’s ever

found a trace of it, have they?”

They all shook their heads.

“Sorry, but what is a diadem?” asked Ron.

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“It’s a kind of crown,” said Terry Boot. “Ravenclaw’s was supposed to have magical properties, enhance

the wisdom of the wearer.”

“Yes, Daddy’s Wrackspurt siphons —”

But Harry cut across Luna.

“And none of you have ever seen anything that looks

like it?”

They all shook their heads again. Harry looked at Ron

and Hermione and his own disappointment was

mirrored back at him. An object that had been lost

this long, and apparently without trace, did not seem

like a good candidate for the Horcrux hidden in the

castle. … Before he could formulate a new question,

however, Cho spoke again.

“If you’d like to see what the diadem’s supposed to

look like, I could take you up to our common room

and show you, Harry? Ravenclaw’s wearing it in her

statue.”

Harry’s scar scorched again: For a moment the Room

of Requirement swam before him, and he saw instead

the dark earth soaring beneath him and felt the great

snake wrapped around his shoulders. Voldemort was

flying again, whether to the underground lake or here,

to the castle, he did not know: Either way, there was

hardly any time left.

“He’s on the move,” he said quietly to Ron and

Hermione. He glanced at Cho and then back at them.

“Listen, I know it’s not much of a lead, but I’m going

to go and look at this statue, at least find out what

the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you

know — the other one — safe.”

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Cho had got to her feet, but Ginny said rather

fiercely, “No, Luna will take Harry, won’t you, Luna?”

“Oooh, yes, I’d like to,” said Luna happily, and Cho

sat down again, looking disappointed.

“How do we get out?” Harry asked Neville.

“Over here.”

He led Harry and Luna to a corner, where a small

cupboard opened onto a steep staircase.

“It comes out somewhere different every day, so

they’ve never been able to find it,” he said. “Only

trouble is, we never know exactly where we’re going to

end up when we go out. Be careful, Harry, they’re

always patrolling the corridors at night.”

“No problem,” said Harry. “See you in a bit.”

He and Luna hurried up the staircase, which was

long, lit by torches, and turned corners in unexpected

places. At last they reached what appeared to be solid

wall.

“Get under here,” Harry told Luna, pulling out the

Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over both of them.

He gave the wall a little push.

It melted away at his touch and they slipped outside:

Harry glanced back and saw that it had resealed itself

at once. They were standing in a dark corridor: Harry

pulled Luna back into the shadows, fumbled in the

pouch around his neck, and took out the Marauder’s

Map. Holding it close to his nose he searched, and

located his and Luna’s dots at last.

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“We’re up on the fifth floor,” he whispered, watching Filch moving away from them, a corridor ahead.

“Come on, this way.”

They crept off.

Harry had prowled the castle at night many times

before, but never had his heart hammered this fast,

never had so much depended on his safe passage

through the place. Through squares of moonlight

upon the floor, past suits of armor whose helmets

creaked at the sound of their soft footsteps, around

corners beyond which who knew what lurked, Harry

and Luna walked, checking the Marauder’s Map

whenever light permitted, twice pausing to allow a

ghost to pass without drawing attention to

themselves. He expected to encounter an obstacle at

any moment; his worst fear was Peeves, and he

strained his ears with every step to hear the first,

telltale signs of the poltergeist’s approach.

“This way, Harry,” breathed Luna, plucking his sleeve

and pulling him toward a spiral staircase.

They climbed in tight, dizzying circles; Harry had

never been up here before. At last they reached a

door. There was no handle and no keyhole: nothing

but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze

knocker in the shape of an eagle.

Luna reached out a pale hand, which looked eerie

floating in midair, unconnected to arm or body. She

knocked once, and in the silence it sounded to Harry

like a cannon blast. At once the beak of the eagle

opened, but instead of a bird’s call, a soft, musical

voice said, “Which came first, the phoenix or the

flame?”

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“Hmm … What do you think, Harry?” said Luna,

looking thoughtful.

“What? Isn’t there just a password?”

“Oh no, you’ve got to answer a question,” said Luna.

“What if you get it wrong?”

“Well, you have to wait for somebody who gets it

right,” said Luna. “That way you learn, you see?”

“Yeah … Trouble is, we can’t really afford to wait for

anyone else, Luna.”

“No, I see what you mean,” said Luna seriously. “Well

then, I think the answer is that a circle has no

beginning.”

“Well reasoned,” said the voice, and the door swung

open.

The deserted Ravenclaw common room was a wide,

circular room, airier than any Harry had ever seen at

Hogwarts. Graceful arched windows punctuated the

walls, which were hung with blue-and-bronze silks:

By day, the Ravenclaws would have a spectacular

view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling was

domed and painted with stars, which were echoed in

the midnight-blue carpet. There were tables, chairs,

and bookcases, and in a niche opposite the door

stood a tall statue of white marble.

Harry recognized Rowena Ravenclaw from the bust he

had seen at Luna’s house. The statue stood beside a

door that led, he guessed, to dormitories above. He

strode right up to the marble woman, and she seemed

to look back at him with a quizzical half smile on her

face, beautiful yet slightly intimidating. A delicate-

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looking circlet had been reproduced in marble on top of her head. It was not unlike the tiara Fleur had

worn at her wedding. There were tiny words etched

into it. Harry stepped out from under the Cloak and

climbed up onto Ravenclaw’s plinth to read them.

“ ‘ Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure. ’ ”

“Which makes you pretty skint, witless,” said a

cackling voice.

Harry whirled around, slipped off the plinth, and

landed on the floor. The sloping-shouldered figure of

Alecto Carrow was standing before him, and even as

Harry raised his wand, she pressed a stubby

forefinger to the skull and snake branded on her

forearm.

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THE SACKING OF SEVERUS SNAPE

The moment her finger touched the Mark, Harry’s

scar burned savagely, the starry room vanished from

sight, and he was standing upon an outcrop of rock

beneath a cliff, and the sea was washing around him

and there was triumph in his heart — They have the

boy.

A loud bang brought Harry back to where he stood:

Disoriented, he raised his wand, but the witch before

him was already falling forward; she hit the ground so

hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled.

“I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A.

lessons,” said Luna, sounding mildly interested. “That

was noisier than I thought it would be.”

And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble.

Scurrying, echoing footsteps were growing louder

from behind the door leading to the dormitories:

Luna’s spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above.

“Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!”

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Luna’s feet appeared out of nowhere; he hurried to

her side and she let the Cloak fall back over them as

the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in

their nightclothes, flooded into the common room.

There were gasps and cries of surprise as they saw

Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffled

in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any

moment and attack them. Then one brave little first-

year darted up to her and prodded her backside with

his big toe.

“I think she might be dead!” he shouted with delight.

“Oh, look,” whispered Luna happily, as the

Ravenclaws crowded in around Alecto. “They’re

pleased!”

“Yeah … great …”

Harry closed his eyes, and as his scar throbbed he

chose to sink again into Voldemort’s mind. … He was

moving along the tunnel into the first cave. … He had

chosen to make sure of the locket before coming …

but that would not take him long. …

There was a rap on the common room door and every

Ravenclaw froze. From the other side, Harry heard the

soft, musical voice that issued from the eagle door

knocker: “Where do Vanished objects go?”

“I dunno, do I? Shut it!” snarled an uncouth voice

that Harry knew was that of the Carrow brother,

Amycus. “Alecto? Alecto? Are you there? Have you got

him? Open the door!”

The Ravenclaws were whispering amongst

themselves, terrified. Then, without warning, there

came a series of loud bangs, as though somebody was

firing a gun into the door.

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“ALECTO! If he comes, and we haven’t got Potter —

d’you want to go the same way as the Malfoys?

ANSWER ME!” Amycus bellowed, shaking the door for

all he was worth, but still it did not open. The

Ravenclaws were all backing away, and some of the

most frightened began scampering back up the

staircase to their beds. Then, just as Harry was

wondering whether he ought not to blast open the

door and Stun Amycus before the Death Eater could

do anything else, a second, most familiar voice rang

out beyond the door.

“May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?”

“Trying — to get — through this damned — door!”

shouted Amycus. “Go and get Flitwick! Get him to

open it, now!”

“But isn’t your sister in there?” asked Professor

McGonagall. “Didn’t Professor Flitwick let her in

earlier this evening, at your urgent request? Perhaps

she could open the door for you? Then you needn’t

wake up half the castle.”

“She ain’t answering, you old besom! You open it!

Garn! Do it, now!

“Certainly, if you wish it,” said Professor McGonagall,

with awful coldness. There was a genteel tap of the

knocker and the musical voice asked again,

“Where do Vanished objects go?”

“Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything,” replied

Professor McGonagall.

“Nicely phrased,” replied the eagle door knocker, and

the door swung open.

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The few Ravenclaws who had remained behind

sprinted for the stairs as Amycus burst over the

threshold, brandishing his wand. Hunched like his

sister, he had a pallid, doughy face and tiny eyes,

which fell at once on Alecto, sprawled motionless on

the floor. He let out a yell of fury and fear.

“What’ve they done, the little whelps?” he screamed.

“I’ll Cruciate the lot of ’em till they tell me who did it

— and what’s the Dark Lord going to say?” he

shrieked, standing over his sister and smacking

himself on the forehead with his fist. “We haven’t got

him, and they’ve gorn and killed her!”

“She’s only Stunned,” said Professor McGonagall

impatiently, who had stooped down to examine

Alecto. “She’ll be perfectly all right.”

“No she bludgering well won’t!” bellowed Amycus. “Not

after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She’s gorn and

sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve

got Potter!”

“ ‘Got Potter’?” said Professor McGonagall sharply.

“What do you mean, ‘got Potter’?”

“He told us Potter might try and get inside Ravenclaw

Tower, and to send for him if we caught him!”

“Why would Harry Potter try to get inside Ravenclaw

Tower? Potter belongs in my House!”

Beneath the disbelief and anger, Harry heard a little

strain of pride in her voice, and affection for Minerva

McGonagall gushed up inside him.

“We was told he might come in here!” said Carrow. “I

dunno why, do I?”

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Professor McGonagall stood up and her beady eyes

swept the room. Twice they passed right over the

place where Harry and Luna stood.

“We can push it off on the kids,” said Amycus, his

piglike face suddenly crafty. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll

do. We’ll say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them

kids up there” — he looked up at the starry ceiling

toward the dormitories — “and we’ll say they forced

her to press her Mark, and that’s why he got a false

alarm. … He can punish them. Couple of kids more or

less, what’s the difference?”

“Only the difference between truth and lies, courage

and cowardice,” said Professor McGonagall, who had

turned pale, “a difference, in short, which you and

your sister seem unable to appreciate. But let me

make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass

off your many ineptitudes on the students of

Hogwarts. I shall not permit it.”

“Excuse me?”

Amycus moved forward until he was offensively close

to Professor McGonagall, his face within inches of

hers. She refused to back away, but looked down at

him as if he were something disgusting she had found

stuck to a lavatory seat.

“It’s not a case of what you’ll permit, Minerva

McGonagall. Your time’s over. It’s us what’s in charge

here now, and you’ll back me up or you’ll pay the

price.”

And he spat in her face.

Harry pulled the Cloak off himself, raised his wand,

and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

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As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!”

The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed

through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and

howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a

shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a

bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor.

“I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood

thundering through his brain, “you need to really

mean it.”

“Potter!” whispered Professor McGonagall, clutching

her heart. “Potter — you’re here! What — ? How — ?”

She struggled to pull herself together. “Potter, that

was foolish!”

“He spat at you,” said Harry.

“Potter, I — that was very — very gallant of you — but

don’t you realize — ?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry assured her. Somehow her panic

steadied him. “Professor McGonagall, Voldemort’s on

the way.”

“Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” asked

Luna with an air of interest, pulling off the Invisibility

Cloak. This appearance of a second outlaw seemed to

overwhelm Professor McGonagall, who staggered

backward and fell into a nearby chair, clutching at

the neck of her old tartan dressing gown.

“I don’t think it makes any difference what we call

him,” Harry told Luna. “He already knows where I

am.”

In a distant part of Harry’s brain, that part connected

to the angry, burning scar, he could see Voldemort

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sailing fast over the dark lake in the ghostly green boat. … He had nearly reached the island where the

stone basin stood. …

“You must flee,” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Now, Potter, as quickly as you can!”

“I can’t,” said Harry. “There’s something I need to do.

Professor, do you know where the diadem of

Ravenclaw is?”

“The d-diadem of Ravenclaw? Of course not — hasn’t

it been lost for centuries?” She sat up a little

straighter. “Potter, it was madness, utter madness,

for you to enter this castle —”

“I had to,” said Harry. “Professor, there’s something

hidden here that I’m supposed to find, and it could be

the diadem — if I could just speak to Professor

Flitwick —”

There was a sound of movement, of clinking glass:

Amycus was coming round. Before Harry or Luna

could act, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet,

pointed her wand at the groggy Death Eater, and

said, “Imperio. ”

Amycus got up, walked over to his sister, picked up

her wand, then shuffled obediently to Professor

McGonagall and handed it over along with his own.

Then he lay down on the floor beside Alecto. Professor

McGonagall waved her wand again, and a length of

shimmering silver rope appeared out of thin air and

snaked around the Carrows, binding them tightly

together.

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, turning to face

him again with superb indifference to the Carrows’

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predicament, “if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does

indeed know that you are here —”

As she said it, a wrath that was like physical pain

blazed through Harry, setting his scar on fire, and for

a second he looked down upon a basin whose potion

had turned clear, and saw that no golden locket lay

safe beneath the surface —

“Potter, are you all right?” said a voice, and Harry

came back: He was clutching Luna’s shoulder to

steady himself.

“Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer.

Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must

find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get

the students out while I’m searching the castle — it’s

me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a

few more or less, not now —” not now he knows I’m

attacking Horcruxes, Harry finished the sentence in

his head.

“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated

with a look of dawning wonder. Then she drew herself

up to her fullest height.

“We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-

Not-Be-Named while you search for this — this

object.”

“Is that possible?”

“I think so,” said Professor McGonagall dryly, “we

teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am

sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all

put our best efforts into it. Of course, something will

have to be done about Professor Snape —”

“Let me —”

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“— and if Hogwarts is about to enter a state of siege, with the Dark Lord at the gates, it would indeed be

advisable to take as many innocent people out of the

way as possible. With the Floo Network under

observation, and Apparition impossible within the

grounds —”

“There’s a way,” said Harry quickly, and he explained

about the passageway leading into the Hog’s Head.

“Potter, we’re talking about hundreds of students —”

“I know, Professor, but if Voldemort and the Death

Eaters are concentrating on the school boundaries

they won’t be interested in anyone who’s

Disapparating out of the Hog’s Head.”

“There’s something in that,” she agreed. She pointed

her wand at the Carrows, and a silver net fell upon

their bound bodies, tied itself around them, and

hoisted them into the air, where they dangled beneath

the blue-and-gold ceiling like two large, ugly sea

creatures. “Come. We must alert the other Heads of

House. You’d better put that Cloak back on.”

She marched toward the door, and as she did so she

raised her wand. From the tip burst three silver cats

with spectacle markings around their eyes. The

Patronuses ran sleekly ahead, filling the spiral

staircase with silvery light, as Professor McGonagall,

Harry, and Luna hurried back down.

Along the corridors they raced, and one by one the

Patronuses left them; Professor McGonagall’s tartan

dressing gown rustled over the floor, and Harry and

Luna jogged behind her under the Cloak.

They had descended two more floors when another

set of quiet footsteps joined theirs. Harry, whose scar

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was still prickling, heard them first: He felt in the pouch around his neck for the Marauder’s Map, but

before he could take it out, McGonagall too seemed to

become aware of their company. She halted, raised

her wand ready to duel, and said, “Who’s there?”

“It is I,” said a low voice.

From behind a suit of armor stepped Severus Snape.

Hatred boiled up in Harry at the sight of him: He had

forgotten the details of Snape’s appearance in the

magnitude of his crimes, forgotten how his greasy

black hair hung in curtains around his thin face, how

his black eyes had a dead, cold look. He was not

wearing nightclothes, but was dressed in his usual

black cloak, and he too was holding his wand ready

for a fight.

“Where are the Carrows?” he asked quietly.

“Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,”

said Professor McGonagall.

Snape stepped nearer, and his eyes flitted over

Professor McGonagall into the air around her, as if he

knew that Harry was there. Harry held his wand up

too, ready to attack.

“I was under the impression,” said Snape, “that Alecto

had apprehended an intruder.”

“Really?” said Professor McGonagall. “And what gave

you that impression?”

Snape made a slight flexing movement of his left arm,

where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin.

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“Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have your own private means of

communication, I forgot.”

Snape pretended not to have heard her. His eyes were

still probing the air all about her, and he was moving

gradually closer, with an air of hardly noticing what

he was doing.

“I did not know that it was your night to patrol the

corridors, Minerva.”

“You have some objection?”

“I wonder what could have brought you out of your

bed at this late hour?”

“I thought I heard a disturbance,” said Professor

McGonagall.

“Really? But all seems calm.”

Snape looked into her eyes.

“Have you seen Harry Potter, Minerva? Because if you

have, I must insist —”

Professor McGonagall moved faster than Harry could

have believed: Her wand slashed through the air and

for a split second Harry thought that Snape must

crumple, unconscious, but the swiftness of his Shield

Charm was such that McGonagall was thrown off

balance. She brandished her wand at a torch on the

wall and it flew out of its bracket: Harry, about to

curse Snape, was forced to pull Luna out of the way

of the descending flames, which became a ring of fire

that filled the corridor and flew like a lasso at Snape

—

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Then it was no longer fire, but a great black serpent that McGonagall blasted to smoke, which re-formed

and solidified in seconds to become a swarm of

pursuing daggers: Snape avoided them only by

forcing the suit of armor in front of him, and with

echoing clangs the daggers sank, one after another,

into its breast —

“Minerva!” said a squeaky voice, and looking behind

him, still shielding Luna from flying spells, Harry saw

Professors Flitwick and Sprout sprinting up the

corridor toward them in their nightclothes, with the

enormous Professor Slughorn panting along at the

rear.

“No!” squealed Flitwick, raising his wand. “You’ll do

no more murder at Hogwarts!”

Flitwick’s spell hit the suit of armor behind which

Snape had taken shelter: With a clatter it came to life.

Snape struggled free of the crushing arms and sent it

flying back toward his attackers: Harry and Luna had

to dive sideways to avoid it as it smashed into the wall

and shattered. When Harry looked up again, Snape

was in full flight, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all

thundering after him: He hurtled through a classroom

door and, moments later, he heard McGonagall cry,

“Coward! COWARD!”

“What’s happened, what’s happened?” asked Luna.

Harry dragged her to her feet and they raced along

the corridor, trailing the Invisibility Cloak behind

them, into the deserted classroom where Professors

McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were standing at a

smashed window.

“He jumped,” said Professor McGonagall as Harry and

Luna ran into the room.

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“You mean he’s dead?” Harry sprinted to the window, ignoring Flitwick’s and Sprout’s yells of shock at his

sudden appearance.

“No, he’s not dead,” said McGonagall bitterly. “Unlike

Dumbledore, he was still carrying a wand … and he

seems to have learned a few tricks from his master.”

With a tingle of horror, Harry saw in the distance a

huge, batlike shape flying through the darkness

toward the perimeter wall.

There were heavy footfalls behind them, and a great

deal of puffing: Slughorn had just caught up.

“Harry!” he panted, massaging his immense chest

beneath his emerald-green silk pajamas. “My dear

boy … what a surprise … Minerva, do please explain.

… Severus … what … ?”

“Our headmaster is taking a short break,” said

Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped

hole in the window.

“Professor!” Harry shouted, his hands at his forehead.

He could see the Inferi-filled lake sliding beneath him,

and he felt the ghostly green boat bump into the

underground shore, and Voldemort leapt from it with

murder in his heart —

“Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s

coming now!”

“Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,”

she told the other teachers. Sprout and Flitwick

gasped; Slughorn let out a low groan. “Potter has

work to do in the castle on Dumbledore’s orders. We

need to put in place every protection of which we are

capable while Potter does what he needs to do.”

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“You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” squeaked

Flitwick.

“But we can hold him up,” said Professor Sprout.

“Thank you, Pomona,” said Professor McGonagall,

and between the two witches there passed a look of

grim understanding. “I suggest we establish basic

protection around the place, then gather our students

and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated,

though if any of those who are over age wish to stay

and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.”

“Agreed,” said Professor Sprout, already hurrying

toward the door. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall in

twenty minutes with my House.”

And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her

muttering, “Tentacula. Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff

pods … yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting

those.”

“I can act from here,” said Flitwick, and although he

could barely see out of it, he pointed his wand

through the smashed window and started muttering

incantations of great complexity. Harry heard a weird

rushing noise, as though Flitwick had unleashed the

power of the wind into the grounds.

“Professor,” Harry said, approaching the little Charms

master, “Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is

important. Have you got any idea where the diadem of

Ravenclaw is?”

“— Protego Horribilis — the diadem of Ravenclaw?”

squeaked Flitwick. “A little extra wisdom never goes

amiss, Potter, but I hardly think it would be much

use in this situation!”

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“I only meant — do you know where it is? Have you

ever seen it?”

“Seen it? Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long

since lost, boy!”

Harry felt a mixture of desperate disappointment and

panic. What, then, was the Horcrux?

“We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great

Hall, Filius!” said Professor McGonagall, beckoning to

Harry and Luna to follow her.

They had just reached the door when Slughorn

rumbled into speech.

“My word,” he puffed, pale and sweaty, his walrus

mustache aquiver. “What a to-do! I’m not at all sure

whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a

way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay

him will be in most grievous peril —”

“I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great

Hall in twenty minutes, also,” said Professor

McGonagall. “If you wish to leave with your students,

we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to

sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us

within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.”

“Minerva!” he said, aghast.

“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide

upon its loyalties,” interrupted Professor McGonagall.

“Go and wake your students, Horace.”

Harry did not stay to watch Slughorn splutter: He and

Luna ran after Professor McGonagall, who had taken

up a position in the middle of the corridor and raised

her wand.

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“Piertotum — oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now —”

The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view,

shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the

corridors!”

“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” shouted

McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive!

Find Peeves!”

“P-Peeves?” stammered Filch as though he had never

heard the name before.

“Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven’t you been

complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go

and fetch him, at once!”

Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had

taken leave of her senses, but hobbled away, hunch-

shouldered, muttering under his breath.

“And now — Piertotum Locomotor!” cried Professor

McGonagall.

And all along the corridor the statues and suits of

armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the

echoing crashes from the floors above and below,

Harry knew that their fellows throughout the castle

had done the same.

“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor

McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do

your duty to our school!”

Clattering and yelling, the horde of moving statues

stampeded past Harry: some of them smaller, others

larger, than life. There were animals too, and the

clanking suits of armor brandished swords and

spiked balls on chains.

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“Now, Potter,” said McGonagall, “you and Miss

Lovegood had better return to your friends and bring

them to the Great Hall — I shall rouse the other

Gryffindors.”

They parted at the top of the next staircase, Harry

and Luna running back toward the concealed

entrance to the Room of Requirement. As they ran,

they met crowds of students, most wearing traveling

cloaks over their pajamas, being shepherded down to

the Great Hall by teachers and prefects.

“That was Potter!”

“Harry Potter!”

“It was him, I swear, I just saw him!”

But Harry did not look back, and at last they reached

the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Harry

leaned against the enchanted wall, which opened to

admit them, and he and Luna sped back down the

steep staircase.

“Wh — ?”

As the room came into view, Harry slipped down a few

stairs in shock. It was packed, far more crowded than

when he had last been in there. Kingsley and Lupin

were looking up at him, as were Oliver Wood, Katie

Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and

Fleur, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry, what’s happening?” said Lupin, meeting him

at the foot of the stairs.

“Voldemort’s on his way, they’re barricading the

school — Snape’s run for it — What are you doing

here? How did you know?”

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“We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army,”

Fred explained. “You couldn’t expect everyone to miss

the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the

Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.”

“What first, Harry?” called George. “What’s going on?”

“They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s

meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Harry

said. “We’re fighting.”

There was a great roar and a surge toward the foot of

the stairs; he was pressed back against the wall as

they ran past him, the mingled members of the Order

of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and Harry’s old

Quidditch team, all with their wands drawn, heading

up into the main castle.

“Come on, Luna,” Dean called as he passed, holding

out his free hand; she took it and followed him back

up the stairs.

The crowd was thinning: Only a little knot of people

remained below in the Room of Requirement, and

Harry joined them. Mrs. Weasley was struggling with

Ginny. Around them stood Lupin, Fred, George, Bill,

and Fleur.

“You’re underage!” Mrs. Weasley shouted at her

daughter as Harry approached. “I won’t permit it! The

boys, yes, but you, you’ve got to go home!”

“I won’t!”

Ginny’s hair flew as she pulled her arm out of her

mother’s grip.

“I’m in Dumbledore’s Army —”

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“A teenagers’ gang!”

“A teenagers’ gang that’s about to take him on, which

no one else has dared to do!” said Fred.

“She’s sixteen!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “She’s not old

enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her

with you —”

Fred and George looked slightly ashamed of

themselves.

“Mum’s right, Ginny,” said Bill gently. “You can’t do

this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it’s only

right.”

“I can’t go home!” Ginny shouted, angry tears

sparkling in her eyes. “My whole family’s here, I can’t

stand waiting there alone and not knowing and —”

Her eyes met Harry’s for the first time. She looked at

him beseechingly, but he shook his head and she

turned away bitterly.

“Fine,” she said, staring at the entrance to the tunnel

back to the Hog’s Head. “I’ll say good-bye now, then,

and —”

There was a scuffling and a great thump: Someone

else had clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced

slightly, and fallen. He pulled himself up on the

nearest chair, looked around through lopsided horn-

rimmed glasses, and said, “Am I too late? Has it

started? I only just found out, so I — I —”

Percy spluttered into silence. Evidently he had not

expected to run into most of his family. There was a

long moment of astonishment, broken by Fleur

turning to Lupin and saying, in a wildly transparent

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attempt to break the tension, “So — ’ow eez leetle

Teddy?”

Lupin blinked at her, startled. The silence between

the Weasleys seemed to be solidifying, like ice.

“I — oh yes — he’s fine!” Lupin said loudly. “Yes,

Tonks is with him — at her mother’s —”

Percy and the other Weasleys were still staring at one

another, frozen.

“Here, I’ve got a picture!” Lupin shouted, pulling a

photograph from inside his jacket and showing it to

Fleur and Harry, who saw a tiny baby with a tuft of

bright turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

“I was a fool!” Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin

nearly dropped his photograph. “I was an idiot, I was

a pompous prat, I was a — a —”

“Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry

moron,” said Fred.

Percy swallowed.

“Yes, I was!”

“Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” said Fred,

holding out his hand to Percy.

Mrs. Weasley burst into tears. She ran forward,

pushed Fred aside, and pulled Percy into a strangling

hug, while he patted her on the back, his eyes on his

father.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Percy said.

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Mr. Weasley blinked rather rapidly, then he too

hurried to hug his son.

“What made you see sense, Perce?” inquired George.

“It’s been coming on for a while,” said Percy, mopping

his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his

traveling cloak. “But I had to find a way out and it’s

not so easy at the Ministry, they’re imprisoning

traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with

Aberforth and he tipped me off ten minutes ago that

Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I

am.”

“Well, we do look to our prefects to take a lead at

times such as these,” said George in a good imitation

of Percy’s most pompous manner. “Now let’s get

upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters’ll be

taken.”

“So, you’re my sister-in-law now?” said Percy, shaking

hands with Fleur as they hurried off toward the

staircase with Bill, Fred, and George.

“Ginny!” barked Mrs. Weasley.

Ginny had been attempting, under cover of the

reconciliation, to sneak upstairs too.

“Molly, how about this,” said Lupin. “Why doesn’t

Ginny stay here, then at least she’ll be on the scene

and know what’s going on, but she won’t be in the

middle of the fighting?”

“I —”

“That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Weasley firmly. “Ginny,

you stay in this room, you hear me?”

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Ginny did not seem to like the idea much, but under her father’s unusually stern gaze, she nodded. Mr.

and Mrs. Weasley and Lupin headed off for the stairs

as well.

“Where’s Ron?” asked Harry. “Where’s Hermione?”

“They must have gone up to the Great Hall already,”

Mr. Weasley called over his shoulder.

“I didn’t see them pass me,” said Harry.

“They said something about a bathroom,” said Ginny,

“not long after you left.”

“A bathroom?”

Harry strode across the room to an open door leading

off the Room of Requirement and checked the

bathroom beyond. It was empty.

“You’re sure they said bath — ?”

But then his scar seared and the Room of

Requirement vanished: He was looking through the

high wrought-iron gates with winged boars on pillars

at either side, looking through the dark grounds

toward the castle, which was ablaze with lights.

Nagini lay draped over his shoulders. He was

possessed of that cold, cruel sense of purpose that

preceded murder.

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THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was dark and

scattered with stars, and below it the four long House

tables were lined with disheveled students, some in

traveling cloaks, others in dressing gowns. Here and

there shone the pearly white figures of the school

ghosts. Every eye, living and dead, was fixed upon

Professor McGonagall, who was speaking from the

raised platform at the top of the Hall. Behind her

stood the remaining teachers, including the palomino

centaur, Firenze, and the members of the Order of the

Phoenix who had arrived to fight.

“… evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and

Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you

will organize your House and take your charges, in an

orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.”

Many of the students looked petrified. However, as

Harry skirted the walls, scanning the Gryffindor table

for Ron and Hermione, Ernie Macmillan stood up at

the Hufflepuff table and shouted, “And what if we

want to stay and fight?”

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There was a smattering of applause.

“If you are of age, you may stay,” said Professor

McGonagall.

“What about our things?” called a girl at the

Ravenclaw table. “Our trunks, our owls?”

“We have no time to collect possessions,” said

Professor McGonagall. “The important thing is to get

you out of here safely.”

“Where’s Professor Snape?” shouted a girl from the

Slytherin table.

“He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk,”

replied Professor McGonagall, and a great cheer

erupted from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and

Ravenclaws.

Harry moved up the Hall alongside the Gryffindor

table, still looking for Ron and Hermione. As he

passed, faces turned in his direction, and a great deal

of whispering broke out in his wake.

“We have already placed protection around the

castle,” Professor McGonagall was saying, “but it is

unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I

must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly,

and do as your prefects —”

But her final words were drowned as a different voice

echoed throughout the Hall. It was high, cold, and

clear: There was no telling from where it came; it

seemed to issue from the walls themselves. Like the

monster it had once commanded, it might have lain

dormant there for centuries.

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“I know that you are preparing to fight.” There were screams amongst the students, some of whom

clutched each other, looking around in terror for the

source of the sound. “Your efforts are futile. You

cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great

respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to

spill magical blood.”

There was silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence

that presses against the eardrums, that seems too

huge to be contained by walls.

“Give me Harry Potter,” said Voldemort’s voice, “and

none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I

shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry

Potter, and you will be rewarded.

“You have until midnight.”

The silence swallowed them all again. Every head

turned, every eye in the place seemed to have found

Harry, to hold him frozen in the glare of thousands of

invisible beams. Then a figure rose from the Slytherin

table and he recognized Pansy Parkinson as she

raised a shaking arm and screamed, “But he’s there!

Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

Before Harry could speak, there was a massive

movement. The Gryffindors in front of him had risen

and stood facing, not Harry, but the Slytherins. Then

the Hufflepuffs stood, and almost at the same

moment, the Ravenclaws, all of them with their backs

to Harry, all of them looking toward Pansy instead,

and Harry, awestruck and overwhelmed, saw wands

emerging everywhere, pulled from beneath cloaks and

from under sleeves.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” said Professor

McGonagall in a clipped voice. “You will leave the Hall

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first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

Harry heard the grinding of benches and then the

sound of the Slytherins trooping out on the other side

of the Hall.

“Ravenclaws, follow on!” cried Professor McGonagall.

Slowly the four tables emptied. The Slytherin table

was completely deserted, but a number of older

Ravenclaws remained seated while their fellows filed

out; even more Hufflepuffs stayed behind, and half of

Gryffindor remained in their seats, necessitating

Professor McGonagall’s descent from the teachers’

platform to chivvy the underage on their way.

“Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!”

Harry hurried over to the Weasleys, all sitting

together at the Gryffindor table.

“Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Haven’t you found — ?” began Mr. Weasley, looking

worried.

But he broke off as Kingsley had stepped forward on

the raised platform to address those who had

remained behind.

“We’ve only got half an hour until midnight, so we

need to act fast! A battle plan has been agreed

between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of

the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and

McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to

the three highest towers — Ravenclaw, Astronomy,

and Gryffindor — where they’ll have a good overview,

excellent positions from which to work spells.

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Meanwhile Remus” — he indicated Lupin — “Arthur”

— he pointed toward Mr. Weasley, sitting at the

Gryffindor table — “and I will take groups into the

grounds. We’ll need somebody to organize defense of

the entrances of the passageways into the school —”

“Sounds like a job for us,” called Fred, indicating

himself and George, and Kingsley nodded his

approval.

“All right, leaders up here and we’ll divide up the

troops!”

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, hurrying up to

him, as students flooded the platform, jostling for

position, receiving instructions, “Aren’t you supposed

to be looking for something?”

“What? Oh,” said Harry, “oh yeah!”

He had almost forgotten about the Horcrux, almost

forgotten that the battle was being fought so that he

could search for it: The inexplicable absence of Ron

and Hermione had momentarily driven every other

thought from his mind.

“Then go, Potter, go!”

“Right — yeah —”

He sensed eyes following him as he ran out of the

Great Hall again, into the entrance hall still crowded

with evacuating students. He allowed himself to be

swept up the marble staircase with them, but at the

top he hurried off along a deserted corridor. Fear and

panic were clouding his thought processes. He tried

to calm himself, to concentrate on finding the

Horcrux, but his thoughts buzzed as frantically and

fruitlessly as wasps trapped beneath a glass. Without

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Ron and Hermione to help him he could not seem to

marshal his ideas. He slowed down, coming to a halt

halfway along an empty passage, where he sat down

upon the plinth of a departed statue and pulled the

Marauder’s Map out of the pouch around his neck.

He could not see Ron’s or Hermione’s names

anywhere on it, though the density of the crowd of

dots now making its way to the Room of Requirement

might, he thought, be concealing them. He put the

map away, pressed his hands over his face, and

closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. …

Voldemort thought I’d go to Ravenclaw Tower.

There it was: a solid fact, the place to start. Voldemort

had stationed Alecto Carrow in the Ravenclaw

common room, and there could only be one

explanation: Voldemort feared that Harry already

knew his Horcrux was connected to that House.

But the only object anyone seemed to associate with

Ravenclaw was the lost diadem … and how could the

Horcrux be the diadem? How was it possible that

Voldemort, the Slytherin, had found the diadem that

had eluded generations of Ravenclaws? Who could

have told him where to look, when nobody had seen

the diadem in living memory?

In living memory …

Beneath his fingers, Harry’s eyes flew open again. He

leapt up from the plinth and tore back the way he had

come, now in pursuit of his one last hope. The sound

of hundreds of people marching toward the Room of

Requirement grew louder and louder as he returned

to the marble stairs. Prefects were shouting

instructions, trying to keep track of the students in

their own Houses; there was much pushing and

shoving; Harry saw Zacharias Smith bowling over

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first-years to get to the front of the queue; here and there younger students were in tears, while older ones

called desperately for friends or siblings. …

Harry caught sight of a pearly white figure drifting

across the entrance hall below and yelled as loudly as

he could over the clamor.

“Nick! NICK! I need to talk to you!”

He forced his way back through the tide of students,

finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, where Nearly

Headless Nick, ghost of Gryffindor Tower, stood

waiting for him.

“Harry! My dear boy!”

Nick made to grasp Harry’s hands with both of his

own: Harry’s felt as though they had been thrust into

icy water.

“Nick, you’ve got to help me. Who’s the ghost of

Ravenclaw Tower?”

Nearly Headless Nick looked surprised and a little

offended.

“The Gray Lady, of course; but if it is ghostly services

you require — ?”

“It’s got to be her — d’you know where she is?”

“Let’s see. …”

Nick’s head wobbled a little on his ruff as he turned

hither and thither, peering over the heads of the

swarming students.

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“That’s her over there, Harry, the young woman with the long hair.”

Harry looked in the direction of Nick’s transparent,

pointing finger and saw a tall ghost who caught sight

of Harry looking at her, raised her eyebrows, and

drifted away through a solid wall.

Harry ran after her. Once through the door of the

corridor into which she had disappeared, he saw her

at the very end of the passage, still gliding smoothly

away from him.

“Hey — wait — come back!”

She consented to pause, floating a few inches from

the ground. Harry supposed that she was beautiful,

with her waist-length hair and floor-length cloak, but

she also looked haughty and proud. Close to, he

recognized her as a ghost he had passed several times

in the corridor, but to whom he had never spoken.

“You’re the Gray Lady?”

She nodded but did not speak.

“The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?”

“That is correct.”

Her tone was not encouraging.

“Please: I need some help. I need to know anything

you can tell me about the lost diadem.”

A cold smile curved her lips.

“I am afraid,” she said, turning to leave, “that I cannot

help you.”

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“WAIT!”

He had not meant to shout, but anger and panic were

threatening to overwhelm him. He glanced at his

watch as she hovered in front of him: It was a quarter

to midnight.

“This is urgent,” he said fiercely. “If that diadem’s at

Hogwarts, I’ve got to find it, fast.”

“You are hardly the first student to covet the diadem,”

she said disdainfully. “Generations of students have

badgered me —”

“This isn’t about trying to get better marks!” Harry

shouted at her. “It’s about Voldemort — defeating

Voldemort — or aren’t you interested in that?”

She could not blush, but her transparent cheeks

became more opaque, and her voice was heated as

she replied, “Of course I — how dare you suggest — ?”

“Well, help me, then!”

Her composure was slipping.

“It — it is not a question of —” she stammered. “My

mother’s diadem —”

“Your mother’s?”

She looked angry with herself.

“When I lived,” she said stiffly, “I was Helena

Ravenclaw.”

“You’re her daughter? But then, you must know what

happened to it!”

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“While the diadem bestows wisdom,” she said with an obvious effort to pull herself together, “I doubt that it

would greatly increase your chances of defeating the

wizard who calls himself Lord —”

“Haven’t I just told you, I’m not interested in wearing

it!” Harry said fiercely. “There’s no time to explain —

but if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see

Voldemort finished, you’ve got to tell me anything you

know about the diadem!”

She remained quite still, floating in midair, staring

down at him, and a sense of hopelessness engulfed

Harry. Of course, if she had known anything, she

would have told Flitwick or Dumbledore, who had

surely asked her the same question. He had shaken

his head and made to turn away when she spoke in a

low voice.

“I stole the diadem from my mother.”

“You — you did what?”

“I stole the diadem, ” repeated Helena Ravenclaw in a

whisper. “I sought to make myself cleverer, more

important than my mother. I ran away with it.”

He did not know how he had managed to gain her

confidence, and did not ask; he simply listened, hard,

as she went on:

“My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem

was gone, but pretended that she had it still. She

concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even from

the other founders of Hogwarts.

“Then my mother fell ill — fatally ill. In spite of my

perfidy, she was desperate to see me one more time.

She sent a man who had long loved me, though I

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spurned his advances, to find me. She knew that he

would not rest until he had done so.”

Harry waited. She drew a deep breath and threw back

her head.

“He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding.

When I refused to return with him, he became violent.

The Baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious

at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me.”

“The Baron? You mean — ?”

“The Bloody Baron, yes,” said the Gray Lady, and she

lifted aside the cloak she wore to reveal a single dark

wound in her white chest. “When he saw what he had

done, he was overcome with remorse. He took the

weapon that had claimed my life, and used it to kill

himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains

as an act of penitence … as he should,” she added

bitterly.

“And … and the diadem?”

“It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the

Baron blundering through the forest toward me.

Concealed inside a hollow tree.

“A hollow tree?” repeated Harry. “What tree? Where

was this?”

“A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far

beyond my mother’s reach.”

“Albania,” repeated Harry. Sense was emerging

miraculously from confusion, and now he understood

why she was telling him what she had denied

Dumbledore and Flitwick. “You’ve already told

someone this story, haven’t you? Another student?”

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She closed her eyes and nodded.

“I had … no idea. … He was … flattering. He seemed

to … to understand … to sympathize. …”

Yes, Harry thought, Tom Riddle would certainly have

understood Helena Ravenclaw’s desire to possess

fabulous objects to which she had little right.

“Well, you weren’t the first person Riddle wormed

things out of,” Harry muttered. “He could be

charming when he wanted. …”

So Voldemort had managed to wheedle the location of

the lost diadem out of the Gray Lady. He had traveled

to that far-flung forest and retrieved the diadem from

its hiding place, perhaps as soon as he left Hogwarts,

before he even started work at Borgin and Burkes.

And wouldn’t those secluded Albanian woods have

seemed an excellent refuge when, so much later,

Voldemort had needed a place to lie low, undisturbed,

for ten long years?

But the diadem, once it became his precious Horcrux,

had not been left in that lowly tree. … No, the diadem

had been returned secretly to its true home, and

Voldemort must have put it there —

“— the night he asked for a job!” said Harry, finishing

his thought.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked

Dumbledore to let him teach!” said Harry. Saying it

out loud enabled him to make sense of it all. “He

must’ve hidden the diadem on his way up to, or down

from, Dumbledore’s office! But it was still worth trying

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to get the job — then he might’ve got the chance to nick Gryffindor’s sword as well — thank you, thanks!”

Harry left her floating there, looking utterly

bewildered. As he rounded the corner back into the

entrance hall, he checked his watch. It was five

minutes until midnight, and though he now knew

what the last Horcrux was, he was no closer to

discovering where it was. …

Generations of students had failed to find the diadem;

that suggested that it was not in Ravenclaw Tower —

but if not there, where? What hiding place had Tom

Riddle discovered inside Hogwarts Castle, that he

believed would remain secret forever?

Lost in desperate speculation, Harry turned a corner,

but he had taken only a few steps down the new

corridor when the window to his left broke open with

a deafening, shattering crash. As he leapt aside, a

gigantic body flew in through the window and hit the

opposite wall. Something large and furry detached

itself, whimpering, from the new arrival and flung

itself at Harry.

“Hagrid!” Harry bellowed, fighting off Fang the

boarhound’s attentions as the enormous bearded

figure clambered to his feet. “What the — ?”

“Harry, yer here! Yer here!”

Hagrid stooped down, bestowed upon Harry a cursory

and rib-cracking hug, then ran back to the shattered

window.

“Good boy, Grawpy!” he bellowed through the hole in

the window. “I’ll see yer in a moment, there’s a good

lad!”

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Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, Harry saw

bursts of light in the distance and heard a weird,

keening scream. He looked down at his watch: It was

midnight. The battle had begun.

“Blimey, Harry,” panted Hagrid, “this is it, eh? Time

ter fight?”

“Hagrid, where have you come from?”

“Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave,” said

Hagrid grimly. “Voice carried, didn’ it? ‘Yeh got till

midnight ter gimme Potter.’ Knew yeh mus’ be here,

knew what mus’ be happenin’. Get down, Fang. So we

come ter join in, me an’ Grawpy an’ Fang. Smashed

our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy

was carryin’ us, Fang an’ me. Told him ter let me

down at the castle, so he shoved me through the

window, bless him. Not exac’ly what I meant, bu’ —

where’s Ron an’ Hermione?”

“That,” said Harry, “is a really good question. Come

on.”

They hurried together along the corridor, Fang

lolloping beside them. Harry could hear movement

through the corridors all around: running footsteps,

shouts; through the windows, he could see more

flashes of light in the dark grounds.

“Where’re we goin’?” puffed Hagrid, pounding along at

Harry’s heels, making the floorboards quake.

“I dunno exactly,” said Harry, making another

random turn, “but Ron and Hermione must be

around here somewhere. …”

The first casualties of the battle were already strewn

across the passage ahead: The two stone gargoyles

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that usually guarded the entrance to the staffroom

had been smashed apart by a jinx that had sailed

through another broken window. Their remains

stirred feebly on the floor, and as Harry leapt over one

of their disembodied heads, it moaned faintly, “Oh,

don’t mind me … I’ll just lie here and crumble. …”

Its ugly stone face made Harry think suddenly of the

marble bust of Rowena Ravenclaw at Xenophilius’s

house, wearing that mad headdress — and then of

the statue in Ravenclaw Tower, with the stone diadem

upon her white curls. …

And as he reached the end of the passage, the

memory of a third stone effigy came back to him: that

of an ugly old warlock, onto whose head Harry

himself had placed a wig and a battered old tiara. The

shock shot through Harry with the heat of firewhisky,

and he nearly stumbled.

He knew, at last, where the Horcrux sat waiting for

him. …

Tom Riddle, who confided in no one and operated

alone, might have been arrogant enough to assume

that he, and only he, had penetrated the deepest

mysteries of Hogwarts Castle. Of course, Dumbledore

and Flitwick, those model pupils, had never set foot in

that particular place, but he, Harry, had strayed off

the beaten track in his time at school — here at last

was a secret he and Voldemort knew, that

Dumbledore had never discovered —

He was roused by Professor Sprout, who was

thundering past followed by Neville and half a dozen

others, all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying

what appeared to be large potted plants.

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“Mandrakes!” Neville bellowed at Harry over his

shoulder as he ran. “Going to lob them over the walls

— they won’t like this!”

Harry knew now where to go: He sped off, with Hagrid

and Fang galloping behind him. They passed portrait

after portrait, and the painted figures raced alongside

them, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in

armor and cloaks, cramming themselves into each

others’ canvases, screaming news from other parts of

the castle. As they reached the end of this corridor,

the whole castle shook, and Harry knew, as a gigantic

vase blew off its plinth with explosive force, that it

was in the grip of enchantments more sinister than

those of the teachers and the Order.

“It’s all righ’, Fang — it’s all righ’!” yelled Hagrid, but

the great boarhound had taken flight as slivers of

china flew like shrapnel through the air, and Hagrid

pounded off after the terrified dog, leaving Harry

alone.

He forged on through the trembling passages, his

wand at the ready, and for the length of one corridor

the little painted knight, Sir Cadogan, rushed from

painting to painting beside him, clanking along in his

armor, screaming encouragement, his fat little pony

cantering behind him.

“Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive

them out, Harry Potter, see them off!”

Harry hurtled around a corner and found Fred and a

small knot of students, including Lee Jordan and

Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty

plinth, whose statue had concealed a secret

passageway. Their wands were drawn and they were

listening at the concealed hole.

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“Nice night for it!” Fred shouted as the castle quaked again, and Harry sprinted by, elated and terrified in

equal measure. Along yet another corridor he dashed,

and then there were owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris

was hissing and trying to bat them with her paws, no

doubt to return them to their proper place. …

“Potter!”

Aberforth Dumbledore stood blocking the corridor

ahead, his wand held ready.

“I’ve had hundreds of kids thundering through my

pub, Potter!”

“I know, we’re evacuating,” Harry said, “Voldemort’s

—”

“— attacking because they haven’t handed you over,

yeah,” said Aberforth, “I’m not deaf, the whole of

Hogsmeade heard him. And it never occurred to any

of you to keep a few Slytherins hostage? There are

kids of Death Eaters you’ve just sent to safety.

Wouldn’t it have been a bit smarter to keep ’em here?”

“It wouldn’t stop Voldemort,” said Harry, “and your

brother would never have done it.”

Aberforth grunted and tore away in the opposite

direction.

Your brother would never have done it. … Well, it was

the truth, Harry thought as he ran on again;

Dumbledore, who had defended Snape for so long,

would never have held students ransom. …

And then he skidded around a final corner and with a

yell of mingled relief and fury he saw them: Ron and

Hermione, both with their arms full of large, curved,

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dirty yellow objects, Ron with a broomstick under his arm.

“Where the hell have you been?” Harry shouted.

“Chamber of Secrets,” said Ron.

“Chamber — what?” said Harry, coming to an

unsteady halt before them.

“It was Ron, all Ron’s idea!” said Hermione

breathlessly. “Wasn’t it absolutely brilliant? There we

were, after you left, and I said to Ron, even if we find

the other one, how are we going to get rid of it? We

still hadn’t got rid of the cup! And then he thought of

it! The basilisk!”

“What the — ?”

“Something to get rid of Horcruxes,” said Ron simply.

Harry’s eyes dropped to the objects clutched in Ron

and Hermione’s arms: great curved fangs, torn, he

now realized, from the skull of a dead basilisk.

“But how did you get in there?” he asked, staring

from the fangs to Ron. “You need to speak

Parseltongue!”

“He did!” whispered Hermione. “Show him, Ron!”

Ron made a horrible strangled hissing noise.

“It’s what you did to open the locket,” he told Harry

apologetically. “I had to have a few goes to get it right,

but,” he shrugged modestly, “we got there in the end.”

“He was amazing. ” said Hermione. “Amazing!”

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“So …” Harry was struggling to keep up. “So …”

“So we’re another Horcrux down,” said Ron, and from

under his jacket he pulled the mangled remains of

Hufflepuff’s cup. “Hermione stabbed it. Thought she

should. She hasn’t had the pleasure yet.”

“Genius!” yelled Harry.

“It was nothing,” said Ron, though he looked

delighted with himself. “So what’s new with you?”

As he said it, there was an explosion from overhead:

All three of them looked up as dust fell from the

ceiling and they heard a distant scream.

“I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where

it is,” said Harry, talking fast. “He hid it exactly where

I hid my old Potions book, where everyone’s been

hiding stuff for centuries. He thought he was the only

one to find it. Come on.”

As the walls trembled again, he led the other two back

through the concealed entrance and down the

staircase into the Room of Requirement. It was empty

except for three women: Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly

witch wearing a moth-eaten hat, whom Harry

recognized immediately as Neville’s grandmother.

“Ah, Potter,” she said crisply as if she had been

waiting for him. “You can tell us what’s going on.”

“Is everyone okay?” said Ginny and Tonks together.

“ ’S far as we know,” said Harry. “Are there still people

in the passage to the Hog’s Head?”

He knew that the room would not be able to

transform while there were still users inside it.

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“I was the last to come through,” said Mrs.

Longbottom. “I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it

open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen

my grandson?”

“He’s fighting,” said Harry.

“Naturally,” said the old lady proudly. “Excuse me, I

must go and assist him.”

With surprising speed she trotted off toward the stone

steps.

Harry looked at Tonks.

“I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at

your mother’s?”

“I couldn’t stand not knowing —” Tonks looked

anguished. “She’ll look after him — have you seen

Remus?”

“He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the

grounds —”

Without another word, Tonks sped off.

“Ginny,” said Harry, “I’m sorry, but we need you to

leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in.”

Ginny looked simply delighted to leave her sanctuary.

“And then you can come back in!” he shouted after

her as she ran up the steps after Tonks. “You’ve got to

come back in!”

“Hang on a moment!” said Ron sharply. “We’ve

forgotten someone!”

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“Who?” asked Hermione.

“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen,

won’t they?”

“You mean we ought to get them fighting?” asked

Harry.

“No,” said Ron seriously, “I mean we should tell them

to get out. We don’t want any more Dobbies, do we?

We can’t order them to die for us —”

There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out

of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them

around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth.

Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was

holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he

lifted Hermione off her feet.

“Is this the moment?” Harry asked weakly, and when

nothing happened except that Ron and Hermione

gripped each other still more firmly and swayed on

the spot, he raised his voice. “OI! There’s a war going

on here!”

Ron and Hermione broke apart, their arms still

around each other.

“I know, mate,” said Ron, who looked as though he

had recently been hit on the back of the head with a

Bludger, “so it’s now or never, isn’t it?”

“Never mind that, what about the Horcrux?” Harry

shouted. “D’you think you could just — just hold it in

until we’ve got the diadem?”

“Yeah — right — sorry —” said Ron, and he and

Hermione set about gathering up fangs, both pink in

the face.

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It was clear, as the three of them stepped back into the corridor upstairs, that in the minutes that they

had spent in the Room of Requirement the situation

within the castle had deteriorated severely: The walls

and ceiling were shaking worse than ever; dust filled

the air, and through the nearest window, Harry saw

bursts of green and red light so close to the foot of the

castle that he knew the Death Eaters must be very

near to entering the place. Looking down, Harry saw

Grawp the giant meandering past, swinging what

looked like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and

roaring his displeasure.

“Let’s hope he steps on some of them!” said Ron as

more screams echoed from close by.

“As long as it’s not any of our lot!” said a voice: Harry

turned and saw Ginny and Tonks, both with their

wands drawn at the next window, which was missing

several panes. Even as he watched, Ginny sent a well-

aimed jinx into a crowd of fighters below.

“Good girl!” roared a figure running through the dust

toward them, and Harry saw Aberforth again, his gray

hair flying as he led a small group of students past.

“They look like they might be breaching the north

battlements, they’ve brought giants of their own!”

“Have you seen Remus?” Tonks called after him.

“He was dueling Dolohov,” shouted Aberforth,

“haven’t seen him since!

“Tonks,” said Ginny, “Tonks, I’m sure he’s okay —”

But Tonks had run off into the dust after Aberforth.

Ginny turned, helpless, to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

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“They’ll be all right,” said Harry, though he knew they were empty words. “Ginny, we’ll be back in a moment,

just keep out of the way, keep safe — come on!” he

said to Ron and Hermione, and they ran back to the

stretch of wall beyond which the Room of

Requirement was waiting to do the bidding of the next

entrant.

I need the place where everything is hidden, Harry

begged of it inside his head, and the door materialized

on their third run past.

The furor of the battle died the moment they crossed

the threshold and closed the door behind them: All

was silent. They were in a place the size of a cathedral

with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built

of objects hidden by thousands of long-gone students.

“And he never realized anyone could get in?” said

Ron, his voice echoing in the silence.

“He thought he was the only one,” said Harry. “Too

bad for him I’ve had to hide stuff in my time … this

way,” he added, “I think it’s down here. …”

He passed the stuffed troll and the Vanishing Cabinet

Draco Malfoy had mended last year with such

disastrous consequences, then hesitated, looking up

and down aisles of junk; he could not remember

where to go next. …

“Accio Diadem!” cried Hermione in desperation, but

nothing flew through the air toward them. It seemed

that, like the vault at Gringotts, the room would not

yield its hidden objects that easily.

“Let’s split up,” Harry told the other two. “Look for a

stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara!

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It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely

somewhere near here. …”

They sped off up adjacent aisles; Harry could hear the

others’ footsteps echoing through the towering piles of

junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons,

broomsticks, bats. …

“Somewhere near here,” Harry muttered to himself.

“Somewhere … somewhere …”

Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, looking

for objects he recognized from his one previous trip

into the room. His breath was loud in his ears, and

then his very soul seemed to shiver: There it was,

right ahead, the blistered old cupboard in which he

had hidden his old Potions book, and on top of it, the

pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig

and what looked like an ancient, discolored tiara.

He had already stretched out his hand, though he

remained ten feet away, when a voice behind him

said, “Hold it, Potter.”

He skidded to a halt and turned around. Crabbe and

Goyle were standing behind him, shoulder to

shoulder, wands pointing right at Harry. Through the

small space between their jeering faces he saw Draco

Malfoy.

“That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,” said Malfoy,

pointing his own through the gap between Crabbe

and Goyle.

“Not anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on

the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s

lent you theirs?”

“My mother,” said Draco.

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Harry laughed, though there was nothing very

humorous about the situation. He could not hear Ron

or Hermione anymore. They seemed to have run out

of earshot, searching for the diadem.

“So how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?”

asked Harry.

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” said Crabbe: His voice

was surprisingly soft for such an enormous person;

Harry had hardly ever heard him speak before.

Crabbe was smiling like a small child promised a

large bag of sweets. “We ’ung back, Potter. We decided

not to go. Decided to bring you to ’im.”

“Good plan,” said Harry in mock admiration. He could

not believe that he was this close, and was going to be

thwarted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He began

edging slowly backward toward the place where the

Horcrux sat lopsided upon the bust. If he could just

get his hands on it before the fight broke out …

“So how did you get in here?” he asked, trying to

distract them.

“I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last

year,” said Malfoy, his voice brittle. “I know how to get

in.”

“We was hiding in the corridor outside,” grunted

Goyle. “We can do Diss-lusion Charms now! And

then,” his face split into a gormless grin, “you turned

up right in front of us and said you was looking for a

die-dum! What’s a die-dum?”

“Harry?” Ron’s voice echoed suddenly from the other

side of the wall to Harry’s right. “Are you talking to

someone?”

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With a whiplike movement, Crabbe pointed his wand

at the fifty-foot mountain of old furniture, of broken

trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable

junk, and shouted, “Descendo!”

The wall began to totter, then the top third crumbled

into the aisle next door where Ron stood.

“Ron!” Harry bellowed, as somewhere out of sight

Hermione screamed, and Harry heard innumerable

objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the

destabilized wall: He pointed his wand at the rampart,

cried, “Finite!” and it steadied.

“No!” shouted Malfoy, staying Crabbe’s arm as the

latter made to repeat his spell. “If you wreck the room

you might bury this diadem thing!”

“What’s that matter?” said Crabbe, tugging himself

free. “It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares

about a die-dum?”

“Potter came in here to get it,” said Malfoy with ill-

disguised impatience at the slow-wittedness of his

colleagues, “so that must mean —”

“ ‘Must mean’?” Crabbe turned on Malfoy with

undisguised ferocity. “Who cares what you think? I

don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your

dad are finished.”

“Harry?” shouted Ron again, from the other side of

the junk wall. “What’s going on?”

“Harry?” mimicked Crabbe. “What’s going — no,

Potter! Crucio!”

Harry had lunged for the tiara; Crabbe’s curse missed

him but hit the stone bust, which flew into the air;

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the diadem soared upward and then dropped out of

sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had

rested.

“STOP!” Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing

through the enormous room. “The Dark Lord wants

him alive —”

“So? I’m not killing him, am I?” yelled Crabbe,

throwing off Malfoy’s restraining arm. “But if I can, I

will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s

the diff — ?”

A jet of scarlet light shot past Harry by inches:

Hermione had run around the corner behind him and

sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe’s head. It

only missed because Malfoy pulled him out of the

way.

“It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!”

Harry saw Hermione dive aside, and his fury that

Crabbe had aimed to kill wiped all else from his mind.

He shot a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurched out

of the way, knocking Malfoy’s wand out of his hand; it

rolled out of sight beneath a mountain of broken

furniture and boxes.

“Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Malfoy yelled at

Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry:

Their split second’s hesitation was all Harry needed.

“Expelliarmus!”

Goyle’s wand flew out of his hand and disappeared

into the bulwark of objects beside him; Goyle leapt

foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; Malfoy

jumped out of range of Hermione’s second Stunning

Spell, and Ron, appearing suddenly at the end of the

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aisle, shot a full Body-Bind Curse at Crabbe, which narrowly missed.

Crabbe wheeled around and screamed, “Avada

Kedavra!” again. Ron leapt out of sight to avoid the jet

of green light. The wandless Malfoy cowered behind a

three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charged toward

them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning Spell as she

came.

“It’s somewhere here!” Harry yelled at her, pointing at

the pile of junk into which the old tiara had fallen.

“Look for it while I go and help R —”

“HARRY!” she screamed.

A roaring, billowing noise behind him gave him a

moment’s warning. He turned and saw both Ron and

Crabbe running as hard as they could up the aisle

toward them.

“Like it hot, scum?” roared Crabbe as he ran.

But he seemed to have no control over what he had

done. Flames of abnormal size were pursuing them,

licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which were

crumbling to soot at their touch.

“Aguamenti!” Harry bawled, but the jet of water that

soared from the tip of his wand evaporated in the air.

“RUN!”

Malfoy grabbed the Stunned Goyle and dragged him

along; Crabbe outstripped all of them, now looking

terrified; Harry, Ron, and Hermione pelted along in

his wake, and the fire pursued them. It was not

normal fire; Crabbe had used a curse of which Harry

had no knowledge: As they turned a corner the flames

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chased them as though they were alive, sentient,

intent upon killing them. Now the fire was mutating,

forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts: Flaming

serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rose and fell and

rose again, and the detritus of centuries on which

they were feeding was thrown up in the air into their

fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before

being consumed by the inferno.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had vanished from view:

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stopped dead; the fiery

monsters were circling them, drawing closer and

closer, claws and horns and tails lashed, and the heat

was solid as a wall around them.

“What can we do?” Hermione screamed over the

deafening roars of the fire. “What can we do?”

“Here!”

Harry seized a pair of heavy-looking broomsticks from

the nearest pile of junk and threw one to Ron, who

pulled Hermione onto it behind him. Harry swung his

leg over the second broom and, with hard kicks to the

ground, they soared up into the air, missing by feet

the horned beak of a flaming raptor that snapped its

jaws at them. The smoke and heat were becoming

overwhelming: Below them the cursed fire was

consuming the contraband of generations of hunted

students, the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned

experiments, the secrets of the countless souls who

had sought refuge in the room. Harry could not see a

trace of Malfoy, Crabbe, or Goyle anywhere: He

swooped as low as he dared over the marauding

monsters of flame to try to find them, but there was

nothing but fire: What a terrible way to die. … He had

never wanted this. …

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“Harry, let’s get out, let’s get out!” bellowed Ron, though it was impossible to see where the door was

through the black smoke.

And then Harry heard a thin, piteous human scream

from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of

devouring flame.

“It’s — too — dangerous — !” Ron yelled, but Harry

wheeled in the air. His glasses giving his eyes some

small protection from the smoke, he raked the

firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face

that was not yet charred like wood. …

And he saw them: Malfoy with his arms around the

unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a

fragile tower of charred desks, and Harry dived.

Malfoy saw him coming and raised one arm, but even

as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no

good: Goyle was too heavy and Malfoy’s hand, covered

in sweat, slid instantly out of Harry’s —

“IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!”

roared Ron’s voice, and, as a great flaming chimaera

bore down upon them, he and Hermione dragged

Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching,

into the air once more as Malfoy clambered up behind

Harry.

“The door, get to the door, the door!” screamed Malfoy

in Harry’s ear, and Harry sped up, following Ron,

Hermione, and Goyle through the billowing black

smoke, hardly able to breathe: and all around them

the last few objects unburned by the devouring flames

were flung into the air, as the creatures of the cursed

fire cast them high in celebration: cups and shields, a

sparkling necklace, and an old, discolored tiara —

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“What are you doing, what are you doing, the door’s that way!” screamed Malfoy, but Harry made a

hairpin swerve and dived. The diadem seemed to fall

in slow motion, turning and glittering as it dropped

toward the maw of a yawning serpent, and then he

had it, caught it around his wrist —

Harry swerved again as the serpent lunged at him; he

soared upward and straight toward the place where,

he prayed, the door stood open: Ron, Hermione, and

Goyle had vanished; Malfoy was screaming and

holding Harry so tightly it hurt. Then, through the

smoke, Harry saw a rectangular patch on the wall

and steered the broom at it, and moments later clean

air filled his lungs and they collided with the wall in

the corridor beyond.

Malfoy fell off the broom and lay facedown, gasping,

coughing, and retching. Harry rolled over and sat up:

The door to the Room of Requirement had vanished,

and Ron and Hermione sat panting on the floor beside

Goyle, who was still unconscious.

“C-Crabbe,” choked Malfoy as soon as he could

speak. “C-Crabbe …”

“He’s dead,” said Ron harshly.

There was silence, apart from panting and coughing.

Then a number of huge bangs shook the castle, and a

great cavalcade of transparent figures galloped past

on horses, their heads screaming with bloodlust

under their arms. Harry staggered to his feet when

the Headless Hunt had passed and looked around:

The battle was still going on all around him. He could

hear more screams than those of the retreating

ghosts. Panic flared within him.

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“Where’s Ginny?” he said sharply. “She was here. She was supposed to be going back into the Room of

Requirement.”

“Blimey, d’you reckon it’ll still work after that fire?”

asked Ron, but he too got to his feet, rubbing his

chest and looking left and right. “Shall we split up

and look — ?”

“No,” said Hermione, getting to her feet too. Malfoy

and Goyle remained slumped hopelessly on the

corridor floor; neither of them had wands. “Let’s stick

together. I say we go — Harry, what’s that on your

arm?”

“What? Oh yeah —”

He pulled the diadem from his wrist and held it up. It

was still hot, blackened with soot, but as he looked at

it closely he was just able to make out the tiny words

etched upon it: WIT BEYOND MEASURE IS MAN’S

GREATEST TREASURE.

A bloodlike substance, dark and tarry, seemed to be

leaking from the diadem. Suddenly Harry felt the

thing vibrate violently, then break apart in his hands,

and as it did so, he thought he heard the faintest,

most distant scream of pain, echoing not from the

grounds or the castle, but from the thing that had

just fragmented in his fingers.

“It must have been Fiendfyre!” whimpered Hermione,

her eyes on the broken pieces.

“Sorry?”

“Fiendfyre — cursed fire — it’s one of the substances

that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have

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dared use it, it’s so dangerous — how did Crabbe

know how to — ?”

“Must’ve learned from the Carrows,” said Harry

grimly.

“Shame he wasn’t concentrating when they

mentioned how to stop it, really,” said Ron, whose

hair, like Hermione’s, was singed, and whose face was

blackened. “If he hadn’t tried to kill us all, I’d be quite

sorry he was dead.”

“But don’t you realize?” whispered Hermione. “This

means, if we can just get the snake —”

But she broke off as yells and shouts and the

unmistakable noises of dueling filled the corridor.

Harry looked around and his heart seemed to fail:

Death Eaters had penetrated Hogwarts. Fred and

Percy had just backed into view, both of them dueling

masked and hooded men.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran forward to help: Jets of

light flew in every direction and the man dueling

Percy backed off, fast: Then his hood slipped and they

saw a high forehead and streaked hair —

“Hello, Minister!” bellowed Percy, sending a neat jinx

straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and

clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful

discomfort. “Did I mention I’m resigning?”

“You’re joking, Perce!” shouted Fred as the Death

Eater he was battling collapsed under the weight of

three separate Stunning Spells. Thicknesse had fallen

to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him;

he seemed to be turning into some form of sea urchin.

Fred looked at Percy with glee.

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“You actually are joking, Perce. … I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were —”

The air exploded. They had been grouped together,

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy, the two

Death Eaters at their feet, one Stunned, the other

Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment,

when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world

was rent apart. Harry felt himself flying through the

air, and all he could do was hold as tightly as possible

to that thin stick of wood that was his one and only

weapon, and shield his head in his arms: He heard

the screams and yells of his companions without a

hope of knowing what had happened to them —

And then the world resolved itself into pain and

semidarkness: He was half buried in the wreckage of

a corridor that had been subjected to a terrible

attack. Cold air told him that the side of the castle

had been blown away, and hot stickiness on his

cheek told him that he was bleeding copiously. Then

he heard a terrible cry that pulled at his insides, that

expressed agony of a kind neither flame nor curse

could cause, and he stood up, swaying, more

frightened than he had been that day, more

frightened, perhaps, than he had been in his life. …

And Hermione was struggling to her feet in the

wreckage, and three redheaded men were grouped on

the ground where the wall had blasted apart. Harry

grabbed Hermione’s hand as they staggered and

stumbled over stone and wood.

“No — no — no!” someone was shouting. “No! Fred!

No!”

And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was

kneeling beside them, and Fred’s eyes stared without

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seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face.

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THE ELDER WAND

The world had ended, so why had the battle not

ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every

combatant laid down their arms? Harry’s mind was in

free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the

impossibility, because Fred Weasley could not be

dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying —

And then a body fell past the hole blown into the side

of the school, and curses flew in at them from the

darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads.

“Get down!” Harry shouted, as more curses flew

through the night: He and Ron had both grabbed

Hermione and pulled her to the floor, but Percy lay

across Fred’s body, shielding it from further harm,

and when Harry shouted, “Percy, come on, we’ve got

to move!” he shook his head.

“Percy!” Harry saw tear tracks streaking the grime

coating Ron’s face as he seized his elder brother’s

shoulders and pulled, but Percy would not budge.

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“Percy, you can’t do anything for him! We’re going to

—”

Hermione screamed, and Harry, turning, did not need

to ask why. A monstrous spider the size of a small car

was trying to climb through the huge hole in the wall:

One of Aragog’s descendants had joined the fight.

Ron and Harry shouted together; their spells collided

and the monster was blown backward, its legs jerking

horribly, and vanished into the darkness.

“It brought friends!” Harry called to the others,

glancing over the edge of the castle through the hole

in the wall the curses had blasted: More giant spiders

were climbing the side of the building, liberated from

the Forbidden Forest, into which the Death Eaters

must have penetrated. Harry fired Stunning Spells

down upon them, knocking the lead monster into its

fellows, so that they rolled back down the building

and out of sight. Then more curses came soaring over

Harry’s head, so close he felt the force of them blow

his hair.

“Let’s move, NOW!”

Pushing Hermione ahead of him with Ron, Harry

stooped to seize Fred’s body under the armpits. Percy,

realizing what Harry was trying to do, stopped

clinging to the body and helped; together, crouching

low to avoid the curses flying at them from the

grounds, they hauled Fred out of the way.

“Here,” said Harry, and they placed him in a niche

where a suit of armor had stood earlier. He could not

bear to look at Fred a second longer than he had to,

and after making sure that the body was well hidden,

he took off after Ron and Hermione. Malfoy and Goyle

had vanished, but at the end of the corridor, which

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was now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long gone from the windows, he saw many people running

backward and forward, whether friends or foes he

could not tell. Rounding the corner, Percy let out a

bull-like roar: “ROOKWOOD!” and sprinted off in the

direction of a tall man, who was pursuing a couple of

students.

“Harry, in here!” Hermione screamed.

She had pulled Ron behind a tapestry: They seemed

to be wrestling together, and for one mad second

Harry thought that they were embracing again; then

he saw that Hermione was trying to restrain Ron, to

stop him running after Percy.

“Listen to me — LISTEN, RON!”

“I wanna help — I wanna kill Death Eaters —”

His face was contorted, smeared with dust and

smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief.

“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please —

Ron — we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!”

said Hermione.

But Harry knew how Ron felt: Pursuing another

Horcrux could not bring the satisfaction of revenge;

he too wanted to fight, to punish them, the people

who had killed Fred, and he wanted to find the other

Weasleys, and above all make sure, make quite sure,

that Ginny was not — but he could not permit that

idea to form in his mind —

“We will fight!” Hermione said. “We’ll have to, to reach

the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re

supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can

end it!”

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She was crying too, and she wiped her face on her

torn and singed sleeve as she spoke, but she took

great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping

a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Harry.

“You need to find out where Voldemort is, because

he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry

— look inside him!”

Why was it so easy? Because his scar had been

burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort’s

thoughts? He closed his eyes on her command, and at

once, the screams and the bangs and all the

discordant sounds of the battle were drowned until

they became distant, as though he stood far, far away

from them. …

He was standing in the middle of a desolate but

strangely familiar room, with peeling paper on the

walls and all the windows boarded except for one. The

sounds of the assault on the castle were muffled and

distant. The single unblocked window revealed

distant bursts of light where the castle stood, but

inside the room it was dark except for a solitary oil

lamp.

He was rolling his wand between his fingers, watching

it, his thoughts on the room in the castle, the secret

room only he had ever found, the room, like the

Chamber, that you had to be clever and cunning and

inquisitive to discover. … He was confident that the

boy would not find the diadem … although

Dumbledore’s puppet had come much farther than he

had ever expected … too far. …

“My Lord,” said a voice, desperate and cracked. He

turned: There was Lucius Malfoy sitting in the

darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of

the punishment he had received after the boy’s last

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escape. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy.

“My Lord … please … my son …”

“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did

not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins.

Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?”

“No — never,” whispered Malfoy.

“You must hope not.”

“Aren’t — aren’t you afraid, my Lord, that Potter

might die at another hand but yours?” asked Malfoy,

his voice shaking. “Wouldn’t it be … forgive me …

more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle,

and seek him y-yourself?”

“Do not pretend, Lucius. You wish the battle to cease

so that you can discover what has happened to your

son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night

is out, Potter will have come to find me.”

Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in

his fingers. It troubled him … and those things that

troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged. …

“Go and fetch Snape.”

“Snape, m-my Lord?”

“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a — service — I

require from him. Go.”

Frightened, stumbling a little through the gloom,

Lucius left the room. Voldemort continued to stand

there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring

at it.

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“It is the only way, Nagini,” he whispered, and he

looked around, and there was the great thick snake,

now suspended in midair, twisting gracefully within

the enchanted, protected space he had made for her,

a starry, transparent sphere somewhere between

glittering cage and tank.

With a gasp, Harry pulled back and opened his eyes;

at the same moment his ears were assaulted with the

screeches and cries, the smashes and bangs of battle.

“He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him,

it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He’s

just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape.”

“Voldemort’s sitting in the Shrieking Shack?” said

Hermione, outraged. “He’s not — he’s not even

fighting?”

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” said Harry. “He

thinks I’m going to go to him.”

“But why?”

“He knows I’m after Horcruxes — he’s keeping Nagini

close beside him — obviously I’m going to have to go

to him to get near the thing —”

“Right,” said Ron, squaring his shoulders. “So you

can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting.

You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and

get it —”

Harry cut across Ron.

“You two stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be

back as soon as I —”

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“No,” said Hermione, “it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and —”

“Don’t even think about it,” Ron snarled at her.

Before Hermione could get farther than “Ron, I’m just

as capable —” the tapestry at the top of the staircase

on which they stood was ripped open.

“POTTER!”

Two masked Death Eaters stood there, but even

before their wands were fully raised, Hermione

shouted, “Glisseo!”

The stairs beneath their feet flattened into a chute

and she, Harry, and Ron hurtled down it, unable to

control their speed but so fast that the Death Eaters’

Stunning Spells flew far over their heads. They shot

through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and

spun onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall.

“Duro!” cried Hermione, pointing her wand at the

tapestry, and there were two loud, sickening crunches

as the tapestry turned to stone and the Death Eaters

pursuing them crumpled against it.

“Get back!” shouted Ron, and he, Harry, and

Hermione flattened themselves against a door as a

herd of galloping desks thundered past, shepherded

by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appeared

not to notice them: Her hair had come down and

there was a gash on her cheek. As she turned the

corner, they heard her scream, “CHARGE!”

“Harry, you get the Cloak on,” said Hermione. “Never

mind us —”

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But he threw it over all three of them; large though they were, he doubted anyone would see their

disembodied feet through the dust that clogged the

air, the falling stone, the shimmer of spells.

They ran down the next staircase and found

themselves in a corridor full of duelers. The portraits

on either side of the fighters were crammed with

figures screaming advice and encouragement, while

Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, dueled

students and teachers. Dean had won himself a

wand, for he was face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati

with Travers. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raised their

wands at once, ready to strike, but the duelers were

weaving and darting around so much that there was a

strong likelihood of hurting one of their own side if

they cast curses. Even as they stood braced, looking

for the opportunity to act, there came a great

“Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” and, looking up, Harry saw Peeves

zooming over them, dropping Snargaluff pods down

onto the Death Eaters, whose heads were suddenly

engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms.

“Argh!”

A fistful of tubers had hit the Cloak over Ron’s head;

the slimy green roots were suspended improbably in

midair as Ron tried to shake them loose.

“Someone’s invisible there!” shouted a masked Death

Eater, pointing.

Dean made the most of the Death Eater’s momentary

distraction, knocking him out with a Stunning Spell;

Dolohov attempted to retaliate and Parvati shot a

Body-Bind Curse at him.

“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled, and he, Ron, and Hermione

gathered the Cloak tightly around themselves and

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pelted, heads down, through the midst of the fighters, slipping a little in pools of Snargaluff juice, toward the

top of the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

“I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m Draco, I’m on your side!”

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with

another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the

Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around,

beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from

under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the

Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused.

“And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life

tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled.

There were more duelers all over the stairs and in the

hall, Death Eaters everywhere Harry looked: Yaxley,

close to the front doors, in combat with Flitwick, a

masked Death Eater dueling Kingsley right beside

them. Students ran in every direction, some carrying

or dragging injured friends. Harry directed a Stunning

Spell toward the masked Death Eater; it missed but

nearly hit Neville, who had emerged from nowhere

brandishing armfuls of Venomous Tentacula, which

looped itself happily around the nearest Death Eater

and began reeling him in.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sped down the marble

staircase: Glass shattered to their left, and the

Slytherin hourglass that had recorded House points

spilled its emeralds everywhere, so that people slipped

and staggered as they ran. Two bodies fell from the

balcony overhead as they reached the ground, and a

gray blur that Harry took for an animal sped four-

legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the

fallen.

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“NO!” shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Fenrir Greyback was thrown

backward from the feebly stirring body of Lavender

Brown. He hit the marble banisters and struggled to

return to his feet. Then, with a bright white flash and

a crack, a crystal ball fell on top of his head, and he

crumpled to the ground and did not move.

“I have more!” shrieked Professor Trelawney from over

the banisters. “More for any who want them! Here —”

And with a movement like a tennis serve, she heaved

another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waved

her wand through the air, and caused the ball to

speed across the hall and smash through a window.

At the same moment, the heavy wooden front doors

burst open, and more of the gigantic spiders forced

their way into the entrance hall.

Screams of terror rent the air: The fighters scattered,

Death Eaters and Hogwartians alike, and red and

green jets of light flew into the midst of the oncoming

monsters, which shuddered and reared, more

terrifying than ever.

“How do we get out?” yelled Ron over all the

screaming, but before either Harry or Hermione could

answer they were bowled aside: Hagrid had come

thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery

pink umbrella.

“Don’t hurt ’em, don’t hurt ’em!” he yelled.

“HAGRID, NO!”

Harry forgot everything else: He sprinted out from

under the Cloak, running bent double to avoid the

curses illuminating the whole hall.

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“HAGRID, COME BACK!”

But he was not even halfway to Hagrid when he saw it

happen: Hagrid vanished amongst the spiders, and

with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement,

they retreated under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid

buried in their midst.

“HAGRID!”

Harry heard someone calling his own name, whether

friend or foe he did not care: He was sprinting down

the front steps into the dark grounds, and the spiders

were swarming away with their prey, and he could see

nothing of Hagrid at all.

“HAGRID!”

He thought he could make out an enormous arm

waving from the midst of the spider swarm, but as he

made to chase after them, his way was impeded by a

monumental foot, which swung down out of the

darkness and made the ground on which he stood

shudder. He looked up: A giant stood before him,

twenty feet high, its head hidden in shadow, nothing

but its treelike, hairy shins illuminated by light from

the castle doors. With one brutal, fluid movement, it

smashed a massive fist through an upper window,

and glass rained down upon Harry, forcing him back

under the shelter of the doorway.

“Oh my — !” shrieked Hermione, as she and Ron

caught up with Harry and gazed upward at the giant

now trying to seize people through the window above.

“DON’T!” Ron yelled, grabbing Hermione’s hand as

she raised her wand. “Stun him and he’ll crush half

the castle —”

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“HAGGER?”

Grawp came lurching around the corner of the castle;

only now did Harry realize that Grawp was, indeed,

an undersized giant. The gargantuan monster trying

to crush people on the upper floors looked around

and let out a roar. The stone steps trembled as he

stomped toward his smaller kin, and Grawp’s

lopsided mouth fell open, showing yellow, half-brick-

sized teeth; and then they launched themselves at

each other with the savagery of lions.

“RUN!” Harry roared; the night was full of hideous

yells and blows as the giants wrestled, and he seized

Hermione’s hand and tore down the steps into the

grounds, Ron bringing up the rear. Harry had not lost

hope of finding and saving Hagrid; he ran so fast that

they were halfway toward the forest before they were

brought up short again.

The air around them had frozen: Harry’s breath

caught and solidified in his chest. Shapes moved out

in the darkness, swirling figures of concentrated

blackness, moving in a great wave toward the castle,

their faces hooded and their breath rattling. …

Ron and Hermione closed in beside him as the

sounds of fighting behind them grew suddenly muted,

deadened, because a silence only dementors could

bring was falling thickly through the night, and Fred

was gone, and Hagrid was surely dying or already

dead. …

“Come on, Harry!” said Hermione’s voice from a very

long way away. “Patronuses, Harry, come on!”

He raised his wand, but a dull hopelessness was

spreading through him: How many more lay dead

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that he did not yet know about; he felt as though his soul had already half left his body. …

“HARRY, COME ON!” screamed Hermione.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward

them, sucking their way closer to Harry’s despair,

which was like a promise of a feast. …

He saw Ron’s silver terrier burst into the air, flicker

feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione’s otter twist in

midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his

hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming

oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling. …

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s heads: The dementors

fell back before the creatures’ approach. Three more

people had arrived out of the darkness to stand

beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to

cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

“That’s right,” said Luna encouragingly, as if they

were back in the Room of Requirement and this was

simply spell practice for the D.A. “That’s right, Harry

… come on, think of something happy. …”

“Something happy?” he said, his voice cracked.

“We’re all still here,” she whispered, “we’re still

fighting. Come on, now. …”

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and

then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the

stag burst from the end of Harry’s wand. It cantered

forward, and now the dementors scattered in earnest,

and immediately the night was mild again, but the

sounds of the surrounding battle were loud in his

ears.

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“Can’t thank you enough,” said Ron shakily, turning to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus, “you just saved —”

With a roar and an earth-quaking tremor, another

giant came lurching out of the darkness from the

direction of the forest, brandishing a club taller than

any of them.

“RUN!” Harry shouted again, but the others needed

no telling: They all scattered, and not a second too

soon, for next moment the creature’s vast foot had

fallen exactly where they had been standing. Harry

looked round: Ron and Hermione were following him,

but the other three had vanished back into the battle.

“Let’s get out of range!” yelled Ron as the giant swung

its club again and its bellows echoed through the

night, across the grounds where bursts of red and

green light continued to illuminate the darkness.

“The Whomping Willow,” said Harry, “go!”

Somehow he walled it all up in his mind, crammed it

into a small space into which he could not look now:

Thoughts of Fred and Hagrid, and his terror for all the

people he loved, scattered in and outside the castle,

must all wait, because they had to run, had to reach

the snake and Voldemort, because that was, as

Hermione said, the only way to end it —

He sprinted, half believing he could outdistance death

itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness

all around him, and the sound of the lake crashing

like the sea, and the creaking of the Forbidden Forest

though the night was windless; through grounds that

seemed themselves to have risen in rebellion, he ran

faster than he had ever moved in his life, and it was

he who saw the great tree first, the Willow that

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protected the secret at its roots with whiplike,

slashing branches.

Panting and gasping, Harry slowed down, skirting the

Willow’s swiping branches, peering through the

darkness toward its thick trunk, trying to see the

single knot in the bark of the old tree that would

paralyze it. Ron and Hermione caught up, Hermione

so out of breath she could not speak.

“How — how’re we going to get in?” panted Ron. “I can

— see the place — if we just had — Crookshanks

again —”

“Crookshanks?” wheezed Hermione, bent double,

clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard, or what?”

“Oh — right — yeah —”

Ron looked around, then directed his wand at a twig

on the ground and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The

twig flew up from the ground, spun through the air as

if caught by a gust of wind, then zoomed directly at

the trunk through the Willow’s ominously swaying

branches. It jabbed at a place near the roots, and at

once, the writhing tree became still.

“Perfect!” panted Hermione.

“Wait.”

For one teetering second, while the crashes and

booms of the battle filled the air, Harry hesitated.

Voldemort wanted him to do this, wanted him to

come. … Was he leading Ron and Hermione into a

trap?

But then the reality seemed to close upon him, cruel

and plain: The only way forward was to kill the snake,

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and the snake was where Voldemort was, and

Voldemort was at the end of this tunnel. …

“Harry, we’re coming, just get in there!” said Ron,

pushing him forward.

Harry wriggled into the earthy passage hidden in the

tree’s roots. It was a much tighter squeeze than it had

been the last time they had entered it. The tunnel was

low-ceilinged: They had had to double up to move

through it nearly four years previously; now there was

nothing for it but to crawl. Harry went first, his wand

illuminated, expecting at any moment to meet

barriers, but none came. They moved in silence,

Harry’s gaze fixed upon the swinging beam of the

wand held in his fist.

At last the tunnel began to slope upward and Harry

saw a sliver of light ahead. Hermione tugged at his

ankle.

“The Cloak!” she whispered. “Put the Cloak on!”

He groped behind him and she forced the bundle of

slippery cloth into his free hand. With difficulty he

dragged it over himself, murmured, “Nox, ”

extinguishing his wandlight, and continued on his

hands and knees, as silently as possible, all his

senses straining, expecting every second to be

discovered, to hear a cold clear voice, see a flash of

green light.

And then he heard voices coming from the room

directly ahead of them, only slightly muffled by the

fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel had

been blocked up by what looked like an old crate.

Hardly daring to breathe, Harry edged right up to the

opening and peered through a tiny gap left between

crate and wall.

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The room beyond was dimly lit, but he could see

Nagini, swirling and coiling like a serpent underwater,

safe in her enchanted, starry sphere, which floated

unsupported in midair. He could see the edge of a

table, and a long-fingered white hand toying with a

wand. Then Snape spoke, and Harry’s heart lurched:

Snape was inches away from where he crouched,

hidden.

“… my Lord, their resistance is crumbling —”

“— and it is doing so without your help,” said

Voldemort in his high, clear voice. “Skilled wizard

though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make

much difference now. We are almost there … almost.”

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I

can find him, my Lord. Please.”

Snape strode past the gap, and Harry drew back a

little, keeping his eyes fixed upon Nagini, wondering

whether there was any spell that might penetrate the

protection surrounding her, but he could not think of

anything. One failed attempt, and he would give away

his position. …

Voldemort stood up. Harry could see him now, see the

red eyes, the flattened, serpentine face, the pallor of

him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness.

“I have a problem, Severus,” said Voldemort softly.

“My Lord?” said Snape.

Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, holding it as

delicately and precisely as a conductor’s baton.

“Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?”

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In the silence Harry imagined he could hear the snake hissing slightly as it coiled and uncoiled — or was it

Voldemort’s sibilant sigh lingering on the air?

“My — my Lord?” said Snape blankly. “I do not

understand. You — you have performed extraordinary

magic with that wand.”

“No,” said Voldemort. “I have performed my usual

magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand … no. It has

not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no

difference between this wand and the one I procured

from Ollivander all those years ago.”

Voldemort’s tone was musing, calm, but Harry’s scar

had begun to throb and pulse: Pain was building in

his forehead, and he could feel that controlled sense

of fury building inside Voldemort.

“No difference,” said Voldemort again.

Snape did not speak. Harry could not see his face: He

wondered whether Snape sensed danger, was trying

to find the right words to reassure his master.

Voldemort started to move around the room: Harry

lost sight of him for seconds as he prowled, speaking

in that same measured voice, while the pain and fury

mounted in Harry.

“I have thought long and hard, Severus. … Do you

know why I have called you back from the battle?”

And for a moment Harry saw Snape’s profile: His eyes

were fixed upon the coiling snake in its enchanted

cage.

“No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me

find Potter.”

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“You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands

Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will

come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one

great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck

down around him, knowing that it is for him that it

happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will

come.”

“But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one

other than yourself —”

“My instructions to my Death Eaters have been

perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends — the

more, the better — but do not kill him.

“But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not

Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very

valuable.”

“My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But — let

me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to

you. I know I can —”

“I have told you, no!” said Voldemort, and Harry

caught the glint of red in his eyes as he turned again,

and the swishing of his cloak was like the slithering of

a snake, and he felt Voldemort’s impatience in his

burning scar. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is

what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

“My Lord, there can be no question, surely — ?”

“— but there is a question, Severus. There is.”

Voldemort halted, and Harry could see him plainly

again as he slid the Elder Wand through his white

fingers, staring at Snape.

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“Why did both the wands I have used fail when

directed at Harry Potter?”

“I — I cannot answer that, my Lord.”

“Can’t you?”

The stab of rage felt like a spike driven through

Harry’s head: He forced his own fist into his mouth to

stop himself from crying out in pain. He closed his

eyes, and suddenly he was Voldemort, looking into

Snape’s pale face.

“My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it,

Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed.

Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores,

told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s

wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

“I — I have no explanation, my Lord.”

Snape was not looking at Voldemort now. His dark

eyes were still fixed upon the coiling serpent in its

protective sphere.

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the

Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its

previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus

Dumbledore.”

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s

face was like a death mask. It was marble white and

so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that

anyone lived behind the blank eyes.

“My Lord — let me go to the boy —”

“All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory,

I have sat here,” said Voldemort, his voice barely

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louder than a whisper, “wondering, wondering, why

the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be,

refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for

its rightful owner … and I think I have the answer.”

Snape did not speak.

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man,

after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful

servant, and I regret what must happen.”

“My Lord —”

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus,

because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand

belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You

killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the

Elder Wand cannot be truly mine.”

“My Lord!” Snape protested, raising his wand.

“It cannot be any other way,” said Voldemort. “I must

master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I

master Potter at last.”

And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It

did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed

to think he had been reprieved: But then Voldemort’s

intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling

through the air, and before Snape could do anything

more than yell, it had encased him, head and

shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue.

“Kill. ”

There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape’s face

losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his

black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his

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neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off

himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

“I regret it,” said Voldemort coldly.

He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no

remorse. It was time to leave this shack and take

charge, with a wand that would now do his full

bidding. He pointed it at the starry cage holding the

snake, which drifted upward, off Snape, who fell

sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the

wounds in his neck. Voldemort swept from the room

without a backward glance, and the great serpent

floated after him in its huge protective sphere.

Back in the tunnel and his own mind, Harry opened

his eyes: He had drawn blood biting down on his

knuckles in the effort not to shout out. Now he was

looking through the tiny crack between crate and

wall, watching a foot in a black boot trembling on the

floor.

“Harry!” breathed Hermione behind him, but he had

already pointed his wand at the crate blocking his

view. It lifted an inch into the air and drifted sideways

silently. As quietly as he could, he pulled himself up

into the room.

He did not know why he was doing it, why he was

approaching the dying man: He did not know what he

felt as he saw Snape’s white face, and the fingers

trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck.

Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak and looked down

upon the man he hated, whose widening black eyes

found Harry as he tried to speak. Harry bent over

him, and Snape seized the front of his robes and

pulled him close.

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A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape’s throat.

“Take … it. … Take … it. …”

Something more than blood was leaking from Snape.

Silvery blue, neither gas nor liquid, it gushed from his

mouth and his ears and his eyes, and Harry knew

what it was, but did not know what to do —

A flask, conjured from thin air, was thrust into his

shaking hands by Hermione. Harry lifted the silvery

substance into it with his wand. When the flask was

full to the brim, and Snape looked as though there

was no blood left in him, his grip on Harry’s robes

slackened.

“Look … at … me. …” he whispered.

The green eyes found the black, but after a second,

something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to

vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The

hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape

moved no more.

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THE PRINCE’S TALE

Harry remained kneeling at Snape’s side, simply

staring down at him, until quite suddenly a high, cold

voice spoke so close to them that Harry jumped to his

feet, the flask gripped tightly in his hands, thinking

that Voldemort had reentered the room.

Voldemort’s voice reverberated from the walls and

floor, and Harry realized that he was talking to

Hogwarts and to all the surrounding area, that the

residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in

the castle would hear him as clearly as if he stood

beside them, his breath on the back of their necks, a

deathblow away.

“You have fought,” said the high, cold voice,

“valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value

bravery.

“Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue

to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish

this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is

a loss and a waste.

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“Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately.

“You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with

dignity. Treat your injured.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have

permitted your friends to die for you rather than face

me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden

Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come

to me, have not given yourself up, then battle

recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself,

Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish

every last man, woman, and child who has tried to

conceal you from me. One hour.”

Both Ron and Hermione shook their heads frantically,

looking at Harry.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Ron.

“It’ll be all right,” said Hermione wildly. “Let’s — let’s

get back to the castle, if he’s gone to the forest we’ll

need to think of a new plan —”

She glanced at Snape’s body, then hurried back to

the tunnel entrance. Ron followed her. Harry gathered

up the Invisibility Cloak, then looked down at Snape.

He did not know what to feel, except shock at the way

Snape had been killed, and the reason for which it

had been done. …

They crawled back through the tunnel, none of them

talking, and Harry wondered whether Ron and

Hermione could still hear Voldemort ringing in their

heads, as he could.

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You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the

Forbidden Forest. … One hour. …

Small bundles seemed to litter the lawn at the front of

the castle. It could only be an hour or so from dawn,

yet it was pitch-black. The three of them hurried

toward the stone steps. A lone clog, the size of a small

boat, lay abandoned in front of them. There was no

other sign of Grawp or of his attacker.

The castle was unnaturally silent. There were no

flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts.

The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall were

stained with blood. Emeralds were still scattered all

over the floor, along with pieces of marble and

splintered wood. Part of the banisters had been blown

away.

“Where is everyone?” whispered Hermione.

Ron led the way to the Great Hall. Harry stopped in

the doorway.

The House tables were gone and the room was

crowded. The survivors stood in groups, their arms

around each other’s necks. The injured were being

treated upon the raised platform by Madam Pomfrey

and a group of helpers. Firenze was amongst the

injured; his flank poured blood and he shook where

he lay, unable to stand.

The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. Harry

could not see Fred’s body, because his family

surrounded him. George was kneeling at his head;

Mrs. Weasley was lying across Fred’s chest, her body

shaking, Mr. Weasley stroking her hair while tears

cascaded down his cheeks.

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Without a word to Harry, Ron and Hermione walked

away. Harry saw Hermione approach Ginny, whose

face was swollen and blotchy, and hug her. Ron

joined Bill, Fleur, and Percy, who flung an arm

around Ron’s shoulders. As Ginny and Hermione

moved closer to the rest of the family, Harry had a

clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and

Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently

asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.

The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller,

shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway.

He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look

at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died

for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could

not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself

up in the first place, Fred might never have died. …

He turned away and ran up the marble staircase.

Lupin, Tonks … He yearned not to feel. … He wished

he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything

that was screaming inside him. …

The castle was completely empty; even the ghosts

seemed to have joined the mass mourning in the

Great Hall. Harry ran without stopping, clutching the

crystal flask of Snape’s last thoughts, and he did not

slow down until he reached the stone gargoyle

guarding the headmaster’s office.

“Password?”

“Dumbledore!” said Harry without thinking, because

it was he whom he yearned to see, and to his surprise

the gargoyle slid aside, revealing the spiral staircase

behind.

But when Harry burst into the circular office he found

a change. The portraits that hung all around the

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walls were empty. Not a single headmaster or

headmistress remained to see him; all, it seemed, had

flitted away, charging through the paintings that lined

the castle, so that they could have a clear view of

what was going on.

Harry glanced hopelessly at Dumbledore’s deserted

frame, which hung directly behind the headmaster’s

chair, then turned his back on it. The stone Pensieve

lay in the cabinet where it had always been: Harry

heaved it onto the desk and poured Snape’s memories

into the wide basin with its runic markings around

the edge. To escape into someone else’s head would

be a blessed relief. … Nothing that even Snape had

left him could be worse than his own thoughts. The

memories swirled, silver white and strange, and

without hesitating, with a feeling of reckless

abandonment, as though this would assuage his

torturing grief, Harry dived.

He fell headlong into sunlight, and his feet found

warm ground. When he straightened up, he saw that

he was in a nearly deserted playground. A single huge

chimney dominated the distant skyline. Two girls

were swinging backward and forward, and a skinny

boy was watching them from behind a clump of

bushes. His black hair was overlong and his clothes

were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too

short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have

belonged to a grown man, an odd smocklike shirt.

Harry moved closer to the boy. Snape looked no more

than nine or ten years old, sallow, small, stringy.

There was undisguised greed in his thin face as he

watched the younger of the two girls swinging higher

and higher than her sister.

“Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked the elder of the two.

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But the girl had let go of the swing at the very height of its arc and flown into the air, quite literally flown,

launched herself skyward with a great shout of

laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground

asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the

air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly.

“Mummy told you not to!”

Petunia stopped her swing by dragging the heels of

her sandals on the ground, making a crunching,

grinding sound, then leapt up, hands on hips.

“Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!”

“But I’m fine,” said Lily, still giggling. “Tuney, look at

this. Watch what I can do.”

Petunia glanced around. The playground was

deserted apart from themselves and, though the girls

did not know it, Snape. Lily had picked up a fallen

flower from the bush behind which Snape lurked.

Petunia advanced, evidently torn between curiosity

and disapproval. Lily waited until Petunia was near

enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm.

The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals,

like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster.

“Stop it!” shrieked Petunia.

“It’s not hurting you,” said Lily, but she closed her

hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground.

“It’s not right,” said Petunia, but her eyes had

followed the flower’s flight to the ground and lingered

upon it. “How do you do it?” she added, and there

was definite longing in her voice.

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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Snape could no longer contain himself, but had jumped out from behind the bushes.

Petunia shrieked and ran backward toward the

swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained

where she was. Snape seemed to regret his

appearance. A dull flush of color mounted the sallow

cheeks as he looked at Lily.

“What’s obvious?” asked Lily.

Snape had an air of nervous excitement. With a

glance at the distant Petunia, now hovering beside the

swings, he lowered his voice and said, “I know what

you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re … you’re a witch,” whispered Snape.

She looked affronted.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody!”

She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward

her sister.

“No!” said Snape. He was highly colored now, and

Harry wondered why he did not take off the

ridiculously large coat, unless it was because he did

not want to reveal the smock beneath it. He flapped

after the girls, looking ludicrously batlike, like his

older self.

The sisters considered him, united in disapproval,

both holding on to one of the swing poles as though it

was the safe place in tag.

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“You are, ” said Snape to Lily. “You are a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing

wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.”

Petunia’s laugh was like cold water.

“Wizard!” she shrieked, her courage returned now

that she had recovered from the shock of his

unexpected appearance. “I know who you are. You’re

that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the

river,” she told Lily, and it was evident from her tone

that she considered the address a poor

recommendation. “Why have you been spying on us?”

“Haven’t been spying,” said Snape, hot and

uncomfortable and dirty-haired in the bright sunlight.

“Wouldn’t spy on you, anyway,” he added spitefully,

“you’re a Muggle.”

Though Petunia evidently did not understand the

word, she could hardly mistake the tone.

“Lily, come on, we’re leaving!” she said shrilly. Lily

obeyed her sister at once, glaring at Snape as she left.

He stood watching them as they marched through the

playground gate, and Harry, the only one left to

observe him, recognized Snape’s bitter

disappointment, and understood that Snape had been

planning this moment for a while, and that it had all

gone wrong. …

The scene dissolved, and before Harry knew it, re-

formed around him. He was now in a small thicket of

trees. He could see a sunlit river glittering through

their trunks. The shadows cast by the trees made a

basin of cool green shade. Two children sat facing

each other, cross-legged on the ground. Snape had

removed his coat now; his odd smock looked less

peculiar in the half light.

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“… and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic

outside school, you get letters.”

“But I have done magic outside school!”

“We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let

you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But

once you’re eleven,” he nodded importantly, “and they

start training you, then you’ve got to go careful.”

There was a little silence. Lily had picked up a fallen

twig and twirled it in the air, and Harry knew that she

was imagining sparks trailing from it. Then she

dropped the twig, leaned in toward the boy, and said,

“It is real, isn’t it? It’s not a joke? Petunia says you’re

lying to me. Petunia says there isn’t a Hogwarts. It is

real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real for us,” said Snape. “Not for her. But we’ll get

the letter, you and me.”

“Really?” whispered Lily.

“Definitely,” said Snape, and even with his poorly cut

hair and his odd clothes, he struck an oddly

impressive figure sprawled in front of her, brimful of

confidence in his destiny.

“And will it really come by owl?” Lily whispered.

“Normally,” said Snape. “But you’re Muggle-born, so

someone from the school will have to come and

explain to your parents.”

“Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?”

Snape hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish

gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair.

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“No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Good,” said Lily, relaxing: It was clear that she had

been worrying.

“You’ve got loads of magic,” said Snape. “I saw that.

All the time I was watching you …”

His voice trailed away; she was not listening, but had

stretched out on the leafy ground and was looking up

at the canopy of leaves overhead. He watched her as

greedily as he had watched her in the playground.

“How are things at your house?” Lily asked.

A little crease appeared between his eyes.

“Fine,” he said.

“They’re not arguing anymore?”

“Oh yes, they’re arguing,” said Snape. He picked up a

fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart,

apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it

won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.”

“Doesn’t your dad like magic?”

“He doesn’t like anything, much,” said Snape.

“Severus?”

A little smile twisted Snape’s mouth when she said

his name.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about the dementors again.”

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“What d’you want to know about them for?”

“If I use magic outside school —”

“They wouldn’t give you to the dementors for that!

Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff.

They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not

going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too —”

He turned red again and shredded more leaves. Then

a small rustling noise behind Harry made him turn:

Petunia, hiding behind a tree, had lost her footing.

“Tuney!” said Lily, surprise and welcome in her voice,

but Snape had jumped to his feet.

“Who’s spying now?” he shouted. “What d’you want?”

Petunia was breathless, alarmed at being caught.

Harry could see her struggling for something hurtful

to say.

“What is that you’re wearing, anyway?” she said,

pointing at Snape’s chest. “Your mum’s blouse?”

There was a crack: A branch over Petunia’s head had

fallen. Lily screamed: The branch caught Petunia on

the shoulder, and she staggered backward and burst

into tears.

“Tuney!”

But Petunia was running away. Lily rounded on

Snape.

“Did you make that happen?”

“No.” He looked both defiant and scared.

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“You did!” She was backing away from him. “You did!

You hurt her!”

“No — no I didn’t!”

But the lie did not convince Lily: After one last

burning look, she ran from the little thicket, off after

her sister, and Snape looked miserable and confused.

…

And the scene re-formed. Harry looked around: He

was on platform nine and three-quarters, and Snape

stood beside him, slightly hunched, next to a thin,

sallow-faced, sour-looking woman who greatly

resembled him. Snape was staring at a family of four

a short distance away. The two girls stood a little

apart from their parents. Lily seemed to be pleading

with her sister; Harry moved closer to listen.

“… I’m sorry, Tuney, I’m sorry! Listen —” She caught

her sister’s hand and held tight to it, even though

Petunia tried to pull it away. “Maybe once I’m there —

no, listen, Tuney! Maybe once I’m there, I’ll be able to

go to Professor Dumbledore and persuade him to

change his mind!”

“I don’t — want — to — go!” said Petunia, and she

dragged her hand back out of her sister’s grasp. “You

think I want to go to some stupid castle and learn to

be a — a —”

Her pale eyes roved over the platform, over the cats

mewling in their owners’ arms, over the owls

fluttering and hooting at each other in cages, over the

students, some already in their long black robes,

loading trunks onto the scarlet steam engine or else

greeting one another with glad cries after a summer

apart.

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“— you think I want to be a — a freak?”

Lily’s eyes filled with tears as Petunia succeeded in

tugging her hand away.

“I’m not a freak,” said Lily. “That’s a horrible thing to

say.”

“That’s where you’re going,” said Petunia with relish.

“A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy

… weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re

being separated from normal people. It’s for our

safety.”

Lily glanced toward her parents, who were looking

around the platform with an air of wholehearted

enjoyment, drinking in the scene. Then she looked

back at her sister, and her voice was low and fierce.

“You didn’t think it was such a freak’s school when

you wrote to the headmaster and begged him to take

you.”

Petunia turned scarlet.

“Beg? I didn’t beg!”

“I saw his reply. It was very kind.”

“You shouldn’t have read —” whispered Petunia, “that

was my private — how could you — ?”

Lily gave herself away by half-glancing toward where

Snape stood nearby. Petunia gasped.

“That boy found it! You and that boy have been

sneaking in my room!”

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“No — not sneaking —” Now Lily was on the

defensive. “Severus saw the envelope, and he couldn’t

believe a Muggle could have contacted Hogwarts,

that’s all! He says there must be wizards working

undercover in the postal service who take care of —”

“Apparently wizards poke their noses in everywhere!”

said Petunia, now as pale as she had been flushed.

“Freak!” she spat at her sister, and she flounced off to

where her parents stood. …

The scene dissolved again. Snape was hurrying along

the corridor of the Hogwarts Express as it clattered

through the countryside. He had already changed into

his school robes, had perhaps taken the first

opportunity to take off his dreadful Muggle clothes. At

last he stopped, outside a compartment in which a

group of rowdy boys were talking. Hunched in a

corner seat beside the window was Lily, her face

pressed against the windowpane.

Snape slid open the compartment door and sat down

opposite Lily. She glanced at him and then looked

back out of the window. She had been crying.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said in a constricted

voice.

“Why not?”

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from

Dumbledore.”

“So what?”

She threw him a look of deep dislike.

“So she’s my sister!”

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“She’s only a —” He caught himself quickly; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed,

did not hear him.

“But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the

exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to

Hogwarts!”

She nodded, mopping her eyes, but in spite of herself,

she half smiled.

“You’d better be in Slytherin,” said Snape, encouraged

that she had brightened a little.

“Slytherin?”

One of the boys sharing the compartment, who had

shown no interest at all in Lily or Snape until that

point, looked around at the word, and Harry, whose

attention had been focused entirely on the two beside

the window, saw his father: slight, black-haired like

Snape, but with that indefinable air of having been

well-cared-for, even adored, that Snape so

conspicuously lacked.

“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave,

wouldn’t you?” James asked the boy lounging on the

seats opposite him, and with a jolt, Harry realized

that it was Sirius. Sirius did not smile.

“My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said.

“Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all

right!”

Sirius grinned.

“Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you

heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

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James lifted an invisible sword.

“ ‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my

dad.”

Snape made a small, disparaging noise. James turned

on him.

“Got a problem with that?”

“No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said

otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy —”

“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?”

interjected Sirius.

James roared with laughter. Lily sat up, rather

flushed, and looked from James to Sirius in dislike.

“Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“Oooooo …”

James and Sirius imitated her lofty voice; James tried

to trip Snape as he passed.

“See ya, Snivellus!” a voice called, as the

compartment door slammed. …

And the scene dissolved once more. …

Harry was standing right behind Snape as they faced

the candlelit House tables, lined with rapt faces. Then

Professor McGonagall said, “Evans, Lily!”

He watched his mother walk forward on trembling

legs and sit down upon the rickety stool. Professor

McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto her head,

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and barely a second after it had touched the dark red hair, the hat cried, “Gryffindor!”

Harry heard Snape let out a tiny groan. Lily took off

the hat, handed it back to Professor McGonagall, then

hurried toward the cheering Gryffindors, but as she

went she glanced back at Snape, and there was a sad

little smile on her face. Harry saw Sirius move up the

bench to make room for her. She took one look at

him, seemed to recognize him from the train, folded

her arms, and firmly turned her back on him.

The roll call continued. Harry watched Lupin,

Pettigrew, and his father join Lily and Sirius at the

Gryffindor table. At last, when only a dozen students

remained to be sorted, Professor McGonagall called

Snape.

Harry walked with him to the stool, watched him

place the hat upon his head. “Slytherin!” cried the

Sorting Hat.

And Severus Snape moved off to the other side of the

Hall, away from Lily, to where the Slytherins were

cheering him, to where Lucius Malfoy, a prefect badge

gleaming upon his chest, patted Snape on the back as

he sat down beside him. …

And the scene changed. …

Lily and Snape were walking across the castle

courtyard, evidently arguing. Harry hurried to catch

up with them, to listen in. As he reached them, he

realized how much taller they both were: A few years

seemed to have passed since their Sorting.

“… thought we were supposed to be friends?” Snape

was saying. “Best friends?”

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“We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re hanging round with! I’m sorry, but I detest Avery and

Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev, he’s

creepy! D’you know what he tried to do to Mary

Macdonald the other day?”

Lily had reached a pillar and leaned against it,

looking up into the thin, sallow face.

“That was nothing,” said Snape. “It was a laugh,

that’s all —”

“It was Dark Magic, and if you think that’s funny —”

“What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up

to?” demanded Snape. His color rose again as he said

it, unable, it seemed, to hold in his resentment.

“What’s Potter got to do with anything?” said Lily.

“They sneak out at night. There’s something weird

about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?”

“He’s ill,” said Lily. “They say he’s ill —”

“Every month at the full moon?” said Snape.

“I know your theory,” said Lily, and she sounded cold.

“Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do

you care what they’re doing at night?”

“I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful

as everyone seems to think they are.”

The intensity of his gaze made her blush.

“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.” She dropped

her voice. “And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard

what happened the other night. You went sneaking

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down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and

James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there

—”

Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered,

“Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero?

He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re

not going to — I won’t let you —”

“Let me? Let me?”

Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked

at once.

“I didn’t mean — I just don’t want to see you made a

fool of — He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!”

The words seemed wrenched from him against his

will. “And he’s not … everyone thinks … big Quidditch

hero —” Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering

him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling

farther and farther up her forehead.

“I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,” she said,

cutting across Snape. “I don’t need you to tell me

that. But Mulciber’s and Avery’s idea of humor is just

evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be

friends with them.”

Harry doubted that Snape had even heard her

strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she

had insulted James Potter, his whole body had

relaxed, and as they walked away there was a new

spring in Snape’s step. …

And the scene dissolved. …

Harry watched again as Snape left the Great Hall after

sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts,

watched as he wandered away from the castle and

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strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew

sat together. But Harry kept his distance this time,

because he knew what happened after James had

hoisted Severus into the air and taunted him; he

knew what had been done and said, and it gave him

no pleasure to hear it again. … He watched as Lily

joined the group and went to Snape’s defense.

Distantly he heard Snape shout at her in his

humiliation and his fury, the unforgivable word:

“Mudblood. ”

The scene changed. …

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Save your breath.”

It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing

gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the

portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor

Tower.

“I only came out because Mary told me you were

threatening to sleep here.”

“I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you

Mudblood, it just —”

“Slipped out?” There was no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s

too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of

my friends can understand why I even talk to you.

You and your precious little Death Eater friends —

you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny

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that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?”

He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way,

I’ve chosen mine.”

“No — listen, I didn’t mean —”

“— to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my

birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any

different?”

He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a

contemptuous look she turned and climbed back

through the portrait hole. …

The corridor dissolved, and the scene took a little

longer to reform: Harry seemed to fly through shifting

shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified

again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in

the darkness, the wind whistling through the

branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was

panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly

in his hand, waiting for something or for someone. …

His fear infected Harry too, even though he knew that

he could not be harmed, and he looked over his

shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was

waiting for —

Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through

the air: Harry thought of lightning, but Snape had

dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of

his hand.

“Don’t kill me!”

“That was not my intention.”

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Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been

drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches.

He stood before Snape with his robes whipping

around him, and his face was illuminated from below

in the light cast by his wand.

“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort

have for me?”

“No — no message — I’m here on my own account!”

Snape was wringing his hands: He looked a little

mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him.

“I — I come with a warning — no, a request — please

—”

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and

branches still flew through the night air around them,

silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced

each other.

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”

“The — the prophecy … the prediction … Trelawney

…”

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay

to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything — everything I heard!” said Snape. “That

is why — it is for that reason — he thinks it means

Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said

Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of

July —”

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“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son,

he is going to hunt her down — kill them all —”

“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore,

“surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not

ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the

son?”

“I have — I have asked him —”

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had

never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape

seemed to shrink a little. “You do not care, then,

about the deaths of her husband and child? They can

die, as long as you have what you want?”

Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at

Dumbledore.

“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her — them

— safe. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”

“In — in return?” Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and

Harry expected him to protest, but after a long

moment he said, “Anything.”

The hilltop faded, and Harry stood in Dumbledore’s

office, and something was making a terrible sound,

like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward

in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him,

looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his

face, and he looked like a man who had lived a

hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop.

“I thought … you were going … to keep her … safe.

…”

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“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,”

said Dumbledore. “Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t

you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?”

Snape’s breathing was shallow.

“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore.

With a tiny jerk of the head, Snape seemed to flick off

an irksome fly.

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes.

You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s

eyes, I am sure?”

“DON’T!” bellowed Snape. “Gone … dead …”

“Is this remorse, Severus?”

“I wish … I wish I were dead. …”

“And what use would that be to anyone?” said

Dumbledore coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you

truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”

Snape seemed to peer through a haze of pain, and

Dumbledore’s words appeared to take a long time to

reach him.

“What — what do you mean?”

“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was

not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”

“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone

—”

“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in

terrible danger when he does.”

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There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained

control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At

last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never — never

tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I

cannot bear … especially Potter’s son … I want your

word!”

“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best

of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into

Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist …”

The office dissolved but re-formed instantly. Snape

was pacing up and down in front of Dumbledore.

“— mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined

rule-breaker, delighted to find himself famous,

attention-seeking and impertinent —”

“You see what you expect to see, Severus,” said

Dumbledore, without raising his eyes from a copy of

Transfiguration Today. “Other teachers report that the

boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented.

Personally, I find him an engaging child.”

Dumbledore turned a page, and said, without looking

up, “Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?”

A whirl of color, and now everything darkened, and

Snape and Dumbledore stood a little apart in the

entrance hall, while the last stragglers from the Yule

Ball passed them on their way to bed.

“Well?” murmured Dumbledore.

“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too. He is

panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much

help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.”

Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore’s crooked-

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nosed profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”

“Does he?” said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour

and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds.

“And are you tempted to join him?”

“No,” said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and

Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.”

“No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by

far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think

we Sort too soon. …”

He walked away, leaving Snape looking stricken. …

And now Harry stood in the headmaster’s office yet

again. It was nighttime, and Dumbledore sagged

sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk,

apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled

over the side, blackened and burned. Snape was

muttering incantations, pointing his wand at the

wrist of the hand, while with his left hand he tipped a

goblet full of thick golden potion down Dumbledore’s

throat. After a moment or two, Dumbledore’s eyelids

fluttered and opened.

“Why,” said Snape, without preamble, “why did you

put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you

realized that. Why even touch it?”

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring lay on the desk before

Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor

lay beside it.

Dumbledore grimaced.

“I … was a fool. Sorely tempted …”

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“Tempted by what?”

Dumbledore did not answer.

“It is a miracle you managed to return here!” Snape

sounded furious. “That ring carried a curse of

extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope

for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time

being —”

Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and

examined it with the expression of one being shown

an interesting curio.

“You have done very well, Severus. How long do you

think I have?”

Dumbledore’s tone was conversational; he might have

been asking for a weather forecast. Snape hesitated,

and then said, “I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is

no halting such a spell forever. It will spread

eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over

time.”

Dumbledore smiled. The news that he had less than a

year to live seemed a matter of little or no concern to

him.

“I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you,

Severus.”

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might

have been able to do more, buy you more time!” said

Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring

and the sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring

would break the curse?”

“Something like that … I was delirious, no doubt. …”

said Dumbledore. With an effort he straightened

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himself in his chair. “Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward.”

Snape looked utterly perplexed. Dumbledore smiled.

“I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around

me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.”

Snape sat down in the chair Harry had so often

occupied, across the desk from Dumbledore. Harry

could tell that he wanted to say more on the subject

of Dumbledore’s cursed hand, but the other held it up

in polite refusal to discuss the matter further.

Scowling, Snape said, “The Dark Lord does not expect

Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for

Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s

parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence

pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said

Dumbledore. “Now, I should have thought the natural

successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

There was a short pause.

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.”

“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future

when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?”

“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes.”

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” said Dumbledore,

almost, it seemed, as an aside, “I have your word that

you will do all in your power to protect the students of

Hogwarts?”

Snape gave a stiff nod.

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“Good. Now then. Your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a

danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help

and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you —”

“— much less since his father has lost favor. Draco

blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s

position.”

“All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than

for accidental victims of whatever schemes might

occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only

one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord

Voldemort’s wrath.”

Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic

as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?”

“Certainly not. You must kill me.”

There was a long silence, broken only by an odd

clicking noise. Fawkes the phoenix was gnawing a bit

of cuttlebone.

“Would you like me to do it now?” asked Snape, his

voice heavy with irony. “Or would you like a few

moments to compose an epitaph?”

“Oh, not quite yet,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I

daresay the moment will present itself in due course.

Given what has happened tonight,” he indicated his

withered hand, “we can be sure that it will happen

within a year.”

“If you don’t mind dying,” said Snape roughly, “why

not let Draco do it?”

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“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said

Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my

account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to

help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said

Dumbledore. “I ask this one great favor of you,

Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as

the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s

league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit

to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for

instance, Greyback is involved — I hear Voldemort

has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to

play with her food before she eats it.”

His tone was light, but his blue eyes pierced Snape as

they had frequently pierced Harry, as though the soul

they discussed was visible to him. At last Snape gave

another curt nod.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied.

“Thank you, Severus …”

The office disappeared, and now Snape and

Dumbledore were strolling together in the deserted

castle grounds by twilight.

“What are you doing with Potter, all these evenings

you are closeted together?” Snape asked abruptly.

Dumbledore looked weary.

“Why? You aren’t trying to give him more detentions,

Severus? The boy will soon have spent more time in

detention than out.”

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“He is his father over again —”

“In looks, perhaps, but his deepest nature is much

more like his mother’s. I spend time with Harry

because I have things to discuss with him,

information I must give him before it is too late.”

“Information,” repeated Snape. “You trust him … you

do not trust me.”

“It is not a question of trust. I have, as we both know,

limited time. It is essential that I give the boy enough

information for him to do what he needs to do.”

“And why may I not have the same information?”

“I prefer not to put all of my secrets in one basket,

particularly not a basket that spends so much time

dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort.”

“Which I do on your orders!”

“And you do it extremely well. Do not think that I

underestimate the constant danger in which you

place yourself, Severus. To give Voldemort what

appears to be valuable information while withholding

the essentials is a job I would entrust to nobody but

you.”

“Yet you confide much more in a boy who is incapable

of Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who

has a direct connection into the Dark Lord’s mind!”

“Voldemort fears that connection,” said Dumbledore.

“Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly

sharing Harry’s mind means to him. It was pain such

as he has never experienced. He will not try to

possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way.”

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“I don’t understand.”

“Lord Voldemort’s soul, maimed as it is, cannot bear

close contact with a soul like Harry’s. Like a tongue

on frozen steel, like flesh in flame —”

“Souls? We were talking of minds!”

“In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of

one is to speak of the other.”

Dumbledore glanced around to make sure that they

were alone. They were close by the Forbidden Forest

now, but there was no sign of anyone near them.

“After you have killed me, Severus —”

“You refuse to tell me everything, yet you expect that

small service of me!” snarled Snape, and real anger

flared in the thin face now. “You take a great deal for

granted, Dumbledore! Perhaps I have changed my

mind!”

“You gave me your word, Severus. And while we are

talking about services you owe me, I thought you

agreed to keep a close eye on our young Slytherin

friend?”

Snape looked angry, mutinous. Dumbledore sighed.

“Come to my office tonight, Severus, at eleven, and

you shall not complain that I have no confidence in

you. …”

They were back in Dumbledore’s office, the windows

dark, and Fawkes sat silent as Snape sat quite still,

as Dumbledore walked around him, talking.

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“Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the

strength to do what must be done?”

“But what must he do?”

“That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely,

Severus. There will come a time — after my death —

do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time

when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of

his snake.”

“For Nagini?” Snape looked astonished.

“Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort

stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but

keeps it safe beside him under magical protection,

then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.”

“Tell him what?”

Dumbledore took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill

him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a

shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord

Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was

blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto

the only living soul left in that collapsing building.

Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is

that which gives him the power of speech with

snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind

that he has never understood. And while that

fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains

attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort

cannot die.”

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Harry seemed to be watching the two men from one

end of a long tunnel, they were so far away from him,

their voices echoing strangely in his ears.

“So the boy … the boy must die?” asked Snape quite

calmly.

“And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is

essential.”

Another long silence. Then Snape said, “I thought …

all these years … that we were protecting him for her.

For Lily.”

“We have protected him because it has been essential

to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength,”

said Dumbledore, his eyes still tight shut.

“Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever

stronger, a parasitic growth: Sometimes I have

thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will

have arranged matters so that when he does set out

to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of

Voldemort.”

Dumbledore opened his eyes. Snape looked horrified.

“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the

right moment?”

“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and

women have you watched die?”

“Lately, only those whom I could not save,” said

Snape. He stood up. “You have used me.”

“Meaning?”

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in

mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be

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to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter —”

“But this is touching, Severus,” said Dumbledore

seriously. “Have you grown to care for the boy, after

all?”

“For him?” shouted Snape. “Expecto Patronum!”

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe: She

landed on the office floor, bounded once across the

office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore

watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded

he turned back to Snape, and his eyes were full of

tears.

“After all this time?”

“Always,” said Snape.

And the scene shifted. Now, Harry saw Snape talking

to the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk.

“You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of

Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s,” said

Dumbledore. “Not to do so will raise suspicion, when

Voldemort believes you so well informed. However,

you must plant the idea of decoys; that, I think, ought

to ensure Harry’s safety. Try Confunding Mundungus

Fletcher. And Severus, if you are forced to take part

in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly. …

I am counting upon you to remain in Lord

Voldemort’s good books as long as possible, or

Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows. …”

Now Snape was head to head with Mundungus in an

unfamiliar tavern, Mundungus’s face looking

curiously blank, Snape frowning in concentration.

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“You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion.

Identical Potters. It is the only thing that might work.

You will forget that I have suggested this. You will

present it as your own idea. You understand?”

“I understand,” murmured Mundungus, his eyes

unfocused. …

Now Harry was flying alongside Snape on a

broomstick through a clear dark night: He was

accompanied by other hooded Death Eaters, and

ahead were Lupin and a Harry who was really George.

… A Death Eater moved ahead of Snape and raised

his wand, pointing it directly at Lupin’s back —

“Sectumsempra!” shouted Snape.

But the spell, intended for the Death Eater’s wand

hand, missed and hit George instead —

And next, Snape was kneeling in Sirius’s old

bedroom. Tears were dripping from the end of his

hooked nose as he read the old letter from Lily. The

second page carried only a few words:

could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald.

I think her mind’s going, personally!

Lots of love,

Lily

Snape took the page bearing Lily’s signature, and her

love, and tucked it inside his robes. Then he ripped in

two the photograph he was also holding, so that he

kept the part from which Lily laughed, throwing the

portion showing James and Harry back onto the floor,

under the chest of drawers. …

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And now Snape stood again in the headmaster’s

study as Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his

portrait.

“Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean!

The Mudblood —”

“Do not use that word!”

“— the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she

opened her bag and I heard her!”

“Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore

behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the

sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under

conditions of need and valor — and he must not know

that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s

mind and see you acting for him —”

“I know,” said Snape curtly. He approached the

portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It

swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it

from which he took the sword of Gryffindor.

“And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so

important to give Potter the sword?” said Snape as he

swung a traveling cloak over his robes.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore’s portrait. “He

will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very

careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance

after George Weasley’s mishap —”

Snape turned at the door.

“Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he said coolly. “I have a

plan. …”

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And Snape left the room. Harry rose up out of the

Pensieve, and moments later he lay on the carpeted

floor in exactly the same room: Snape might just have

closed the door.

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THE FOREST AGAIN

Finally, the truth. Lying with his face pressed into the

dusty carpet of the office where he had once thought

he was learning the secrets of victory, Harry

understood at last that he was not supposed to

survive. His job was to walk calmly into Death’s

welcoming arms. Along the way, he was to dispose of

Voldemort’s remaining links to life, so that when at

last he flung himself across Voldemort’s path, and did

not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be

clean, and the job that ought to have been done in

Godric’s Hollow would be finished: Neither would live,

neither could survive.

He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. How

strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the

harder, valiantly keeping him alive. But it would have

to stop, and soon. Its beats were numbered. How

many would there be time for, as he rose and walked

through the castle for the last time, out into the

grounds and into the forest?

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Terror washed over him as he lay on the floor, with that funeral drum pounding inside him. Would it hurt

to die? All those times he had thought that it was

about to happen and escaped, he had never really

thought of the thing itself: His will to live had always

been so much stronger than his fear of death. Yet it

did not occur to him now to try to escape, to outrun

Voldemort. It was over, he knew it, and all that was

left was the thing itself: dying.

If he could only have died on that summer’s night

when he had left number four, Privet Drive, for the

last time, when the noble phoenix-feather wand had

saved him! If he could only have died like Hedwig, so

quickly he would not have known it had happened!

Or if he could have launched himself in front of a

wand to save someone he loved. … He envied even his

parents’ deaths now. This cold-blooded walk to his

own destruction would require a different kind of

bravery. He felt his fingers trembling slightly and

made an effort to control them, although no one could

see him; the portraits on the walls were all empty.

Slowly, very slowly, he sat up, and as he did so he felt

more alive and more aware of his own living body

than ever before. Why had he never appreciated what

a miracle he was, brain and nerve and bounding

heart? It would all be gone … or at least, he would be

gone from it. His breath came slow and deep, and his

mouth and throat were completely dry, but so were

his eyes.

Dumbledore’s betrayal was almost nothing. Of course

there had been a bigger plan; Harry had simply been

too foolish to see it, he realized that now. He had

never questioned his own assumption that

Dumbledore wanted him alive. Now he saw that his

life span had always been determined by how long it

took to eliminate all the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had

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passed the job of destroying them to him, and

obediently he had continued to chip away at the

bonds tying not only Voldemort, but himself, to life!

How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives,

but to give the dangerous task to the boy who had

already been marked for slaughter, and whose death

would not be a calamity, but another blow against

Voldemort.

And Dumbledore had known that Harry would not

duck out, that he would keep going to the end, even

though it was his end, because he had taken trouble

to get to know him, hadn’t he? Dumbledore knew, as

Voldemort knew, that Harry would not let anyone else

die for him now that he had discovered it was in his

power to stop it. The images of Fred, Lupin, and

Tonks lying dead in the Great Hall forced their way

back into his mind’s eye, and for a moment he could

hardly breathe: Death was impatient. …

But Dumbledore had overestimated him. He had

failed: The snake survived. One Horcrux remained to

bind Voldemort to the earth, even after Harry had

been killed. True, that would mean an easier job for

somebody. He wondered who would do it. … Ron and

Hermione would know what needed to be done, of

course. … That would have been why Dumbledore

wanted him to confide in two others … so that if he

fulfilled his true destiny a little early, they could carry

on. …

Like rain on a cold window, these thoughts pattered

against the hard surface of the incontrovertible truth,

which was that he must die. I must die. It must end.

Ron and Hermione seemed a long way away, in a far-

off country; he felt as though he had parted from

them long ago. There would be no good-byes and no

explanations, he was determined of that. This was a

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journey they could not take together, and the

attempts they would make to stop him would waste

valuable time. He looked down at the battered gold

watch he had received on his seventeenth birthday.

Nearly half of the hour allotted by Voldemort for his

surrender had elapsed.

He stood up. His heart was leaping against his ribs

like a frantic bird. Perhaps it knew it had little time

left, perhaps it was determined to fulfill a lifetime’s

beats before the end. He did not look back as he

closed the office door.

The castle was empty. He felt ghostly striding through

it alone, as if he had already died. The portrait people

were still missing from their frames; the whole place

was eerily still, as if all its remaining lifeblood were

concentrated in the Great Hall where the dead and

the mourners were crammed.

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself and

descended through the floors, at last walking down

the marble staircase into the entrance hall. Perhaps

some tiny part of him hoped to be sensed, to be seen,

to be stopped, but the Cloak was, as ever,

impenetrable, perfect, and he reached the front doors

easily.

Then Neville nearly walked into him. He was one half

of a pair that was carrying a body in from the

grounds. Harry glanced down and felt another dull

blow to his stomach: Colin Creevey, though underage,

must have sneaked back just as Malfoy, Crabbe, and

Goyle had done. He was tiny in death.

“You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville,”

said Oliver Wood, and he heaved Colin over his

shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him into the

Great Hall.

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Neville leaned against the door frame for a moment

and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He

looked like an old man. Then he set off down the

steps again into the darkness to recover more bodies.

Harry took one glance back at the entrance of the

Great Hall. People were moving around, trying to

comfort each other, drinking, kneeling beside the

dead, but he could not see any of the people he loved,

no hint of Hermione, Ron, Ginny, or any of the other

Weasleys, no Luna. He felt he would have given all the

time remaining to him for just one last look at them;

but then, would he ever have the strength to stop

looking? It was better like this.

He moved down the steps and out into the darkness.

It was nearly four in the morning, and the deathly

stillness of the grounds felt as though they were

holding their breath, waiting to see whether he could

do what he must.

Harry moved toward Neville, who was bending over

another body.

“Neville.”

“Blimey, Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!”

Harry had pulled off the Cloak: The idea had come to

him out of nowhere, born out of a desire to make

absolutely sure.

“Where are you going, alone?” Neville asked

suspiciously.

“It’s all part of the plan,” said Harry. “There’s

something I’ve got to do. Listen — Neville —”

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“Harry!” Neville looked suddenly scared. “Harry,

you’re not thinking of handing yourself over?”

“No,” Harry lied easily. “ ’Course not … this is

something else. But I might be out of sight for a while.

You know Voldemort’s snake, Neville? He’s got a huge

snake. … Calls it Nagini …”

“I’ve heard, yeah. … What about it?”

“It’s got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that,

but just in case they —”

The awfulness of that possibility smothered him for a

moment, made it impossible to keep talking. But he

pulled himself together again: This was crucial, he

must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make

sure there were backups, others to carry on.

Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still

knew about the Horcruxes; now Neville would take

Harry’s place: There would still be three in the secret.

“Just in case they’re — busy — and you get the

chance —”

“Kill the snake?”

“Kill the snake,” Harry repeated.

“All right, Harry. You’re okay, are you?”

“I’m fine. Thanks, Neville.”

But Neville seized his wrist as Harry made to move

on.

“We’re all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know

that?”

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“Yeah, I —”

The suffocating feeling extinguished the end of the

sentence; he could not go on. Neville did not seem to

find it strange. He patted Harry on the shoulder,

released him, and walked away to look for more

bodies.

Harry swung the Cloak back over himself and walked

on. Someone else was moving not far away, stooping

over another prone figure on the ground. He was feet

away from her when he realized it was Ginny.

He stopped in his tracks. She was crouching over a

girl who was whispering for her mother.

“It’s all right,” Ginny was saying. “It’s okay. We’re

going to get you inside.”

“But I want to go home, ” whispered the girl. “I don’t

want to fight anymore!”

“I know,” said Ginny, and her voice broke. “It’s going

to be all right.”

Ripples of cold undulated over Harry’s skin. He

wanted to shout out to the night, he wanted Ginny to

know that he was there, he wanted her to know where

he was going. He wanted to be stopped, to be dragged

back, to be sent back home. …

But he was home. Hogwarts was the first and best

home he had known. He and Voldemort and Snape,

the abandoned boys, had all found home here. …

Ginny was kneeling beside the injured girl now,

holding her hand. With a huge effort Harry forced

himself on. He thought he saw Ginny look around as

he passed, and wondered whether she had sensed

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someone walking nearby, but he did not speak, and

he did not look back.

Hagrid’s hut loomed out of the darkness. There were

no lights, no sound of Fang scrabbling at the door,

his bark booming in welcome. All those visits to

Hagrid, and the gleam of the copper kettle on the fire,

and rock cakes and giant grubs, and his great

bearded face, and Ron vomiting slugs, and Hermione

helping him save Norbert …

He moved on, and now he reached the edge of the

forest, and he stopped.

A swarm of dementors was gliding amongst the trees;

he could feel their chill, and he was not sure he would

be able to pass safely through it. He had no strength

left for a Patronus. He could no longer control his own

trembling. It was not, after all, so easy to die. Every

second he breathed, the smell of the grass, the cool

air on his face, was so precious: To think that people

had years and years, time to waste, so much time it

dragged, and he was clinging to each second. At the

same time he thought that he would not be able to go

on, and knew that he must. The long game was

ended, the Snitch had been caught, it was time to

leave the air. …

The Snitch. His nerveless fingers fumbled for a

moment with the pouch at his neck and he pulled it

out.

I open at the close.

Breathing fast and hard, he stared down at it. Now

that he wanted time to move as slowly as possible, it

seemed to have sped up, and understanding was

coming so fast it seemed to have bypassed thought.

This was the close. This was the moment.

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He pressed the golden metal to his lips and

whispered, “I am about to die.”

The metal shell broke open. He lowered his shaking

hand, raised Draco’s wand beneath the Cloak, and

murmured, “Lumos. ”

The black stone with its jagged crack running down

the center sat in the two halves of the Snitch. The

Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line

representing the Elder Wand. The triangle and circle

representing the Cloak and the stone were still

discernible.

And again Harry understood without having to think.

It did not matter about bringing them back, for he

was about to join them. He was not really fetching

them: They were fetching him.

He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his

hand three times.

He knew it had happened, because he heard slight

movements around him that suggested frail bodies

shifting their footing on the earthy, twig-strewn

ground that marked the outer edge of the forest. He

opened his eyes and looked around.

They were neither ghost nor truly flesh, he could see

that. They resembled most closely the Riddle that had

escaped from the diary so long ago, and he had been

memory made nearly solid. Less substantial than

living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they

moved toward him, and on each face, there was the

same loving smile.

James was exactly the same height as Harry. He was

wearing the clothes in which he had died, and his

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hair was untidy and ruffled, and his glasses were a little lopsided, like Mr. Weasley’s.

Sirius was tall and handsome, and younger by far

than Harry had seen him in life. He loped with an

easy grace, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his

face.

Lupin was younger too, and much less shabby, and

his hair was thicker and darker. He looked happy to

be back in this familiar place, scene of so many

adolescent wanderings.

Lily’s smile was widest of all. She pushed her long

hair back as she drew close to him, and her green

eyes, so like his, searched his face hungrily, as

though she would never be able to look at him

enough.

“You’ve been so brave.”

He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he

thought that he would like to stand and look at her

forever, and that would be enough.

“You are nearly there,” said James. “Very close. We

are … so proud of you.”

“Does it hurt?”

The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips

before he could stop it.

“Dying? Not at all,” said Sirius. “Quicker and easier

than falling asleep.”

“And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over,”

said Lupin.

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“I didn’t want you to die,” Harry said. These words came without his volition. “Any of you. I’m sorry —”

He addressed Lupin more than any of them,

beseeching him.

“— right after you’d had your son … Remus, I’m sorry

—”

“I am sorry too,” said Lupin. “Sorry I will never know

him … but he will know why I died and I hope he will

understand. I was trying to make a world in which he

could live a happier life.”

A chilly breeze that seemed to emanate from the heart

of the forest lifted the hair at Harry’s brow. He knew

that they would not tell him to go, that it would have

to be his decision.

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Until the very end,” said James.

“They won’t be able to see you?” asked Harry.

“We are part of you,” said Sirius. “Invisible to anyone

else.”

Harry looked at his mother.

“Stay close to me,” he said quietly.

And he set off. The dementors’ chill did not overcome

him; he passed through it with his companions, and

they acted like Patronuses to him, and together they

marched through the old trees that grew closely

together, their branches tangled, their roots gnarled

and twisted underfoot. Harry clutched the Cloak

tightly around him in the darkness, traveling deeper

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and deeper into the forest, with no idea where exactly Voldemort was, but sure that he would find him.

Beside him, making scarcely a sound, walked James,

Sirius, Lupin, and Lily, and their presence was his

courage, and the reason he was able to keep putting

one foot in front of the other.

His body and mind felt oddly disconnected now, his

limbs working without conscious instruction, as if he

were passenger, not driver, in the body he was about

to leave. The dead who walked beside him through

the forest were much more real to him now than the

living back at the castle: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and

all the others were the ones who felt like ghosts as he

stumbled and slipped toward the end of his life,

toward Voldemort. …

A thud and a whisper: Some other living creature had

stirred close by. Harry stopped under the Cloak,

peering around, listening, and his mother and father,

Lupin and Sirius stopped too.

“Someone there,” came a rough whisper close at

hand. “He’s got an Invisibility Cloak. Could it be — ?”

Two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree: Their

wands flared, and Harry saw Yaxley and Dolohov

peering into the darkness, directly at the place Harry,

his mother and father and Sirius and Lupin stood.

Apparently they could not see anything.

“Definitely heard something,” said Yaxley. “Animal,

d’you reckon?”

“That head case Hagrid kept a whole bunch of stuff in

here,” said Dolohov, glancing over his shoulder.

Yaxley looked down at his watch.

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“Time’s nearly up. Potter’s had his hour. He’s not

coming.”

“And he was sure he’d come! He won’t be happy.”

“Better go back,” said Yaxley. “Find out what the plan

is now.”

He and Dolohov turned and walked deeper into the

forest. Harry followed them, knowing that they would

lead him exactly where he wanted to go. He glanced

sideways, and his mother smiled at him, and his

father nodded encouragement.

They had traveled on mere minutes when Harry saw

light ahead, and Yaxley and Dolohov stepped out into

a clearing that Harry knew had been the place where

the monstrous Aragog had once lived. The remnants

of his vast web were there still, but the swarm of

descendants he had spawned had been driven out by

the Death Eaters, to fight for their cause.

A fire burned in the middle of the clearing, and its

flickering light fell over a crowd of completely silent,

watchful Death Eaters. Some of them were still

masked and hooded; others showed their faces. Two

giants sat on the outskirts of the group, casting

massive shadows over the scene, their faces cruel,

rough-hewn like rock. Harry saw Fenrir, skulking,

chewing his long nails; the great blond Rowle was

dabbing at his bleeding lip. He saw Lucius Malfoy,

who looked defeated and terrified, and Narcissa,

whose eyes were sunken and full of apprehension.

Every eye was fixed upon Voldemort, who stood with

his head bowed, and his white hands folded over the

Elder Wand in front of him. He might have been

praying, or else counting silently in his mind, and

Harry, standing still on the edge of the scene, thought

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absurdly of a child counting in a game of hide-and-

seek. Behind his head, still swirling and coiling, the

great snake Nagini floated in her glittering, charmed

cage, like a monstrous halo.

When Dolohov and Yaxley rejoined the circle,

Voldemort looked up.

“No sign of him, my Lord,” said Dolohov.

Voldemort’s expression did not change. The red eyes

seemed to burn in the firelight. Slowly he drew the

Elder Wand between his long fingers.

“My Lord —”

Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort,

disheveled, her face a little bloody but otherwise

unharmed.

Voldemort raised his hand to silence her, and she did

not speak another word, but eyed him in worshipful

fascination.

“I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his

high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I

expected him to come.”

Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry,

whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs

as though determined to escape the body he was

about to cast aside. His hands were sweating as he

pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath

his robes, with his wand. He did not want to be

tempted to fight.

“I was, it seems … mistaken,” said Voldemort.

“You weren’t.”

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Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force he could muster: He did not want to sound afraid.

The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his

numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he

saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he

stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he

felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just

the two of them.

The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The

giants roared as the Death Eaters rose together, and

there were many cries, gasps, even laughter.

Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red

eyes had found Harry, and he stared as Harry moved

toward him, with nothing but the fire between them.

Then a voice yelled: “HARRY! NO!”

He turned: Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a

tree nearby. His massive body shook the branches

overhead as he struggled, desperate.

“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH — ?”

“QUIET!” shouted Rowle, and with a flick of his wand

Hagrid was silenced.

Bellatrix, who had leapt to her feet, was looking

eagerly from Voldemort to Harry, her breast heaving.

The only things that moved were the flames and the

snake, coiling and uncoiling in the glittering cage

behind Voldemort’s head.

Harry could feel his wand against his chest, but he

made no attempt to draw it. He knew that the snake

was too well protected, knew that if he managed to

point the wand at Nagini, fifty curses would hit him

first. And still, Voldemort and Harry looked at each

other, and now Voldemort tilted his head a little to

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the side, considering the boy standing before him,

and a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless

mouth.

“Harry Potter,” he said very softly. His voice might

have been part of the spitting fire. “The Boy Who

Lived.”

None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting:

Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and

Bellatrix was panting, and Harry thought inexplicably

of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips

on his —

Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still

tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what

would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into

the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly,

while he could still stand, before he lost control,

before he betrayed fear —

He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light,

and everything was gone.

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KING’S CROSS

He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was

perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else

was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was

there himself.

A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to

him that he must exist, must be more than

disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely

lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of

touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.

Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion,

Harry became conscious that he was naked.

Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not

concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He

wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able

to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had

eyes.

He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he

had ever experienced before. His surroundings were

not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor

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had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on

which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor

cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on

which to be.

He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched

his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.

Then a noise reached him through the unformed

nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft

thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and

struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly

indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he

was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.

For the first time, he wished he were clothed.

Barely had the wish formed in his head than robes

appeared a short distance away. He took them and

pulled them on: They were soft, clean, and warm. It

was extraordinary how they had appeared, just like

that, the moment he had wanted them. …

He stood up, looking around. Was he in some great

Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more

there was to see. A great domed glass roof glittered

high above him in sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace.

All was hushed and still, except for those odd

thumping and whimpering noises coming from

somewhere close by in the mist. …

Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his

surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his

eyes. A wide-open space, bright and clean, a hall

larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear,

domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the

only person there, except for —

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He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was

making the noises. It had the form of a small, naked

child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough,

flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat

where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight,

struggling for breath.

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded

though it was, he did not want to approach it.

Nevertheless he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump

back at any moment. Soon he stood near enough to

touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He

felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it

repulsed him.

“You cannot help.”

He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking

toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping

robes of midnight blue.

“Harry.” He spread his arms wide, and his hands were

both whole and white and undamaged. “You

wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk.”

Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away

from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading

him to two seats that Harry had not previously

noticed, set some distance away under that high,

sparkling ceiling. Dumbledore sat down in one of

them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old

headmaster’s face. Dumbledore’s long silver hair and

beard, the piercingly blue eyes behind half-moon

spectacles, the crooked nose: Everything was as he

had remembered it. And yet…

“But you’re dead,” said Harry.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

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“Then … I’m dead too?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly.

“That is the question, isn’t it? On the whole, dear boy,

I think not.”

They looked at each other, the old man still beaming.

“Not?” repeated Harry.

“Not,” said Dumbledore.

“But …” Harry raised his hand instinctively toward

the lightning scar. It did not seem to be there. “But I

should have died — I didn’t defend myself! I meant to

let him kill me!”

“And that,” said Dumbledore, “will, I think, have

made all the difference.”

Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like

light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so

utterly, so palpably content.

“Explain,” said Harry.

“But you already know,” said Dumbledore. He

twiddled his thumbs together.

“I let him kill me,” said Harry. “Didn’t I?”

“You did,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “Go on!”

“So the part of his soul that was in me …”

Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically,

urging Harry onward, a broad smile of encouragement

on his face.

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“… has it gone?”

“Oh yes!” said Dumbledore. “Yes, he destroyed it.

Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry.”

“But then …”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to where the small,

maimed creature trembled under the chair.

“What is that, Professor?”

“Something that is beyond either of our help,” said

Dumbledore.

“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse,” Harry

started again, “and nobody died for me this time —

how can I be alive?”

“I think you know,” said Dumbledore. “Think back.

Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed

and his cruelty.”

Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his

surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they

sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows

and bits of railing here and there, and still, he and

Dumbledore and the stunted creature under the chair

were the only beings there. Then the answer rose to

his lips easily, without effort.

“He took my blood,” said Harry.

“Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and

rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins,

Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered

you to life while he lives!”

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“I live … while he lives? But I thought … I thought it was the other way round! I thought we both had to

die? Or is it the same thing?”

He was distracted by the whimpering and thumping

of the agonized creature behind them and glanced

back at it yet again.

“Are you sure we can’t do anything?”

“There is no help possible.”

“Then explain … more,” said Harry, and Dumbledore

smiled.

“You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux

he never meant to make. He had rendered his soul so

unstable that it broke apart when he committed those

acts of unspeakable evil, the murder of your parents,

the attempted killing of a child. But what escaped

from that room was even less than he knew. He left

more than his body behind. He left part of himself

latched to you, the would-be victim who had survived.

“And his knowledge remained woefully incomplete,

Harry! That which Voldemort does not value, he takes

no trouble to comprehend. Of house-elves and

children’s tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence,

Voldemort knows and understands nothing. Nothing.

That they all have a power beyond his own, a power

beyond the reach of any magic, is a truth he has

never grasped.

“He took your blood believing it would strengthen

him. He took into his body a tiny part of the

enchantment your mother laid upon you when she

died for you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and

while that enchantment survives, so do you and so

does Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.”

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Dumbledore smiled at Harry, and Harry stared at

him.

“And you knew this? You knew — all along?”

“I guessed. But my guesses have usually been good,”

said Dumbledore happily, and they sat in silence for

what seemed like a long time, while the creature

behind them continued to whimper and tremble.

“There’s more,” said Harry. “There’s more to it. Why

did my wand break the wand he borrowed?”

“As to that, I cannot be sure.”

“Have a guess, then,” said Harry, and Dumbledore

laughed.

“What you must understand, Harry, is that you and

Lord Voldemort have journeyed together into realms

of magic hitherto unknown and untested. But here is

what I think happened, and it is unprecedented, and

no wandmaker could, I think, ever have predicted it

or explained it to Voldemort.

“Without meaning to, as you now know, Lord

Voldemort doubled the bond between you when he

returned to a human form. A part of his soul was still

attached to yours, and, thinking to strengthen

himself, he took a part of your mother’s sacrifice into

himself. If he could only have understood the precise

and terrible power of that sacrifice, he would not,

perhaps, have dared to touch your blood. … But then,

if he had been able to understand, he could not be

Lord Voldemort, and might never have murdered at

all.

“Having ensured this two-fold connection, having

wrapped your destinies together more securely than

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ever two wizards were joined in history, Voldemort

proceeded to attack you with a wand that shared a

core with yours. And now something very strange

happened, as we know. The cores reacted in a way

that Lord Voldemort, who never knew that your wand

was twin of his, had never expected.

“He was more afraid than you were that night, Harry.

You had accepted, even embraced, the possibility of

death, something Lord Voldemort has never been able

to do. Your courage won, your wand overpowered his.

And in doing so, something happened between those

wands, something that echoed the relationship

between their masters.

“I believe that your wand imbibed some of the power

and qualities of Voldemort’s wand that night, which is

to say that it contained a little of Voldemort himself.

So your wand recognized him when he pursued you,

recognized a man who was both kin and mortal

enemy, and it regurgitated some of his own magic

against him, magic much more powerful than

anything Lucius’s wand had ever performed. Your

wand now contained the power of your enormous

courage and of Voldemort’s own deadly skill: What

chance did that poor stick of Lucius Malfoy’s stand?”

“But if my wand was so powerful, how come

Hermione was able to break it?” asked Harry.

“My dear boy, its remarkable effects were directed

only at Voldemort, who had tampered so ill-advisedly

with the deepest laws of magic. Only toward him was

that wand abnormally powerful. Otherwise it was a

wand like any other … though a good one, I am sure,”

Dumbledore finished kindly.

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Harry sat in thought for a long time, or perhaps

seconds. It was very hard to be sure of things like

time, here.

“He killed me with your wand.”

“He failed to kill you with my wand,” Dumbledore

corrected Harry. “I think we can agree that you are

not dead — though, of course,” he added, as if fearing

he had been discourteous, “I do not minimize your

sufferings, which I am sure were severe.”

“I feel great at the moment, though,” said Harry,

looking down at his clean, unblemished hands.

“Where are we, exactly?”

“Well, I was going to ask you that,” said Dumbledore,

looking around. “Where would you say that we are?”

Until Dumbledore had asked, Harry had not known.

Now, however, he found that he had an answer ready

to give.

“It looks,” he said slowly, “like King’s Cross station.

Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no

trains as far as I can see.”

“King’s Cross station!” Dumbledore was chuckling

immoderately. “Good gracious, really?”

“Well, where do you think we are?” asked Harry, a

little defensively.

“My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say,

your party.”

Harry had no idea what this meant; Dumbledore was

being infuriating. He glared at him, then remembered

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a much more pressing question than that of their

current location.

“The Deathly Hallows,” he said, and he was glad to

see that the words wiped the smile from

Dumbledore’s face.

“Ah, yes,” he said. He even looked a little worried.

“Well?”

For the first time since Harry had met Dumbledore,

he looked less than an old man, much less. He looked

fleetingly like a small boy caught in wrongdoing.

“Can you forgive me?” he said. “Can you forgive me

for not trusting you? For not telling you? Harry, I only

feared that you would fail as I had failed. I only

dreaded that you would make my mistakes. I crave

your pardon, Harry. I have known, for some time now,

that you are the better man.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harry, startled

by Dumbledore’s tone, by the sudden tears in his

eyes.

“The Hallows, the Hallows,” murmured Dumbledore.

“A desperate man’s dream!”

“But they’re real!”

“Real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools,” said

Dumbledore. “And I was such a fool. But you know,

don’t you? I have no secrets from you anymore. You

know.”

“What do I know?”

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Dumbledore turned his whole body to face Harry, and tears still sparkled in the brilliantly blue eyes.

“Master of death, Harry, master of Death! Was I

better, ultimately, than Voldemort?”

“Of course you were,” said Harry. “Of course — how

can you ask that? You never killed if you could avoid

it!”

“True, true,” said Dumbledore, and he was like a

child seeking reassurance. “Yet I too sought a way to

conquer death, Harry.”

“Not the way he did,” said Harry. After all his anger at

Dumbledore, how odd it was to sit here, beneath the

high, vaulted ceiling, and defend Dumbledore from

himself. “Hallows, not Horcruxes.”

“Hallows,” murmured Dumbledore, “not Horcruxes.

Precisely.”

There was a pause. The creature behind them

whimpered, but Harry no longer looked around.

“Grindelwald was looking for them too?” he asked.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and

nodded.

“It was the thing, above all, that drew us together,” he

said quietly. “Two clever, arrogant boys with a shared

obsession. He wanted to come to Godric’s Hollow, as I

am sure you have guessed, because of the grave of

Ignotus Peverell. He wanted to explore the place the

third brother had died.”

“So it’s true?” asked Harry. “All of it? The Peverell

brothers —”

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“— were the three brothers of the tale,” said

Dumbledore, nodding. “Oh yes, I think so. Whether

they met Death on a lonely road … I think it more

likely that the Peverell brothers were simply gifted,

dangerous wizards who succeeded in creating those

powerful objects. The story of them being Death’s own

Hallows seems to me the sort of legend that might

have sprung up around such creations.

“The Cloak, as you know now, traveled down through

the ages, father to son, mother to daughter, right

down to Ignotus’s last living descendant, who was

born, as Ignotus was, in the village of Godric’s

Hollow.”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry.

“Me?”

“You. You have guessed, I know, why the Cloak was

in my possession on the night your parents died.

James had showed it to me just a few days

previously. It explained much of his undetected

wrong-doing at school! I could hardly believe what I

was seeing. I asked to borrow it, to examine it. I had

long since given up my dream of uniting the Hallows,

but I could not resist, could not help taking a closer

look. … It was a Cloak the likes of which I had never

seen, immensely old, perfect in every respect … and

then your father died, and I had two Hallows at last,

all to myself!”

His tone was unbearably bitter.

“The Cloak wouldn’t have helped them survive,

though,” Harry said quickly. “Voldemort knew where

my mum and dad were. The Cloak couldn’t have

made them curse-proof.”

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“True,” sighed Dumbledore. “True.”

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not speak, so he

prompted him.

“So you’d given up looking for the Hallows when you

saw the Cloak?”

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore faintly. It seemed that he

forced himself to meet Harry’s eyes. “You know what

happened. You know. You cannot despise me more

than I despise myself.”

“But I don’t despise you —”

“Then you should,” said Dumbledore. He drew a deep

breath. “You know the secret of my sister’s ill health,

what those Muggles did, what she became. You know

how my poor father sought revenge, and paid the

price, died in Azkaban. You know how my mother

gave up her own life to care for Ariana.

“I resented it, Harry.”

Dumbledore stated it baldly, coldly. He was looking

now over the top of Harry’s head, into the distance.

“I was gifted, I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I

wanted to shine. I wanted glory.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said, and pain

crossed the face so that he looked ancient again. “I

loved them. I loved my parents, I loved my brother

and my sister, but I was selfish, Harry, more selfish

than you, who are a remarkably selfless person, could

possibly imagine.

“So that, when my mother died, and I was left the

responsibility of a damaged sister and a wayward

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brother, I returned to my village in anger and

bitterness. Trapped and wasted, I thought! And then,

of course, he came. …”

Dumbledore looked directly into Harry’s eyes again.

“Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas

caught me, Harry, inflamed me. Muggles forced into

subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald

and I, the glorious young leaders of the revolution.

“Oh, I had a few scruples. I assuaged my conscience

with empty words. It would all be for the greater good,

and any harm done would be repaid a hundredfold in

benefits for wizards. Did I know, in my heart of

hearts, what Gellert Grindelwald was? I think I did,

but I closed my eyes. If the plans we were making

came to fruition, all my dreams would come true.

“And at the heart of our schemes, the Deathly

Hallows! How they fascinated him, how they

fascinated both of us! The unbeatable wand, the

weapon that would lead us to power! The

Resurrection Stone — to him, though I pretended not

to know it, it meant an army of Inferi! To me, I

confess, it meant the return of my parents, and the

lifting of all responsibility from my shoulders.

“And the Cloak … somehow, we never discussed the

Cloak much, Harry. Both of us could conceal

ourselves well enough without the Cloak, the true

magic of which, of course, is that it can be used to

protect and shield others as well as its owner. I

thought that, if we ever found it, it might be useful in

hiding Ariana, but our interest in the Cloak was

mainly that it completed the trio, for the legend said

that the man who united all three objects would then

be truly master of death, which we took to mean

‘invincible.’

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“Invincible masters of death, Grindelwald and

Dumbledore! Two months of insanity, of cruel

dreams, and neglect of the only two members of my

family left to me.

“And then … you know what happened. Reality

returned in the form of my rough, unlettered, and

infinitely more admirable brother. I did not want to

hear the truths he shouted at me. I did not want to

hear that I could not set forth to seek Hallows with a

fragile and unstable sister in tow.

“The argument became a fight. Grindelwald lost

control. That which I had always sensed in him,

though I pretended not to, now sprang into terrible

being. And Ariana … after all my mother’s care and

caution … lay dead upon the floor.”

Dumbledore gave a little gasp and began to cry in

earnest. Harry reached out and was glad to find that

he could touch him: He gripped his arm tightly and

Dumbledore gradually regained control.

“Well, Grindelwald fled, as anyone but I could have

predicted. He vanished, with his plans for seizing

power, and his schemes for Muggle torture, and his

dreams of the Deathly Hallows, dreams in which I

had encouraged him and helped him. He ran, while I

was left to bury my sister, and learn to live with my

guilt and my terrible grief, the price of my shame.

“Years passed. There were rumors about him. They

said he had procured a wand of immense power. I,

meanwhile, was offered the post of Minister of Magic,

not once, but several times. Naturally, I refused. I had

learned that I was not to be trusted with power.”

“But you’d have been better, much better, than Fudge

or Scrimgeour!” burst out Harry.

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“Would I?” asked Dumbledore heavily. “I am not so

sure. I had proven, as a very young man, that power

was my weakness and my temptation. It is a curious

thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited

to power are those who have never sought it. Those

who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and

take up the mantle because they must, and find to

their own surprise that they wear it well.

“I was safer at Hogwarts. I think I was a good teacher

—”

“You were the best —”

“— you are very kind, Harry. But while I busied

myself with the training of young wizards,

Grindelwald was raising an army. They say he feared

me, and perhaps he did, but less, I think, than I

feared him.

“Oh, not death,” said Dumbledore, in answer to

Harry’s questioning look. “Not what he could do to me

magically. I knew that we were evenly matched,

perhaps that I was a shade more skillful. It was the

truth I feared. You see, I never knew which of us, in

that last, horrific fight, had actually cast the curse

that killed my sister. You may call me cowardly: You

would be right. Harry, I dreaded beyond all things the

knowledge that it had been I who brought about her

death, not merely through my arrogance and

stupidity, but that I actually struck the blow that

snuffed out her life.

“I think he knew it, I think he knew what frightened

me. I delayed meeting him until finally, it would have

been too shameful to resist any longer. People were

dying and he seemed unstoppable, and I had to do

what I could.

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“Well, you know what happened next. I won the duel.

I won the wand.”

Another silence. Harry did not ask whether

Dumbledore had ever found out who struck Ariana

dead. He did not want to know, and even less did he

want Dumbledore to have to tell him. At last he knew

what Dumbledore would have seen when he looked in

the Mirror of Erised, and why Dumbledore had been

so understanding of the fascination it had exercised

over Harry.

They sat in silence for a long time, and the

whimperings of the creature behind them barely

disturbed Harry anymore.

At last he said, “Grindelwald tried to stop Voldemort

going after the wand. He lied, you know, pretended he

had never had it.”

Dumbledore nodded, looking down at his lap, tears

still glittering on the crooked nose.

“They say he showed remorse in later years, alone in

his cell at Nurmengard. I hope that it is true. I would

like to think he did feel the horror and shame of what

he had done. Perhaps that lie to Voldemort was his

attempt to make amends … to prevent Voldemort

from taking the Hallow …”

“… or maybe from breaking into your tomb?”

suggested Harry, and Dumbledore dabbed his eyes.

After another short pause Harry said, “You tried to

use the Resurrection Stone.”

Dumbledore nodded.

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“When I discovered it, after all those years, buried in the abandoned home of the Gaunts — the Hallow I

had craved most of all, though in my youth I had

wanted it for very different reasons — I lost my head,

Harry. I quite forgot that it was now a Horcrux, that

the ring was sure to carry a curse. I picked it up, and

I put it on, and for a second I imagined that I was

about to see Ariana, and my mother, and my father,

and to tell them how very, very sorry I was. …

“I was such a fool, Harry. After all those years I had

learned nothing. I was unworthy to unite the Deathly

Hallows, I had proved it time and again, and here was

final proof.”

“Why?” said Harry. “It was natural! You wanted to see

them again. What’s wrong with that?”

“Maybe a man in a million could unite the Hallows,

Harry. I was fit only to possess the meanest of them,

the least extraordinary. I was fit to own the Elder

Wand, and not to boast of it, and not to kill with it. I

was permitted to tame and to use it, because I took it,

not for gain, but to save others from it.

“But the Cloak, I took out of vain curiosity, and so it

could never have worked for me as it works for you,

its true owner. The stone I would have used in an

attempt to drag back those who are at peace, rather

than to enable my self-sacrifice, as you did. You are

the worthy possessor of the Hallows.”

Dumbledore patted Harry’s hand, and Harry looked

up at the old man and smiled; he could not help

himself. How could he remain angry with Dumbledore

now?

“Why did you have to make it so difficult?”

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Dumbledore’s smile was tremulous.

“I am afraid I counted on Miss Granger to slow you

up, Harry. I was afraid that your hot head might

dominate your good heart. I was scared that, if

presented outright with the facts about those

tempting objects, you might seize the Hallows as I

did, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. If you

laid hands on them, I wanted you to possess them

safely. You are the true master of death, because the

true master does not seek to run away from Death.

He accepts that he must die, and understands that

there are far, far worse things in the living world than

dying.”

“And Voldemort never knew about the Hallows?”

“I do not think so, because he did not recognize the

Resurrection Stone he turned into a Horcrux. But

even if he had known about them, Harry, I doubt that

he would have been interested in any except the first.

He would not think that he needed the Cloak, and as

for the stone, whom would he want to bring back

from the dead? He fears the dead. He does not love.”

“But you expected him to go after the wand?”

“I have been sure that he would try, ever since your

wand beat Voldemort’s in the graveyard of Little

Hangleton. At first, he was afraid that you had

conquered him by superior skill. Once he had

kidnapped Ollivander, however, he discovered the

existence of the twin cores. He thought that explained

everything. Yet the borrowed wand did no better

against yours! So Voldemort, instead of asking

himself what quality it was in you that had made your

wand so strong, what gift you possessed that he did

not, naturally set out to find the one wand that, they

said, would beat any other. For him, the Elder Wand

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has become an obsession to rival his obsession with you. He believes that the Elder Wand removes his last

weakness and makes him truly invincible. Poor

Severus …”

“If you planned your death with Snape, you meant

him to end up with the Elder Wand, didn’t you?”

“I admit that was my intention,” said Dumbledore,

“but it did not work as I intended, did it?”

“No,” said Harry. “That bit didn’t work out.”

The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and

Harry and Dumbledore sat without talking for the

longest time yet. The realization of what would

happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long

minutes, like softly falling snow.

“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”

“That is up to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “We are in

King’s Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not

to go back, you would be able to … let’s say … board

a train.”

“And where would it take me?”

“On,” said Dumbledore simply.

Silence again.

“Voldemort’s got the Elder Wand.”

“True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.”

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“But you want me to go back?”

“I think,” said Dumbledore, “that if you choose to

return, there is a chance that he may be finished for

good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that

you have less to fear from returning here than he

does.”

Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that

trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the

distant chair.

“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and,

above all, those who live without love. By returning,

you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer

families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy

goal, then we say good-bye for the present.”

Harry nodded and sighed. Leaving this place would

not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had

been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here,

and he knew that he was heading back to pain and

the fear of more loss. He stood up, and Dumbledore

did the same, and they looked for a long moment into

each other’s faces.

“Tell me one last thing,” said Harry. “Is this real? Or

has this been happening inside my head?”

Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded

loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the

bright mist was descending again, obscuring his

figure.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry,

but why on earth should that mean that it is not

real?”

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THE FLAW IN THE PLAN

He was lying facedown on the ground again. The

smell of the forest filled his nostrils. He could feel the

cold hard ground beneath his cheek, and the hinge of

his glasses, which had been knocked sideways by the

fall, cutting into his temple. Every inch of him ached,

and the place where the Killing Curse had hit him felt

like the bruise of an iron-clad punch. He did not stir,

but remained exactly where he had fallen, with his

left arm bent out at an awkward angle and his mouth

gaping.

He had expected to hear cheers of triumph and

jubilation at his death, but instead hurried footsteps,

whispers, and solicitous murmurs filled the air.

“My Lord … my Lord …”

It was Bellatrix’s voice, and she spoke as if to a lover.

Harry did not dare open his eyes, but allowed his

other senses to explore his predicament. He knew

that his wand was still stowed beneath his robes

because he could feel it pressed between his chest

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and the ground. A slight cushioning effect in the area of his stomach told him that the Invisibility Cloak was

also there, stuffed out of sight.

“My Lord …”

“That will do,” said Voldemort’s voice.

More footsteps: Several people were backing away

from the same spot. Desperate to see what was

happening and why, Harry opened his eyes by a

millimeter.

Voldemort seemed to be getting to his feet. Various

Death Eaters were hurrying away from him, returning

to the crowd lining the clearing. Bellatrix alone

remained behind, kneeling beside Voldemort.

Harry closed his eyes again and considered what he

had seen. The Death Eaters had been huddled

around Voldemort, who seemed to have fallen to the

ground. Something had happened when he had hit

Harry with the Killing Curse. Had Voldemort too

collapsed? It seemed like it. And both of them had

fallen briefly unconscious and both of them had now

returned. …

“My Lord, let me —”

“I do not require assistance,” said Voldemort coldly,

and though he could not see it, Harry pictured

Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand. “The boy … Is

he dead?”

There was complete silence in the clearing. Nobody

approached Harry, but he felt their concentrated gaze;

it seemed to press him harder into the ground, and he

was terrified a finger or an eyelid might twitch.

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“You,” said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a

small shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether

he is dead.”

Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He

could only lie there, with his heart thumping

traitorously, and wait to be examined, but at the

same time noting, small comfort though it was, that

Voldemort was wary of approaching him, that

Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan. …

Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched

Harry’s face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath his

shirt, down to his chest, and felt his heart. He could

hear the woman’s fast breathing, her long hair tickled

his face. He knew that she could feel the steady

pounding of life against his ribs.

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”

The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch

from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair

shielded his face from the onlookers.

“Yes, ” he breathed back.

He felt the hand on his chest contract; her nails

pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.

“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.

And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph

and stamped their feet, and through his eyelids,

Harry saw bursts of red and silver light shoot into the

air in celebration.

Still feigning death on the ground, he understood.

Narcissa knew that the only way she would be

permitted to enter Hogwarts, and find her son, was as

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part of the conquering army. She no longer cared

whether Voldemort won.

“You see?” screeched Voldemort over the tumult.

“Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive

can threaten me now! Watch! Crucio!”

Harry had been expecting it, knew his body would not

be allowed to remain unsullied upon the forest floor;

it must be subjected to humiliation to prove

Voldemort’s victory. He was lifted into the air, and it

took all his determination to remain limp, yet the pain

he expected did not come. He was thrown once, twice,

three times into the air: His glasses flew off and he

felt his wand slide a little beneath his robes, but he

kept himself floppy and lifeless, and when he fell to

the ground for the last time, the clearing echoed with

jeers and shrieks of laughter.

“Now,” said Voldemort, “we go to the castle, and show

them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag

the body? No — Wait —”

There was a fresh outbreak of laughter, and after a

few moments Harry felt the ground trembling beneath

him.

“You carry him,” Voldemort said. “He will be nice and

visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little

friend, Hagrid. And the glasses — put on the glasses

— he must be recognizable —”

Someone slammed Harry’s glasses back onto his face

with deliberate force, but the enormous hands that

lifted him into the air were exceedingly gentle. Harry

could feel Hagrid’s arms trembling with the force of

his heaving sobs; great tears splashed down upon

him as Hagrid cradled Harry in his arms, and Harry

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did not dare, by movement or word, to intimate to

Hagrid that all was not, yet, lost.

“Move,” said Voldemort, and Hagrid stumbled

forward, forcing his way through the close-growing

trees, back through the forest. Branches caught at

Harry’s hair and robes, but he lay quiescent, his

mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the

darkness, while the Death Eaters crowed all around

them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, nobody

looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed

neck of Harry Potter. …

The two giants crashed along behind the Death

Eaters; Harry could hear trees creaking and falling as

they passed; they made so much din that birds rose

shrieking into the sky, and even the jeers of the Death

Eaters were drowned. The victorious procession

marched on toward the open ground, and after a

while Harry could tell, by the lightening of the

darkness through his closed eyelids, that the trees

were beginning to thin.

“BANE!”

Hagrid’s unexpected bellow nearly forced Harry’s eyes

open. “Happy now, are yeh, that yeh didn’ fight, yeh

cowardly bunch o’ nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter’s

— d-dead … ?”

Hagrid could not continue, but broke down in fresh

tears. Harry wondered how many centaurs were

watching their procession pass; he dared not open his

eyes to look. Some of the Death Eaters called insults

at the centaurs as they left them behind. A little later,

Harry sensed, by a freshening of the air, that they

had reached the edge of the forest.

“Stop.”

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Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to

obey Voldemort’s command, because he lurched a

little. And now a chill settled over them where they

stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the

dementors that patrolled the outer trees. They would

not affect him now. The fact of his own survival

burned inside him, a talisman against them, as

though his father’s stag kept guardian in his heart.

Someone passed close by Harry, and he knew that it

was Voldemort himself because he spoke a moment

later, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled

through the grounds, crashing upon Harry’s

eardrums.

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away,

trying to save himself while you lay down your lives

for him. We bring you his body as proof that your

hero is gone.

“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters.

My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who

Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone

who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be

slaughtered, as will every member of their family.

Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you

shall be spared. Your parents and children, your

brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you

will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

There was silence in the grounds and from the castle.

Voldemort was so close to him that Harry did not dare

open his eyes again.

“Come,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard him move

ahead, and Hagrid was forced to follow. Now Harry

opened his eyes a fraction, and saw Voldemort

striding in front of them, wearing the great snake

Nagini around his shoulders, now free of her

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enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility of

extracting the wand concealed under his robes

without being noticed by the Death Eaters, who

marched on either side of them through the slowly

lightening darkness. …

“Harry,” sobbed Hagrid. “Oh, Harry … Harry …”

Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they

were approaching the castle and strained his ears to

distinguish, above the gleeful voices of the Death

Eaters and their tramping footsteps, signs of life from

those within.

“Stop.”

The Death Eaters came to a halt: Harry heard them

spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of

the school. He could see, even through his closed lids,

the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon him

from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the

people for whom he had tried to die would see him,

lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms.

“NO!”

The scream was the more terrible because he had

never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall

could make such a sound. He heard another woman

laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in

McGonagall’s despair. He squinted again for a single

second and saw the open doorway filling with people,

as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front

steps to face their vanquishers and see the truth of

Harry’s death for themselves. He saw Voldemort

standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s

head with a single white finger. He closed his eyes

again.

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“No!”

“No!”

“Harry! HARRY!”

Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse

than McGonagall’s; Harry wanted nothing more than

to call back, yet he made himself lie silent, and their

cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took

up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the

Death Eaters, until —

“SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang

and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced

upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at

my feet, where he belongs!”

Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass.

“You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding

backward and forward right beside the place where he

lay. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now,

deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who

relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and

the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and

screaming again until a second, more powerful bang

extinguished their voices once more.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle

grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was relish in his

voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself —”

But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle and a

shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt

of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount.

Someone had broken free of the crowd and charged at

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Voldemort: Harry saw the figure hit the ground,

Disarmed, Voldemort throwing the challenger’s wand

aside and laughing.

“And who is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss.

“Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens

to those who continue to fight when the battle is

lost?”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh.

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has

been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of

the Aurors, remember?”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Voldemort, looking down

at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet,

unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s-

land between the survivors and the Death Eaters.

“But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his

empty hands curled in fists.

“So what if I am?” said Neville loudly.

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble

stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We

need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville.

“Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, and there was an

answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s

Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.

“Very well,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard more

danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most

powerful curse. “If that is your choice, Longbottom,

we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said

quietly, “be it.”

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Still watching through his lashes, Harry saw

Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of

the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked

like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and

landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed

object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and

ragged: the Sorting Hat.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,”

said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The

emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor,

Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t

they, Neville Longbottom?”

He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and

still, then forced the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it

slipped down below his eyes. There were movements

from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as

one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the

fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what

happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to

oppose me,” said Voldemort, and with a flick of his

wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame,

rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Harry could

not bear it: He must act —

And then many things happened at the same

moment.

They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the

school as what sounded like hundreds of people came

swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted

toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the

same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of

the castle and yelled, “HAGGER!” His cry was

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answered by roars from Voldemort’s giants: They ran at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake.

Then came hooves and the twangs of bows, and

arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death

Eaters, who broke ranks, shouting their surprise.

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from inside his

robes, swung it over himself, and sprang to his feet,

as Neville moved too.

In one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the

Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat fell off

him and he drew from its depths something silver,

with a glittering, rubied handle —

The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over

the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the

clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and

yet it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke

Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun

high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from

the entrance hall, and Voldemort’s mouth was open

in a scream of fury that nobody could hear, and the

snake’s body thudded to the ground at his feet —

Hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry cast a

Shield Charm between Neville and Voldemort before

the latter could raise his wand. Then, over the

screams and the roars and the thunderous stamps of

the battling giants, Hagrid’s yell came loudest of all.

“HARRY!” Hagrid shouted. “HARRY — WHERE’S

HARRY?”

Chaos reigned. The charging centaurs were scattering

the Death Eaters, everyone was fleeing the giants’

stamping feet, and nearer and nearer thundered the

reinforcements that had come from who knew where;

Harry saw great winged creatures soaring around the

heads of Voldemort’s giants, thestrals and Buckbeak

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the hippogriff scratching at their eyes while Grawp punched and pummeled them; and now the wizards,

defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike, were

being forced back into the castle. Harry was shooting

jinxes and curses at any Death Eater he could see,

and they crumpled, not knowing what or who had hit

them, and their bodies were trampled by the

retreating crowd.

Still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry was

buffeted into the entrance hall: He was searching for

Voldemort and saw him across the room, firing spells

from his wand as he backed into the Great Hall, still

screaming instructions to his followers as he sent

curses flying left and right; Harry cast more Shield

Charms, and Voldemort’s would-be victims, Seamus

Finnigan and Hannah Abbott, darted past him into

the Great Hall, where they joined the fight already

flourishing inside it.

And now there were more, even more people storming

up the front steps, and Harry saw Charlie Weasley

overtaking Horace Slughorn, who was still wearing

his emerald pajamas. They seemed to have returned

at the head of what looked like the families and

friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained

to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners

of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane, Ronan, and

Magorian burst into the hall with a great clatter of

hooves, as behind Harry the door that led to the

kitchens was blasted off its hinges.

The house-elves of Hogwarts swarmed into the

entrance hall, screaming and waving carving knives

and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus

Black bouncing on his chest, was Kreacher, his

bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din: “Fight!

Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house-elves!

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Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus!

Fight!”

They were hacking and stabbing at the ankles and

shins of Death Eaters, their tiny faces alive with

malice, and everywhere Harry looked Death Eaters

were folding under sheer weight of numbers,

overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds,

stabbed in the leg by elves, or else simply attempting

to escape, but swallowed by the oncoming horde.

But it was not over yet: Harry sped between duelers,

past struggling prisoners, and into the Great Hall.

Voldemort was in the center of the battle, and he was

striking and smiting all within reach. Harry could not

get a clear shot, but fought his way nearer, still

invisible, and the Great Hall became more and more

crowded as everyone who could walk forced their way

inside.

Harry saw Yaxley slammed to the floor by George and

Lee Jordan, saw Dolohov fall with a scream at

Flitwick’s hands, saw Walden Macnair thrown across

the room by Hagrid, hit the stone wall opposite, and

slide unconscious to the ground. He saw Ron and

Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth

Stunning Rookwood, Arthur and Percy flooring

Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy running

through the crowd, not even attempting to fight,

screaming for their son.

Voldemort was now dueling McGonagall, Slughorn,

and Kingsley all at once, and there was cold hatred in

his face as they wove and ducked around him, unable

to finish him —

Bellatrix was still fighting too, fifty yards away from

Voldemort, and like her master she dueled three at

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once: Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their hardest, but Bellatrix was equal to them, and Harry’s

attention was diverted as a Killing Curse shot so close

to Ginny that she missed death by an inch —

He changed course, running at Bellatrix rather than

Voldemort, but before he had gone a few steps he was

knocked sideways.

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!”

Mrs. Weasley threw off her cloak as she ran, freeing

her arms. Bellatrix spun on the spot, roaring with

laughter at the sight of her new challenger.

“OUT OF MY WAY!” shouted Mrs. Weasley to the three

girls, and with a swipe of her wand she began to duel.

Harry watched with terror and elation as Molly

Weasley’s wand slashed and twirled, and Bellatrix

Lestrange’s smile faltered and became a snarl. Jets of

light flew from both wands, the floor around the

witches’ feet became hot and cracked; both women

were fighting to kill.

“No!” Mrs. Weasley cried as a few students ran

forward, trying to come to her aid. “Get back! Get

back! She is mine!”

Hundreds of people now lined the walls, watching the

two fights, Voldemort and his three opponents,

Bellatrix and Molly, and Harry stood, invisible, torn

between both, wanting to attack and yet to protect,

unable to be sure that he would not hit the innocent.

“What will happen to your children when I’ve killed

you?” taunted Bellatrix, as mad as her master,

capering as Molly’s curses danced around her. “When

Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”

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“You — will — never — touch — our — children —

again!” screamed Mrs. Weasley.

Bellatrix laughed, the same exhilarated laugh her

cousin Sirius had given as he toppled backward

through the veil, and suddenly Harry knew what was

going to happen before it did.

Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched

arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over

her heart.

Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes seemed to

bulge: For the tiniest space of time she knew what

had happened, and then she toppled, and the

watching crowd roared, and Voldemort screamed.

Harry felt as though he turned in slow motion; he saw

McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn blasted

backward, flailing and writhing through the air, as

Voldemort’s fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant

exploded with the force of a bomb. Voldemort raised

his wand and directed it at Molly Weasley.

“Protego!” roared Harry, and the Shield Charm

expanded in the middle of the Hall, and Voldemort

stared around for the source as Harry pulled off the

Invisibility Cloak at last.

The yell of shock, the cheers, the screams on every

side of “Harry!” “HE’S ALIVE!” were stifled at once.

The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and

completely as Voldemort and Harry looked at each

other, and began, at the same moment, to circle each

other.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry said

loudly, and in the total silence his voice carried like a

trumpet call. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

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Voldemort hissed.

“Potter doesn’t mean that,” he said, his red eyes wide.

“That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to

use as a shield today, Potter?”

“Nobody,” said Harry simply. “There are no more

Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while

the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for

good. …”

“One of us?” jeered Voldemort, and his whole body

was taut and his red eyes stared, a snake that was

about to strike. “You think it will be you, do you, the

boy who has survived by accident, and because

Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”

“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?”

asked Harry. They were still moving sideways, both of

them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same

distance from each other, and for Harry no face

existed but Voldemort’s. “Accident, when I decided to

fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend

myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to

fight again?”

“Accidents!” screamed Voldemort, but still he did not

strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if

Petrified, and of the hundreds in the Hall, nobody

seemed to breathe but they two. “Accident and

chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled

behind the skirts of greater men and women, and

permitted me to kill them for you!”

“You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,” said Harry

as they circled, and stared into each other’s eyes,

green into red. “You won’t be able to kill any of them

ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop

you from hurting these people —”

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“But you did not!”

“— I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what

my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t

you noticed how none of the spells you put on them

are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch

them. You don’t learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do

you?”

“You dare —”

“Yes, I dare,” said Harry. “I know things you don’t

know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things

that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make

another big mistake?”

Voldemort did not speak, but prowled in a circle, and

Harry knew that he kept him temporarily mesmerized

and at bay, held back by the faintest possibility that

Harry might indeed know a final secret. …

“Is it love again?” said Voldemort, his snake’s face

jeering. “Dumbledore’s favorite solution, love, which

he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop

him falling from the tower and breaking like an old

waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping

out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter —

and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward

this time and take my curse. So what will stop you

dying now when I strike?”

“Just one thing,” said Harry, and still they circled

each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by

nothing but the last secret.

“If it is not love that will save you this time,” said

Voldemort, “you must believe that you have magic

that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than

mine?”

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“I believe both,” said Harry, and he saw shock flit across the snakelike face, though it was instantly

dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh, and the sound

was more frightening than his screams; humorless

and insane, it echoed around the silent Hall.

“You think you know more magic than I do?” he said.

“Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed

magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?”

“Oh, he dreamed of it,” said Harry, “but he knew more

than you, knew enough not to do what you’ve done.”

“You mean he was weak!” screamed Voldemort. “Too

weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been

his, what will be mine!”

“No, he was cleverer than you,” said Harry, “a better

wizard, a better man.”

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”

“You thought you did,” said Harry, “but you were

wrong.”

For the first time, the watching crowd stirred as the

hundreds of people around the walls drew breath as

one.

“Dumbledore is dead!” Voldemort hurled the words at

Harry as though they would cause him unendurable

pain. “His body decays in the marble tomb in the

grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he

will not return!”

“Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” said Harry calmly, “but

you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner

of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the

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whole thing with the man you thought was your

servant.”

“What childish dream is this?” said Voldemort, but

still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver

from Harry’s.

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” said Harry. “Snape

was Dumbledore’s, Dumbledore’s from the moment

you started hunting down my mother. And you never

realized it, because of the thing you can’t understand.

You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you,

Riddle?”

Voldemort did not answer. They continued to circle

each other like wolves about to tear each other apart.

“Snape’s Patronus was a doe,” said Harry, “the same

as my mother’s, because he loved her for nearly all of

his life, from the time when they were children. You

should have realized,” he said as he saw Voldemort’s

nostrils flare, “he asked you to spare her life, didn’t

he?”

“He desired her, that was all,” sneered Voldemort,

“but when she had gone, he agreed that there were

other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him —”

“Of course he told you that,” said Harry, “but he was

Dumbledore’s spy from the moment you threatened

her, and he’s been working against you ever since!

Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished

him!”

“It matters not!” shrieked Voldemort, who had

followed every word with rapt attention, but now let

out a cackle of mad laughter. “It matters not whether

Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty

obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them

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as I crushed your mother, Snape’s supposed great

love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways

that you do not understand!

“Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from

me! He intended that Snape should be the true

master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little

boy — I reached the wand before you could get your

hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught

up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the

Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is

truly mine! Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong, Harry

Potter!”

“Yeah, it did,” said Harry. “You’re right. But before

you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what

you’ve done. … Think, and try for some remorse,

Riddle. …”

“What is this?”

Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond

any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked

Voldemort like this. Harry saw his pupils contract to

thin slits, saw the skin around his eyes whiten.

“It’s your one last chance,” said Harry, “it’s all you’ve

got left. … I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise. … Be a

man … try … Try for some remorse. …”

“You dare — ?” said Voldemort again.

“Yes, I dare,” said Harry, “because Dumbledore’s last

plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on

you, Riddle.”

Voldemort’s hand was trembling on the Elder Wand,

and Harry gripped Draco’s very tightly. The moment,

he knew, was seconds away.

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“That wand still isn’t working properly for you

because you murdered the wrong person. Severus

Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand.

He never defeated Dumbledore.”

“He killed —”

“Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore!

Dumbledore’s death was planned between them!

Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s

last true master! If all had gone as planned, the

wand’s power would have died with him, because it

had never been won from him!”

“But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the

wand!” Voldemort’s voice shook with malicious

pleasure. “I stole the wand from its last master’s

tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its

power is mine!”

“You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the

wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make

it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The

wand chooses the wizard. … The Elder Wand

recognized a new master before Dumbledore died,

someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new

master removed the wand from Dumbledore against

his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or

that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him

its allegiance. …”

Voldemort’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harry

could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the

wand pointed at his face.

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco

Malfoy.”

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Blank shock showed in Voldemort’s face for a

moment, but then it was gone.

“But what does it matter?” he said softly. “Even if you

are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and

me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel

on skill alone … and after I have killed you, I can

attend to Draco Malfoy. …”

“But you’re too late,” said Harry. “You’ve missed your

chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks

ago. I took this wand from him.”

Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and he felt the

eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it.

“So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” whispered

Harry. “Does the wand in your hand know its last

master was Disarmed? Because if it does … I am the

true master of the Elder Wand.”

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted

sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared

over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both

of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s

was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high

voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the

heavens, pointing Draco’s wand:

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden

flames that erupted between them, at the dead center

of the circle they had been treading, marked the point

where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s

green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly

high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the

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enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill,

who had come to take full possession of it at last. And

Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught

the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward,

arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling

upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane

finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white

hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and

unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own

rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in

his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the

moment suspended: and then the tumult broke

around Harry as the screams and the cheers and the

roars of the watchers rent the air. The fierce new sun

dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him,

and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione,

and it was their arms that were wrapped around him,

their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him.

Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there, and then

all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and

McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and Harry could

not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell

whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to

hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in,

all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived,

the reason it was over at last —

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great

Hall blazed with life and light. Harry was an

indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of

jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration.

They wanted him there with them, their leader and

symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had

not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of

them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to

the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears,

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receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the

Imperiused up and down the country had come back

to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else

being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were

being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley

Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of

Magic. …

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a

chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred,

Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had

died fighting him. McGonagall had replaced the

House tables, but nobody was sitting according to

House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers

and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-

elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and

Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and

people were throwing food into his laughing mouth.

After a while, exhausted and drained, Harry found

himself sitting on a bench beside Luna.

“I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” she

said.

“I’d love some,” he replied.

“I’ll distract them all,” she said. “Use your Cloak.”

And before he could say a word she had cried, “Oooh,

look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the

window. Everyone who heard looked around, and

Harry slid the Cloak up over himself, and got to his

feet.

Now he could move through the Hall without

interference. He spotted Ginny two tables away; she

was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder:

There would be time to talk later, hours and days and

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maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville, the

sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate,

surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Along the

aisle between the tables he walked, and he spotted

the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure

whether or not they were supposed to be there, but

nobody was paying them any attention. Everywhere

he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he

saw the two whose company he craved most.

“It’s me,” he muttered, crouching down between

them. “Will you come with me?”

They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and

Hermione left the Great Hall. Great chunks were

missing from the marble staircase, part of the

balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains

occurred every few steps as they climbed.

Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves

zooming through the corridors singing a victory song

of his own composition:

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one,

And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!

“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the

thing, doesn’t it?” said Ron, pushing open a door to

let Harry and Hermione through.

Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the

moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of

losing Fred and Lupin and Tonks pierced him like a

physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the

most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep. But

first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione,

who had stuck with him for so long, and who

deserved the truth. Painstakingly he recounted what

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he had seen in the Pensieve and what had happened

in the forest, and they had not even begun to express

all their shock and amazement when at last they

arrived at the place to which they had been walking,

though none of them had mentioned their

destination.

Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the

entrance to the headmaster’s study had been knocked

aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk,

and Harry wondered whether it would be able to

distinguish passwords anymore.

“Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle.

“Feel free,” groaned the statue.

They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone

staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator.

Harry pushed open the door at the top.

He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the

desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting

noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and

returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort

—

But it was applause. All around the walls, the

headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were

giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats

and in some cases their wigs, they reached through

their frames to grip each other’s hands; they danced

up and down on the chairs in which they had been

painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter

Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas

Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be

noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our

contribution not be forgotten!”

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But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s

chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-

moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the

pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled

Harry with the same balm as phoenix song.

At last, Harry held up his hands, and the portraits fell

respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes

and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directed his

words at Dumbledore, however, and chose them with

enormous care. Exhausted and bleary-eyed though he

was, he must make one last effort, seeking one last

piece of advice.

“The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he began,

“I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where,

but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you

agree?”

“My dear boy, I do,” said Dumbledore, while his fellow

pictures looked confused and curious. “A wise and

courageous decision, but no less than I would have

expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?”

“No one,” said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded his

satisfaction.

“I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though,” said

Harry, and Dumbledore beamed.

“But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you

pass it on!”

“And then there’s this.”

Harry held up the Elder Wand, and Ron and

Hermione looked at it with a reverence that, even in

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his befuddled and sleep-deprived state, Harry did not like to see.

“I don’t want it,” said Harry.

“What?” said Ron loudly. “Are you mental?”

“I know it’s powerful,” said Harry wearily. “But I was

happier with mine. So …”

He rummaged in the pouch hung around his neck,

and pulled out the two halves of holly still just

connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather.

Hermione had said that they could not be repaired,

that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that

if this did not work, nothing would.

He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk,

touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and

said, “Reparo. ”

As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end.

Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the

holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in

his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing

at their reunion.

“I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore,

who was watching him with enormous affection and

admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay

there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power

will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will

never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.”

Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other.

“Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace

of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand.

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“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly.

“That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said

Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turned away from the

painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster

bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and

wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a

sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a

lifetime.”

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NINETEEN YEARS LATER

Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The

morning of the first of September was crisp and

golden as an apple, and as the little family bobbed

across the rumbling road toward the great sooty

station, the fumes of car exhausts and the breath of

pedestrians sparkled like cobwebs in the cold air. Two

large cages rattled on top of the laden trolleys the

parents were pushing; the owls inside them hooted

indignantly, and the redheaded girl trailed tearfully

behind her brothers, clutching her father’s arm.

“It won’t be long, and you’ll be going too,” Harry told

her.

“Two years,” sniffed Lily. “I want to go now!”

The commuters stared curiously at the owls as the

family wove its way toward the barrier between

platforms nine and ten. Albus’s voice drifted back to

Harry over the surrounding clamor; his sons had

resumed the argument they had started in the car.

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“I won’t! I won’t be in Slytherin!”

“James, give it a rest!” said Ginny.

“I only said he might be,” said James, grinning at his

younger brother. “There’s nothing wrong with that. He

might be in Slyth —”

But James caught his mother’s eye and fell silent.

The five Potters approached the barrier. With a

slightly cocky look over his shoulder at his younger

brother, James took the trolley from his mother and

broke into a run. A moment later, he had vanished.

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Albus asked his

parents immediately, capitalizing on the momentary

absence of his brother.

“Every day, if you want us to,” said Ginny.

“Not every day,” said Albus quickly. “James says most

people only get letters from home about once a

month.”

“We wrote to James three times a week last year,”

said Ginny.

“And you don’t want to believe everything he tells you

about Hogwarts,” Harry put in. “He likes a laugh,

your brother.”

Side by side, they pushed the second trolley forward,

gathering speed. As they reached the barrier, Albus

winced, but no collision came. Instead, the family

emerged onto platform nine and three-quarters,

which was obscured by thick white steam that was

pouring from the scarlet Hogwarts Express. Indistinct

figures were swarming through the mist, into which

James had already disappeared.

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“Where are they?” asked Albus anxiously, peering at the hazy forms they passed as they made their way

down the platform.

“We’ll find them,” said Ginny reassuringly.

But the vapor was dense, and it was difficult to make

out anybody’s faces. Detached from their owners,

voices sounded unnaturally loud. Harry thought he

heard Percy discoursing loudly on broomstick

regulations, and was quite glad of the excuse not to

stop and say hello. …

“I think that’s them, Al,” said Ginny suddenly.

A group of four people emerged from the mist,

standing alongside the very last carriage. Their faces

only came into focus when Harry, Ginny, Lily, and

Albus had drawn right up to them.

“Hi,” said Albus, sounding immensely relieved.

Rose, who was already wearing her brand-new

Hogwarts robes, beamed at him.

“Parked all right, then?” Ron asked Harry. “I did.

Hermione didn’t believe I could pass a Muggle driving

test, did you? She thought I’d have to Confund the

examiner.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Hermione, “I had complete faith in

you.”

“As a matter of fact, I did Confund him,” Ron

whispered to Harry, as together they lifted Albus’s

trunk and owl onto the train. “I only forgot to look in

the wing mirror, and let’s face it, I can use a

Supersensory Charm for that.”

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Back on the platform, they found Lily and Hugo,

Rose’s younger brother, having an animated

discussion about which House they would be sorted

into when they finally went to Hogwarts.

“If you’re not in Gryffindor, we’ll disinherit you,” said

Ron, “but no pressure.”

“Ron!”

Lily and Hugo laughed, but Albus and Rose looked

solemn.

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Hermione and Ginny, but

Ron was no longer paying attention. Catching Harry’s

eye, he nodded covertly to a point some fifty yards

away. The steam had thinned for a moment, and

three people stood in sharp relief against the shifting

mist.

“Look who it is.”

Draco Malfoy was standing there with his wife and

son, a dark coat buttoned up to his throat. His hair

was receding somewhat, which emphasized the

pointed chin. The new boy resembled Draco as much

as Albus resembled Harry. Draco caught sight of

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny staring at him,

nodded curtly, and turned away again.

“So that’s little Scorpius,” said Ron under his breath.

“Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank

God you inherited your mother’s brains.”

“Ron, for heaven’s sake,” said Hermione, half stern,

half amused. “Don’t try to turn them against each

other before they’ve even started school!”

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“You’re right, sorry,” said Ron, but unable to help himself, he added, “Don’t get too friendly with him,

though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive

you if you married a pureblood.”

“Hey!”

James had reappeared; he had divested himself of his

trunk, owl, and trolley, and was evidently bursting

with news.

“Teddy’s back there,” he said breathlessly, pointing

back over his shoulder into the billowing clouds of

steam. “Just seen him! And guess what he’s doing?

Snogging Victoire!”

He gazed up at the adults, evidently disappointed by

the lack of reaction.

“Our Teddy! Teddy Lupin! Snogging our Victoire! Our cousin! And I asked Teddy what he was doing —”

“You interrupted them?” said Ginny. “You are so like

Ron —”

“— and he said he’d come to see her off! And then he

told me to go away. He’s snogging her!” James added

as though worried he had not made himself clear.

“Oh, it would be lovely if they got married!” whispered

Lily ecstatically. “Teddy would really be part of the

family then!”

“He already comes round for dinner about four times

a week,” said Harry. “Why don’t we just invite him to

live with us and have done with it?”

“Yeah!” said James enthusiastically. “I don’t mind

sharing with Al — Teddy could have my room!”

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“No,” said Harry firmly, “you and Al will share a room only when I want the house demolished.”

He checked the battered old watch that had once

been Fabian Prewett’s.

“It’s nearly eleven, you’d better get on board.”

“Don’t forget to give Neville our love!” Ginny told

James as she hugged him.

“Mum! I can’t give a professor love!”

“But you know Neville —”

James rolled his eyes.

“Outside, yeah, but at school he’s Professor

Longbottom, isn’t he? I can’t walk into Herbology and

give him love. …”

Shaking his head at his mother’s foolishness, he

vented his feelings by aiming a kick at Albus.

“See you later, Al. Watch out for the thestrals.”

“I thought they were invisible? You said they were

invisible!”

But James merely laughed, permitted his mother to

kiss him, gave his father a fleeting hug, then leapt

onto the rapidly filling train. They saw him wave, then

sprint away up the corridor to find his friends.

“Thestrals are nothing to worry about,” Harry told

Albus. “They’re gentle things, there’s nothing scary

about them. Anyway, you won’t be going up to school

in the carriages, you’ll be going in the boats.”

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Ginny kissed Albus good-bye.

“See you at Christmas.”

“Bye, Al,” said Harry as his son hugged him. “Don’t

forget Hagrid’s invited you to tea next Friday. Don’t

mess with Peeves. Don’t duel anyone till you’ve

learned how. And don’t let James wind you up.”

“What if I’m in Slytherin?”

The whisper was for his father alone, and Harry knew

that only the moment of departure could have forced

Albus to reveal how great and sincere that fear was.

Harry crouched down so that Albus’s face was slightly

above his own. Alone of Harry’s three children, Albus

had inherited Lily’s eyes.

“Albus Severus,” Harry said quietly, so that nobody

but Ginny could hear, and she was tactful enough to

pretend to be waving to Rose, who was now on the

train, “you were named for two headmasters of

Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was

probably the bravest man I ever knew.”

“But just say —”

“— then Slytherin House will have gained an excellent

student, won’t it? It doesn’t matter to us, Al. But if it

matters to you, you’ll be able to choose Gryffindor

over Slytherin. The Sorting Hat takes your choice into

account.”

“Really?”

“It did for me,” said Harry.

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He had never told any of his children that before, and he saw the wonder in Albus’s face when he said it.

But now the doors were slamming all along the

scarlet train, and the blurred outlines of parents were

swarming forward for final kisses, last-minute

reminders. Albus jumped into the carriage and Ginny

closed the door behind him. Students were hanging

from the windows nearest them. A great number of

faces, both on the train and off, seemed to be turned

toward Harry.

“Why are they all staring?” demanded Albus as he

and Rose craned around to look at the other

students.

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Ron. “It’s me. I’m

extremely famous.”

Albus, Rose, Hugo, and Lily laughed. The train began

to move, and Harry walked alongside it, watching his

son’s thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry

kept smiling and waving, even though it was like a

little bereavement, watching his son glide away from

him. …

The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air.

The train rounded a corner. Harry’s hand was still

raised in farewell.

“He’ll be all right,” murmured Ginny.

As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand

absentmindedly and touched the lightning scar on his

forehead.

“I know he will.”

The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All

was well.

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Document Outline

- THE DARK LORD ASCENDING

- IN MEMORIAM

- THE DURSLEYS DEPARTING

- THE SEVEN POTTERS

- FALLEN WARRIOR

- THE GHOUL IN PAJAMAS

- THE WILL OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

- THE WEDDING

- A PLACE TO HIDE

- KREACHER’S TALE

- THE BRIBE

- MAGIC IS MIGHT

- THE MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION COMMISSION

- THE THIEF

- THE GOBLIN’S REVENGE

- GODRIC’S HOLLOW

- BATHILDA’S SECRET

- THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

- THE SILVER DOE

- XENOPHILIUS LOVEGOOD

- THE TALE OF THE THREE BROTHERS

- THE DEATHLY HALLOWS

- MALFOY MANOR

- THE WANDMAKER

- SHELL COTTAGE

- GRINGOTTS

- THE FINAL HIDING PLACE

- THE MISSING MIRROR

- THE LOST DIADEM

- THE SACKING OF SEVERUS SNAPE

- THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

- THE ELDER WAND

- THE PRINCE’S TALE

- THE FOREST AGAIN

- KING’S CROSS

- THE FLAW IN THE PLAN

- NINETEEN YEARS LATER

Table of Contents

Book 1 by The Philosopher s Stone

THE BOY WHO LIVED

THE VANASHIG GLASS

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

DIAGON ALLY

THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

THE SORTING HAT

THE POTIONS MASTER

THE MIDNIGHT DUEL

HALLOWEEN

QUIDDITCH

THE MIRROR OF ERISED

NICHOLAS FLAMEL

NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK

THE FORBIDDEN FOREST

THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR

THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

Book 2 by The Chamber of Secrets

THE WORST BIRTHDAY

DOBBY’S WARNING

THE BURROW

AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS

THE WHOMPING WILLOW

GILDEROY LOCKHART

MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS

THE DEATHDAY PARTY

THE WRITING ON THE WALL

THE ROGUE BLUDGER

THE DUELING CLUB

THE POLYJUICE POTION

THE VERY SECRET DIARY

CORNELIUS FUDGE

ARAGOG

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS

THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN

DOBBY’S REWARD

Book 3 by The Prisoner of Azkaban

OWL POST

AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE

THE KNIGHT BUS

THE LEAKY CAULDRON

THE DEMENTOR

TALONS AND TEA LEAVES

THE BOGGART IN THE WARDROBE

FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY

GRIM DEFEAT

THE MARAUDER’S MAP

THE FIREBOLT

THE PATRONUS

GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW

SNAPE’S GRUDGE

THE QUIDDITCH FINAL

PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY’S PREDICTION

CAT, RAT, AND DOG

MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND PRONGS

THE SERVANT OF LORD VOLDERMORT

THE DEMENTOR’S KISS

HERMIONE’S SECRET

OWL POST AGAIN

Book 4 by The Goblet of Fire

THE RIDDLE HOUSE

THE SCAR

THE INVITATION

BACK TO THE BURROW

WEASLEYS’ WIZARD WHEEZES

THE PORTKEY

BAGMAN AND CROUCH

THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

THE DARK MARK

MAYHEM AT THE MINISTRY

ABOARD THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

MAD-EYE MOODY

THE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES

BEAUXBATONS AND DRUMSTRANG

THE GOBLET OF FIRE

THE FOUR CHAMPIONS

THE WEIGHING OF THE WANDS

THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL

THE FIRST TASK

THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT

THE UNEXPECTED TASK

THE YULE BALL

RITA SKEETER’S SCOOP

THE EGG AND THE EYE

THE SECOND TASK

PADFOOT RETURNS

THE MADNESS OF MR. CROUCH

THE DREAM

THE PENSIEVE

THE THIRD TASK

FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE

THE DEATH EATERS

PRIORI INCANTATEM

VERITASERUM

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

THE BEGINNING

Book 5 by The Order of The Phoenix

DUDLEY DEMENTED

A PECK OF OWLS

THE ADVANCED GUARD

NUMBER TWELVE, GRIMMAULD PLACE

THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

THE HEARING

THE WOES OF MRS. WEASLEY

LUNA LOVEGOOD

THE SORTING HAT’S NEW SONG

PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE

DETENTION WITH DOLORES

PERCY AND PADFOOT

THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR

IN THE HOG’S HEAD

EDUCATIONAL DECREE NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR

DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY

THE LION AND THE SERPENT

HAGRID’S TALE

THE EYE OF THE SNAKE

ST. MUNGO’S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES

CHRISTMAS ON THE CLOSED WARD

OCCLUMENCY

THE BEETLE AT BAY

SEEN AND UNFORESEEN

THE CENTAUR AND THE SNEAK

SNAPE’S WORST MEMORY

CAREER ADVICE

GRAWP

O.W.L.S

OUT OF THE FIRE

FIGHT AND FLIGHT

THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES

BEYOND THE VEIL

THE ONLY ONE HE EVER FEARED

THE LOST PROPHECY

THE SECOND WAR BEGINS

Book 6 by The Half Blood Prince

THE OTHER MINISTER

SPINNER’S END

WILL AND WON’T

HORACE SLUGHORN

AN EXCESS OF PHLEGM

DRACO’S DETOUR

THE SLUG CLUB

SNAPE VICTORIOUS

THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

THE HOUSE OF GAUNT

HERMIONE’S HELPING HAND

SILVER AND OPALS

THE SECRET RIDDLE

FELIX FELICIS

THE UNBREAKABLE VOW

A VERY FROSTY CHRISTMAS

A SLUGGISH MEMORY

BIRTHDAY SURPRISES

ELF TAILS

LORD VOLDEMORT’S REQUEST

THE UNKNOWABLE ROOM

AFTER THE BURIAL

HORCRUXES

SECTUMSEMPRA

THE SEER OVERHEARD

THE CAVE

THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER

FLIGHT OF THE PRINCE

THE PHOENIX LAMENT

THE WHITE TOMB

Book 7 by The Deathly Hallows

THE DARK LORD ASCENDING

IN MEMORIAM

THE DURSLEYS DEPARTING

THE SEVEN POTTERS

FALLEN WARRIOR

THE GHOUL IN PAJAMAS

THE WILL OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

THE WEDDING

A PLACE TO HIDE

KREACHER’S TALE

THE BRIBE

MAGIC IS MIGHT

THE MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION COMMISSION

THE THIEF

THE GOBLIN’S REVENGE

GODRIC’S HOLLOW

BATHILDA’S SECRET

THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

THE SILVER DOE

XENOPHILIUS LOVEGOOD

THE TALE OF THE THREE BROTHERS

THE DEATHLY HALLOWS

MALFOY MANOR

THE WANDMAKER

SHELL COTTAGE

GRINGOTTS

THE FINAL HIDING PLACE

THE MISSING MIRROR

THE LOST DIADEM

THE SACKING OF SEVERUS SNAPE

THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS

THE ELDER WAND

THE PRINCE’S TALE

THE FOREST AGAIN

KING’S CROSS

THE FLAW IN THE PLAN

NINETEEN YEARS LATER